Manuel hunted up the academy. Here an attendant informed him that Roberto lived in the Calle del Espíritu Santo, at number 21 or 23, he could not say exactly which, on a top floor, where there was a sculptor’s studio.
Manuel sought out the Calle del Espíritu Santo; the geography of this section of Madrid was somewhat hazy to him. It took him a little time to locate the street, which at this hour was thronged with people. The market-women, ranged in a row on both sides of the thoroughfare, cried their kidney-beans and their tomatoes at the top of their lungs; the maidservants tripped by in their white aprons with their baskets on their arms; the dry-goods clerks, leaning against the shop-doors, swapped gossip with the pretty cooks; the bakers threaded their way hurriedly through the maze, balancing their baskets upon their heads; and the coming and going of the crowd, the shouting of one and the other, merged into a medley of deafening sound and variegated, picturesque spectacle.
Manuel, elbowing his way through the surging throng and the baskets of tomatoes, asked after Roberto at the houses that had been indicated; the janitresses, however, knew no such fellow, and there was nothing left but to climb to the upper stories and enquire there.
After several ascents he located the sculptor’s studio. At the top of a dark, dirty staircase he stumbled into a passageway where a group of old women were chatting.
“Don Roberto Hasting? A gentleman who lives in a sculptor’s studio?”
“It must be that door over there.”
Manuel opened the door half way, peered in and discovered Roberto at his writing.
“Hello. Is that you?” greeted Roberto. “What’s up?”
“I came to see you.”