La Gaviota

Stein had disappeared.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE day following these events, the duke was seated in his library, absorbed by his thoughts.

The door slowly opened, and near the window appeared the pretty ringleted head of a lovely child.

“Papa Carlos,” he said, “are you alone? may I enter?”

“Since when, my angel, have you had need of permission to enter here?”

“Since you have ceased to love me so much,” replied the lovely creature, seating himself on his father’s knees. “Do you know, papa, I am very wise. I study well with Don Frederico, and I already speak German.”

“Really!”

“I know already how to say, ‘God bless my good father and my good mother:’ I say, ‘Gott segne meinen guten Vater und meine liebe Mutter!’ Now kiss me. But,” said he suddenly, “I forgot to tell you that Don Frederico wishes to speak to you.”

“Don Frederico?” asked the duke in surprise.

“Yes, papa.”

“Go, and ask him to come in, my son; his time is precious, and he must not lose it.”

The duke folded the paper on which he had traced some lines, and Stein entered.

“My lord duke,” he said, “I will no doubt astonish you: I come to take your orders, to thank you for all your goodness, and to announce to you my immediate departure.”

“Your departure?” said the duke, overcome with astonishment.

“Yes, señor, to-day.”

“And Maria?”

“She does not go with me.”

“Come, Don Frederico, this must be a piece of fun; this cannot be.”

“That which cannot be, duke, is that I remain an instant longer in Madrid.”

“What motive?”

“Do not ask me, I cannot tell you.”

“I cannot imagine even the motive of such folly.”

“The motive must be very powerful to oblige me to adopt so extreme a course.”

“But, Stein, my friend, once more, what is the motive?”

“It cannot be spoken. And the silence which I impose on myself is very painful to me, for I deprive myself of the only consolation that remains: to open my heart to a noble and generous man, who has held out to me his powerful hand, and has deigned to call me his friend.”

“And where do you go?”

“To America.”

“It is impossible, Stein; I tell you again, it is impossible.” The duke rose in an agitated state. “There is nothing in the world,” he continued, “that can oblige you to abandon your wife, to separate yourself from your friends, and to quit your patients, of whom I am one. You have then ambition? Are you then promised great advantages in America?”

Stein smiled bitterly.

“Advantages, my lord duke! Has not fortune disappointed all these hopes of your poor fellow-traveller?”

“You confound me, Stein. Is it a caprice – a sudden thought – an act of folly?”

Stein was silent.

“In any case, Don Frederico, it is ungrateful.”

These bitter, and at the same time affectionate words, caused Stein the utmost emotion. He covered his face with both hands, and his long-repressed grief burst forth in sobs.

The duke approached him.

“Don Frederico,” said he to him, “there is no indiscretion in confiding one’s griefs to a friend. In the grave circumstances of life, every thing obliges those who suffer to receive the good counsel of those who are interested in their happiness. Speak to me, my friend, open your heart to me. You are too much agitated at this moment to act with coolness. Your reason is too much troubled to allow you to be directed wisely. Let us sit down. Listen to me: let me guide you in circumstances which appear to me grave, imperious, and receive my advice as I would receive yours under like circumstances.”

Stein was vanquished. He took a seat near to the duke, and both remained for a long time silent. Stein broke through it at last.

“My lord duke,” said he, “what would you do if the duchess preferred another man? – if she practised infidelity towards you?”

“Doctor! this question – ”

“Answer me!” supplicated Stein, a prey to the most intense anxiety.

“By heaven! both should die by my hand.”

Stein bowed his head.

“I,” said he, “I will not kill them. I will die.”

The duke began to suspect the truth, and an involuntary trembling shook his limbs.

“Maria?” cried he.

“Maria,” said Stein, without raising his head, as if the infamy of his wife pressed on him with all its weight.

“You surprised them?” asked the duke, scarcely able to articulate these words, his voice was so stifled with indignation.

“In a veritable orgie, as gross as licentious: in an atmosphere of wine and tobacco, and where Pepe Vera, the matador, boasted of being her lover. O Maria! Maria!” he continued, letting his head fall on his hands.

The duke, like all energetic men, had great command over himself; he was immediately calm, and replied with but one word to Stein —

“Go!”

Stein rose, pressed in his hands those of the duke. He desired to speak, but his sobs prevented.

The duke opened his arms.

“Courage, Stein,” he said to him, “and to a happier meeting.”

“Good-by, and – forever,” murmured Stein.

And he departed.

