He was stupid and base beyond belief; he committed one absurdity after the other. He would open the camera while the plates were being exposed, and confuse the various bottles of fluid. It exasperated Roberto to see how utterly careless the man could be.
In the meantime preparations were proceeding for the wedding. Several times Manuel and Bernardo went to the Rastro and bought photographs of actresses made in Paris by Reutlinger, unglued the picture from the mounting and pasted it upon other mountings that bore the signature Bernardo Santín, Photographer, printed along the margin in gilt letters.
The wedding took place in November, at the Chamberí church. Roberto did not care to attend, but Bernardo himself went to fetch him and there was nothing to do but take part in the celebration. After the ceremony they went for a spread to a café on the Glorieta de Bildao.
The guests were: two friends of the groom’s father, one of them a retired soldier; the landlady of the house in which the bride had been living, and her daughter; a cousin of Bernardo’s, his wife, and Manuel.
Roberto engaged in conversation with the bride, who struck him as being very personable and agreeable; she spoke English quite well, and they exchanged a few words in that tongue.
“Too bad she’s marrying such a dolt,” thought Roberto.
At the banquet one of the old men began to tell a number of smutty tales that brought blushes to the bride’s cheek. Bernardo, who had drunk too freely, jested with his cousin’s wife with that coarseness and gracelessness which characterized him.
The return from the ceremony to the house in the evening, was gloomy. Bernardo was in high feather and tried to play the elegant gentleman. Esther spoke to Roberto about her departed mother, and the solitude in which she dwelt.
On reaching the entrance to the house, the guests took leave of the couple. As Roberto was about to go, Bernardo came up to him and, in a lifeless, scarcely audible voice, confessed that he was afraid to remain alone with his wife.