“She’ll be Juan’s third wife, and may die like the other two, and the four children he has under the sod. He must have some deadly exhalation about him, like a snake.”
“Kill La Leona! As if that would be possible! It’s my opinion that Death himself couldn’t do it, with a century to help him. There was the cholera, that carried off so many good people; it never approached her door.”
“The she-rake has no end of luck.”
At this moment Lucas entered. It was Saturday evening, and he had come to spend the Sunday at home.
“Lucas,” asked his kinswoman, “do you know that La Leona is a widow, and they say that your father is going to marry her?”
A thunder-bolt could not have hurt Lucas more suddenly than did these words; nevertheless, he maintained his composure while he answered:
“Either you are dreaming awake, Aunt Manuela, or age is getting the better of your understanding.”
“Don’t fling my age into my face, Luquecillo,”[6] said the good woman, who was jocose. “I would rather you called me sly fox; it is permitted to say old only in the company of wines and parchments.”
“Well, then, why were you born so long ago? But don’t come to me with your troubles.”
“Publish your decrees in time, my son, for this one is in everybody’s mouth.”