The duke, now quite alone, walked about for a long time. As he calmed down from the agitation which Stein’s revelation had caused him, a smile of contempt played on his lips, for he was not one of those men who, possessed of those gross desires for which the misconduct of women, far from being a motive of repulsion, serve on the contrary to stimulate their brutal appetites. His character, full of elevation and nobleness, could not admit of love joined to contempt. The woman, whom he had sang in verse, who had fascinated him in his dreams, had become completely indifferent to him.

“And I,” he said to himself, “I who adored her as one adores an ideal being which he has created; I who honored her as virtue is honored, and who respected her as one respects the wife of a friend! I, who blindly absorbed by her, estranged myself from the noble woman who was my first and my only love, the pure and chaste mother of my children – my Leonore, who has so much suffered, without ever a complaint escaping from her lips! – ”

By a sudden movement, yielding to the powerful influence of these last reflections, the duke left his library, and went to the apartment of his wife. On arriving near the saloon where the duchess was accustomed to remain during the day, he heard his name pronounced; he stopped.

“Then the duke has become invisible?” said a voice. “It is now fifteen days since I arrived in Madrid, and my dear nephew has not deigned to come and see me yet, and I have seen him nowhere.”

“My aunt,” replied the duchess, “he is no doubt ignorant of your arrival.”

“Ignorant of the arrival in Madrid of the Marchioness Gutibamba! It is impossible! He would be the only person of the court who knew not of it. I will tell you, besides, you have had time to inform him of it.”

“That is true, my aunt, I am culpable for having forgotten it.”

“But that is not astonishing,” said the voice. “What pleasure can he find in our society, and that of persons of his rank, he who only frequents actresses?”

“It is false!” replied the duchess.

“Are you blind, or consenting?” said the marchioness exasperated.

“What I would never consent to is this calumny, which is at once an insult to my husband, here, in his house, and to his wife.”

“It would be wiser,” continued the voice, angrily, “to prevent the duke, your husband, from giving credit by his conduct to the thousand scandals he has given birth to in Madrid, than to defend him, and driving away from your house your best friends with your ungracious answers – dictated, without doubt, by your confessor.”

“My aunt, it will be also wiser to consult your own as to the language you ought to hold to a married woman, who is your niece.”

“’Tis well,” said the Gutibamba; “your reserved character, austere and gloomy, has already lost you the love and the heart of your husband: it will finish by your losing the affection of your friends.”

And the Marchioness de Gutibamba departed, enchanted with her peroration.

Leonore remained seated on the sofa, her head bowed, and her face bathed in tears long suppressed.

Suddenly she uttered a cry – she was in the arms of her husband. She still wept, but these tears were sweet; she comprehended that this man, always frank and loyal, returned her love, a love which no one could henceforth dispute.

“My Leonore, can you, will you pardon me?” asked the duke on his knees before his wife, who put both her hands on the duke’s mouth, and said to him —

“Would you disturb the happiness of the present in calling back the memories of the past?”

“I wish that you know my faults, which the world has judged too severely; I wish to justify myself and repent.”

“And I, I wish to make a compact with you,” interrupted the duchess; “never speak to me of your faults, and I will never speak to you of my sufferings.”

Angel entered at that moment.

“Mamma weeps! mamma weeps!” he cried, sobbing.

“No, my child,” replied the duchess; “I weep for joy.”

“And why?” asked the child, whose smile had already succeeded to his tears.

“Because that, to-morrow, certainly,” said the duke, taking him in his arms, “we depart for our country-seat in Andalusia, which your mother desires to visit.”

Angel gave vent to a cry of pleasure, and, casting his arms around the necks of the duke and the duchess, he drew their heads together, and covered them with kisses.

The Marquis of Elda entered, and became a witness of this charming family tableau.

“Papa Marquis,” said the child, “to-morrow we all depart.”

“Truly?” asked the marquis of his daughter.

“Yes, my father, and our happiness will be complete if you come with us.”

“My father,” said the duke, “can you refuse any thing to your daughter, who would be a saint, if she were not an angel?”

The marquis looked at his daughter, whose face was radiant with happiness; then at the duke’s, whose ecstasy was visible. A sweet smile illuminated his countenance, naturally austere, and, taking the hand of the duke, he said to him —

“Since I am necessary to complete your happiness, count on me.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE state of the Gaviota, already ill before she went to take supper with Pepe Vera, was made sensibly worse, and on the morrow she was seized with a violent fever.

“Marina,” she said to her maid, after an agitated sleep, “call my husband; I do not feel well.”

“The señor has not come in,” replied Marina.

“He has remained to attend some sick person. So much the better; he would have prescribed for me a dose of physic, which I abhor.”

“You are very hoarse, señora.”

