“What happened to Moreno?”
She listened with an expression of wonder and doubt, as though she did not understand. From her eyes one could see that she was making a tremendous mental effort, one which stirred her to the depths. “Moreno?... Who was Moreno?... She had known so many men!”
As though having recourse to a relieving medicament, she helped herself to another glass of whiskey, and when she had gulped it down, her face brightened with a smile.
“Oh, I know who you mean.... Moreno ... a poor sort of fellow, crazy. I don’t know anything about him.”
Robledo persisted in his questions but for all her good-will the woman opposite him could not find in the chambers of her memory any clear, constant image of the man mentioned.
“I think he died.... He went away to his home, and he must have died there. Did you say he never came back? Well, perhaps he killed himself. I don’t know, I don’t remember. If I had to remember the history of all the men I have known, I’d have been crazy years ago.... My head couldn’t hold them....”
But Robledo, looking sternly at her, continued his questions.
“And Pirovani’s daughter?”
Again she raised her hands to her breasts ... and again her expression indicated a tremendous mental effort.
“Pirovani ...? Oh yes! That Italian who lived in Rio Negro, and whose money Moreno ran away with.... No, we never mentioned his daughter.... Moreno spent it all, and I showed him how to have a good time.... Poor fool ...!”