“You’ll all applaud, won’t you?” asked the Colonel’s wife.
“Don’t you worry,” answered Calatrava. “And if anybody doesn’t like it, just look at the fine argument I’m carrying.” He showed his cudgel.
Chuchita followed a hypnotizer upon the bill; she appeared to a salvo of applause. She danced without any suggestion of grace, and no sooner had she finished her song and danced the tango that followed it, than the stage was littered with floral wreaths and other gifts. After the conclusion of the part in which Chuchita appeared, Manuel and Vidal joined a number of newspaper men, among whom were two friends of the sculptor Alex, and together they all proceeded to offer their congratulations to the father of Chuchita.
They summoned the watchman and went into the house. The servant asked them to pass to the Colonel’s room. That worthy was in bed, calmly smoking. They all trooped into the bedchamber.
“Congratulations, dear Colonel.”
The gentleman who was such a stickler for military honour received these felicitations without any realization of the sarcasm that flowed beneath.
“And how was it? Really, how was it?” asked the father from his bed.
“Very good. At first a trifle timid, but very soon she let loose.”
“That’s it. Dancers are like soldiers; as soon as they reach the field of battle, their courage rises.”
Everybody, the journalists and the rabble that had tagged after them, greeted the epigram with derisive laughter. They left the colonel and went back to the Salón París.