“Yes, ’tis true. I require care. I will remain at home to-day. If the duke calls, tell him I sleep. I do not wish to see anybody. My head is on fire.”

“And if some one presents himself at the door privately?”

“If it be Pepe Vera, you can let him come in: I have something to say to him.”

The servant left; but she returned immediately.

“Señora,” she said, “here is a letter which the señor, my master, has sent to you by Nicolas.”

“Go along with your letter; there is no light to read here, and I wish to sleep. What is it he says: ‘The path where duty calls him.’ What does this communication mean? Leave the letter on the round table, and go away at once.”

Marina a few moments after again entered.

“You here again?” groaned the Gaviota.

“It is because the señor Pepe Vera wishes to see you.”

“Let him enter.”

Pepe Vera entered without ceremony, opened the blinds, threw himself on a chair, without abandoning his cigarette, and gazed at Maria, whose inflamed cheeks and swollen eyes indicated a serious illness.

“How beautiful you are!” he said to her “and your husband?”

“He has gone out.”

“So much the better! and may he follow his path like the wandering Jew until the last day. I come, Mariquita, on my way to visit the bull destined for the course this afternoon. They will give this corrida to annoy me. There is one bull which they call Medianoche (midnight), who has already killed a man in the pasture.”

“Do you wish to frighten me, and render me still more ill? Close the blinds, I cannot stand this glare of light.”

“Nonsense!” replied Pepe. “Pure childishness! the duke is not here, my dear, so that you might fear that too much light may glare on you; nor your mata sanos of a husband, to dread a draft of air on his beloved. One inhales here the infernal odors of musk, lavender, and all the stench of perfumery; these are the drugs which make you ill. Let the air into your room, that will do you good. Tell me, my dear, do you go this evening to the corrida?”

“I am perhaps in a state to go!” replied Maria. “Shut that window, Pepe, I pray you; the cold and the light make me ill.”

Pepe arose, and threw the window wide open.

“That which makes you ill, is affectation. You moan too much for such a trifle. Do they not tell you, you are about rendering up your soul? Señora Princess, I go to order your coffin, and afterwards to kill Medianoche, in honor of Lucia del Salto, who, gracias á Dios, cannot but be more amiable.”

“Still this woman!” screamed Maria. “This woman, who is going off with an Englishman! Pepe, you will not do as you say. It would be infamous!”

“Do you know what would be an infamy?” said Pepe, placing himself in front of the Gaviota; “it would be, when I go to risk my life, that you, in lieu of sustaining my courage by your presence, remain at home to receive the duke freely.”

“Always the same fear! Will it not content you to be concealed here in my alcove, and act as a spy upon me, and to be convinced with your own eyes that there exists nothing between the duke and me? Do you not know that that which pleases him in me is only my voice, and not my person? As to me, you know too well – ”

“What I do know is, that you fear me; and, by the blood of Christ! you have reason to fear me. But God only knows what may happen if I leave you alone, and certain not to be surprised by me. I have faith in no woman, not even my mother.”

“I have fear? I?” said Maria, “I have fear?”

“But do you believe myself so blind,” interrupted Pepe, “as not to see what is passing? Do I not know, from a good source, that you put on a good face before the duke, because you have got it in your head to obtain for your imbecile husband the position of surgeon to the queen.”

“’Tis a lie!” cried Maria.

“Maria, Pepe Vera does not mistake bladders for lanterns. Know that I understand as well the ruses of the rude bull of the mountains as those of the less ferocious bull of the plains.”

Maria began to weep.

“Come!” replied Pepe, “dry your tears, the refugium peccatorum of women. You know the proverb which says, ‘Make a woman weep, and you vanquish her;’ but, my beautiful, there is another proverb, ‘Confide not either in the barking of dogs, or in the tears of women.’ Keep your tears for the theatre; here we do not play comedy. Look well to yourself. If you deceive me, you make me incur the danger of death; I do not prove my love by the recipes of the apothecary, nor by dollars. I am not satisfied with grimaces, I must have acts. If you do not come this afternoon to the bull-fight you will repent of it.”

And Pepe Vera went away, without even saying á Dios to his mistress. He was at that moment borne down by two opposite feelings which required iron nerves to conceal them, as he did, under appearances the most tranquil, under a countenance the most calm, and the most perfect indifference.

He had studied the bulls he was about to fight with; never had he seen any so ferocious. One of them strangely preoccupied him; as often happens to men of his profession, who, without caring for the other bulls, believe themselves saved if they can conquer the one which causes their anxiety. Besides, he was jealous. Jealous! he who knew only how to vanquish, and be cheered by bravos. He was told that they mocked him, and in a few hours he went to find himself between life and death, between love and treason. At least he believed so.

