"But I like to hear them talk and argue, mamita; it sounds as if it was something important when they are so eager about it, but now they are never eager, any of them. Even Marcelino the other day, when Don Manuel Belgrano was here, did not seem to care anything about what the French did in Portugal, though papa got quite excited about it."
It was nearly a year, as Dolores said, nearly a year since the last invasion of the English, for it was now the month of May in the year 1808, a balmy day for the season, with light, fleecy clouds flitting over the blue vault of heaven now and then hiding the sun. A calm day in which the air was never still, and yet no one could tell from which quarter the wind came. When there was any wind, it came in little gusts, sweeping along the smooth walks of the quinta, creating great tumult and bustle among the dry leaves fallen from the overhanging branches of the trees, so stirring them as though with the intent to garner them up, then straightway casting them down again and leaving them, and going sighing away among the tree-tops, mourning over the past glories of the summer.
It was nearly a year since the last invasion of the English, it was nearly time that they came again, if so be that they were coming; and men said that they were coming, and, full of confidence at the failure of two previous invasions, they thought lightly of it; yet not for that did they neglect some needful preparation, and Buenos Aires was stronger now and better able to meet invasion than she had ever been before. So the summer had passed, and the autumn, and the only event of importance that had occurred had been the formal nomination by the Court of Aranjuez of General Don Santiago Liniers as Viceroy of Buenos Aires, raising him at the same time to the rank of field-marshal, to the great content of the Patricios, who looked to Liniers as their own special leader, and to the general satisfaction of all Porteños.
"Yes, Lola, we have been very quiet all this summer and autumn, but to-day is our last day here," said Doña Constancia.
"And won't Aunt Josefina be glad to see us in town again. Marcelino is stronger now than ever he was, so next month of course he will give that grand ball she has promised so long in his honour; but, ah me! it is so long ago now that he has forgotten what it is to be a hero, and has a pale face and white hands, you would never take him now to be the Comandante de los Morenos de Ponce."
"Then if you think heroes ought to have sunburnt faces and brown hands, you must look for another one. What say you to Don Carlos for a hero?"
"He would make a very good hero, mamita; but he has never done anything yet but gallop about."
"And gallop in to Buenos Aires and back whenever a certain young lady that I know, has fancied that she wanted anything that was to be found in the city."
"He has been very kind to us all the summer; so strange of him, who never seemed to care for anything except his books. But every one seems to be quite changed now, except you, mamma?"
"Yes, Lola, as time goes on every one changes; I see a great change in you."