La Justa and Manuel were thrown into a terrible panic; they feared lest they should be involved in the crime and be summoned to testify; they were completely at a loss.
After much cogitation, they decided that the most sensible course would be to move off somewhere into the suburbs. La Justa and Manuel sought a place, finding one at last in a house on the Calle de Galileo, near the Tercer Depósito, in Vallehermoso.
The rent was cheap,—three duros per month. The house had two balconies, which looked out upon a large clearing or vacant lot where the stone cutters hewed large boulders. This lot was marked off by a wall of chips left over from the stone cutting, and in the centre was a shack where the watchman lived with his family.
The rooms were flooded with light from sunrise to sunset. Save for the terror produced in Manuel by Vidal’s tragic end or by some inner impulse thus stirred, Manuel felt his soul quiver with eagerness to begin life anew; he hunted work and found it in a printing-shop of Chamberí. This being shut up all day within the walls of the shop was a violent trial for him; but the very violence that he was forced to practise upon himself gave him courage to persevere. La Justa, on the other hand, found the time heavy on her hands and went about forever in a glum, moody humour.
One Saturday, after a week of this exemplary life, Manuel returned to the house and did not find La Justa waiting for him. He spent a restless night hoping for her to come back; she did not appear.
The next day she did not return, either; Manuel broke into tears. He understood now that she had deserted him. This was the cruel awakening from a wondrous dream; he had flattered himself that at last they two had risen out of wretched poverty and dishonour.
During the previous days he had heard La Justa complain of headache, of lack of appetite; but never had he suspected this plot, never could he have believed that she would abandon him like this, in such cold blood.
And he felt so alone, so miserable, so cowed again! This room, inundated with sunshine, which formerly he had found so cheery, now seemed sad and sombre. From the balcony he gazed out upon the distant houses with their red roofs. Far off lay Madrid, bathed in a clear, bright atmosphere under a golden sun. Some white clouds sailed slowly, majestically by, dissolving and re-forming into their fantastic shapes.
Workingmen’s families, dressed in their Sunday best, tripped by in groups; faintly there came the gay strains of the barrel-organs.
Manuel sat down upon the bed and pondered. How many excellent projects, how many plans cherished in his mind had come to nought in his soul! Here he was, only at the beginning of life, and already he felt himself without the strength to fight the battle. Not a hope, not an illusion smiled at him. Work? What for? Set up one column after another of type, walk to work and then back to the house, day in and day out, sleep,—all for what? He was bereft of plan, idea, inspiration. He stared into the merry Sunday afternoon, the splashing sunlight,—gazed at the blue heavens, the distant spires....