CHAPTER XIII.
Ventura and Rita were dancing at the feast, animated by that which mounts to heads wanting in age or wanting in sense; by that which blinds the eyes of reason, silences prudence, and puts respect to flight; that is to say, wine; a love entirely material, a voluptuous dance, executed without restraint, amid foolish drunken applauses.
In truth they were a comely pair. Rita moved her charming head, adorned with flowers, and tossed her person to and fro with that inimitable grace of her province, which is at will modest or free. Her black eyes shone like polished jet, and her fingers agitated the castanets in defiant provocation. She had in Ventura a partner well suited to her. Never was the fandango danced with more grace and sprightliness.
The excited singers improvised (according to custom) couplets in praise of the brilliant pair:
"Throw roses, red roses,
The belle of the ball,
For her beauty and grace
She merits them all
And to-night in the feast,
By public acclaim.
To her and Ventura
Is given the palm."
During the last changes when the clappings and cheers were redoubled, Perico arrived and stopped upon the threshold.
Occupied as all were with the dance, no one noticed his arrival, and Ventura conducting Rita to a room where there were refreshments passed close beside him as he stood in shadow, without being aware of his presence. As they passed he heard words between them which confirmed the whole extent of his misfortune; all the infamy of the wife he loved so fondly, of the mother of his children; all the treachery of a friend and brother.
The blow was so terrible that the unhappy man remained for a moment stunned; but recovering himself, he followed them.
Rita stood before a small mirror arranging the flowers that adorned her head.