The man with the gipsy appearance went over to Manuel and informed him that that lady (La Justa) was insulting his own, and this was something he could not permit. Manuel was well aware that the man was in the right; yet, despite this, he made an insolent reply. Vidal intervened, and after many an explanation on both sides, it was decided that nobody had been insulted and the matter was composed. But La Justa was bent upon trouble and got into a scrape with one of the organ grinders, who was an impudent rascal by very virtue of his calling.
“Shut up, damn it all!” shouted Calatrava at La Justa. “And you, too, close your trap,” he cried to the organ grinder. “For if you don’t, you’re going to feel this stick.”
“Let’s better go inside,” suggested Vidal.
The three couples proceeded to a veranda furnished with tables and rustic chairs; a wooden balustrade ran along the side that overlooked the Manzanares river.
In the middle of the stream were two islets mantled with shining verdure, between which a number of planks served as a bridge from one bank to the other.
Lunch was brought, but La Justa had no appetite, nor would she deign a reply to any questions. Shortly afterward, for no reason whatsoever, she burst into bitter tears, amidst the cruel bantering of La Flora and La Aragonesa. Then she grew calm and was soon as happy and jovial as could be.
They ate a sumptuous meal and left for a moment to dance on the road to the tunes of the barrel organ. Several times, it seemed to Manuel, he caught sight of El Bizco in front of the restaurant.
“Can it be Bizco? What can he be looking for around here?” he asked himself.
Toward nightfall the three couples went in, turned on the light in their room and sent for whisky and coffee. For a long time they chatted. Calatrava related with evident delight a number of horrors out of the war with Cuba. In that conflict he had satisfied his natural instincts of cruelty, slicing negroes, razing mills, spreading fire and destruction in his path.
The three women, especially La Aragonesa, were filled with enthusiasm by his tales. All at once Calatrava lapsed into silence, as if some sad memory had stemmed his garrulousness.