“Here is the best pen on my staff; this young man will be charged with writing all relative to your life.”
Don Mateo and I faced each other, exchanging a glance of profound hatred; hatred, kneaded with the passion of purest love, as mud is kneaded with water from the skies.
I knew not what to say, much as I desired to speak, but Don Mateo, incapable of controlling himself, said insultingly:
“This young man going to write? And what does he know?”
And, filled with rage, he turned his back on me, pretending to despise me.
“I know more than will suit you, for writing your biography,” I replied, “but I warn Señor Albar that my pen shall never be employed in the service of a man like you.”
Don Mateo made a motion as if he would throw himself upon me, and I made one as if seizing a bust of bronze to hurl at him.
Albar leaped between us.
“What is this?” he cried, in terror.
“You are a miserable puppet,” thundered Don Mateo, shaking his fists at me above Albar’s head. “When I meet you in the street I will pull your ears.”