Don Pablo started as if he had been shot. The barber noticed his emotion. “Your worship doubtless knows the officer of whom I speak,” replied the barber.
“Ye—es, I do—o!” stammered Don Pablo, relieved to find the barber had not hit nearer the mark. “You speak of Don Pablo, of course?”
“Of course I do!” exclaimed the barber; “no one has spoken of any one else these last days. And here come some of his friends round the corner; if you want to hear them speak of him you have only to listen. I’ll warrant he is the subject of their talk.”
“I should like to hear what they say,” said Don Pablo, whose curiosity was strongly excited by these revelations about himself; “but it might embarrass them to see so near a friend to him as I was, here.”
“Step to this unlighted window, and you will hear all without being seen.”
Don Pablo did as he was bid, and readily distinguished a group of his acquaintances, with Don Froilan in their midst, standing at the barber’s door, lighting their cigars[4].
“How now, Don Froilan!” exclaimed Don Lupercio; “a ball at your own house in honour of your sister’s wedding, and you out here!”
(“Ah, poor fellow!” said Don Pablo to himself, “he won’t countenance his sister’s fickleness. He was always a great friend of mine.”)
“Why, to tell you the truth,” replied Don Froilan, “the first part of a ball is always dull work. I have set them going, and I’m off to the opera. I always enjoy the second act of an opera; it’s the cream of the whole. I shall just skim that off, and then run back to the best of the ball.”
(“So,” said Don Pablo, sadly, “this is the man I have so often helped through his difficulties! And I really thought he cared for me!”)