The banderillero interrupted. No, no, Juan was very kind, and if he did these things it was because he wished his family to have every comfort and luxury.
"Juaniyo may be anything you will, Señora Carmen, but still you must forgive him a good deal. Remember that many are envious of you! Is it nothing to be the wife of the bravest torero, with handfuls of money, a house that is a marvel, and to be absolute mistress of everything, for the master lets you dispose of all?"
Carmen's eyes were overflowing, and she raised her handkerchief to wipe away her tears.
"I would rather be the wife of a shoemaker. How often have I thought so! If Juan had only gone on with his trade instead of this cursed bull-fighting! How much happier I should be in a poor shawl taking his dinner to the doorway where he worked like his father. At least he would be mine, and no one would want to take him from me; we might want necessities, but on Sundays, dressed in our best, we should go to breakfast at some little inn. And then the frights one has from those horrid bulls. This is not living. There is money, a great deal of money, but believe me, Sebastian, it is like poison to me. The people about think I am happy, and envy me, but my eyes follow the poor women who want everything, but who have their child on their arm, who when they are unhappy look at the little one and laugh with it. If only I had one! If Juan could but see a little one in the house that would be all his own, something more than the little nephews...."
The banderillero came out from this interview shocked and troubled and went in search of his master, whom he found at the door of the "Forty-five."
"Juan, I have just seen your wife. Things are going worse and worse. Try and calm her and set yourself right with her."
"Curse it! life is not worth living. Would to God a bull might catch me on Sunday and then all would be over! And for what life is worth...."
He was rather tipsy. The frowning silence he met in his house drove him to desperation, and even perhaps more still (although he would not confess it to anyone) Doña Sol's flight, without leaving a single word, not even a line to bid him farewell. They had sent him away from the door worse than a servant, and no one knew where that woman had gone. The Marquis was not much interested in his niece's journey—a most crazy woman! Neither had he been informed of her intended departure; however, he did not think on that account that she was lost. She would give signs of existence from some far country, whither her caprices had driven her.
Gallardo could not conceal his despair in his own home. Maddened by the frowning silence of his wife, who resented all his efforts at conversation, he would break out:
"Curse my bad luck! Would to God that on Sunday one of those Muira bulls would catch me, trample me, and then I could be brought home to you in a basket!"