"And the Spaniards—how did they pass the evenings, Uncle Bartolo?"
"The Spaniards? Talking through the very stitches of their garments; bawling till you would have thought they were echoes: and quarrelling about things of the government. For, nowadays, everybody wants to know everything himself, and to command: the very beetles set up their tails and complain of a cough. I tell you, sirs, there are no more such Spaniards as there were in the time of the French war. We were as one man then, and all of one mind. Now there are moderates and extremists. I, who am an extremist only when it concerns my gun, my wife, and my children, could wish the devil would fly away with so much gab. It made me want to say to them: 'Gentlemen, where there is less tongue, count on more judgment,' and 'so much grass chokes the wheat.'"
"One night, one of the You Sirs called me, and wanted to know if I was in the war against Napoleon. 'Yes, sir,' I answered, 'I was a guerilla.' 'Well, then,' said he, 'you just come here, for I am going to read you the will he made.'"
"What! did that man make a will, Uncle Bartolo?" asked some of the oldest of the listeners.
"Yes, and before he died, it is supposed.
"'But, your worship,' I asked, 'what had that kingdom-thief to give away? Did they not then make him throw up everything he had taken?'
"The You Sir had an open book, and began to read. Gentlemen, that soccarron,[169] in his will, went on distributing everything, his goods, his arms, his body, and his heart. I was perplexed. 'Well, what do you think of it, uncle?' said his honor, when he had ended. 'Sir,' I answered, 'from what I can see, that unbeliever thought of everything; but neither in his life nor in his death did he remember his soul.'"
"Why did you join the guerillas, Uncle Bartolo?" asked one of the company.
"What a question!" exclaimed the guerilla, looking at the one who had asked it, and weaving himself backwards and forwards with much composure.
"'He that asks does not err,' Uncle Bartolo."