When he had quitted Maria, she tore the lace trimmings of her bed, unjustly scolded Marina, and shed abundance of tears. Then she dressed herself, called one of her maids, and went with her to the bull-fight, where she seated herself in the box which Pepe had reserved for her.

The noise and the heat increased her fever. Her cheeks, ordinarily pale, were inflamed, and a feverish ardor shone in her large black eyes. Anger, indignation, jealousy, offended pride, terror, anxiety, physical pain, combined in vain to force a complaint, even a sigh, from that mouth closed like a tomb. Pepe Vera perceived her: he smiled; but his smile in no way moved the Gaviota, who, under her icy countenance, swore to revenge her wounded vanity.

One bull had already bitten the dust under the blow of another toreador. This bull had been good: he had been well fought.

The trumpet again sounded. The toril8 opened its narrow and sombre door, and a bull, black as night, dashed into the arena.

“It is Medianoche!” cried the crowd.

Medianoche was the bull of the corrida; that is to say, the king of the fête.

Medianoche was in no way like an ordinary bull, who at once seeks his liberty, his fields, and his deserts. He would, before every thing, show them they were not playing with a contemptible enemy; he would revenge himself, and punish. At the noise made by the cries of the crowd, he stopped suddenly.

There is not the least doubt of the bull being a stupid animal. Nevertheless, whether it be the sharp anger, or intelligence the most rebellious, whether it be that he has the faculty to render clear instincts the most blind; it is the fact that some bulls can divine and baffle the most secret ruses of the course. The picadores attracted, at first, the attention of the bull. He charged the one he found nearest to him, and felled him to the earth; he did the same with the second, without leaving the spot, without the lance being able to arrest him, and which inflicted but a slight wound. The third picador shared the fate of his comrades.

Medianoche, his horns and front bloody, raised his head towards the seats whence came cries of admiration at such bravery.

The chulos conveyed the picadores outside the arena. One of them had a broken leg; they took him to the infirmary, and the other two changed their horses.

A new picador replaced the wounded, and while the chulos occupied the attention of the bull, the three picadores resumed their places, their lances in rest.

The bull divided them, and after a combat of two minutes all three were overthrown. One had fainted from having his head cut open; the furious animal attacked the horse, whose lacerated body served as a shield to the unfortunate cavalier.

There was then a moment of profound stupefaction. The chulos searched in vain, at the risk of their lives, to turn aside Medianoche, who appeared to have a thirst for blood, and quenched his rage upon his victim.

At this terrible moment a chulo rushed towards the animal, and covered his head with his cloak. His success was of short duration.

The bull disengaged himself promptly; he made the aggressor fly, and pursued him; but, in his blind fury, he passed him; the chulo had thrown himself on the ground. When the animal suddenly turned round, for he was one of those who never abandon their prey, the nimble chulo had already risen, and leaped the barrier amid the acclamations of the enthusiastic crowd for so much courage and agility.

All this had passed with the rapidity of light. The heroic devotion with which the torreros aid and defend each other, is the only thing really noble and beautiful displayed in these cruel, immoral, inhuman fêtes, which are a real anachronism in our times, so much vaunted as an age of light.

The bull, full of the pride of triumph, walked about as master of the arena. A sentiment of terror pervaded all the spectators.

Various opinions were expressed. Some wished that the cabestro9 be let into the arena, to lead out the formidable animal, as much to avoid new misfortunes as to preserve the propagation of his valiant race. They sometimes have recourse to this measure; but it frequently happens that the bull withdrawn does not survive the inflammation of blood which had provoked the fight. Others insisted that his tendons be cut, thus killing the bull easily. Unfortunately the greatest number cried out that it would be a crime not to see so beautiful a bull killed according to all the rules of art.

The alcalde did not know which party to side with. To preside over a bull-fight is not an easy thing.

At last, that which happens in all similar cases occurred in this: victory was with those who cried the loudest, and it was decided that the powerful and terrible Medianoche should die according to rule, and in possession of all his means of defence.

Pepe Vera then appeared in the arena, armed for the combat.

He saluted the authorities, placed himself before Maria, and offered her the brindo– the honor of the bull. He was pale.

Maria, her countenance on fire, her eyes darting from their sockets, breathed with difficulty. Her body bent forward, her nails forced into the velvet cushions of her box, contemplated this young man, so beautiful, so calm before death, and whom she loved. She felt a power in his love which subjugated her, which made her tremble and weep; because that this brutal and tyrannical passion, this exchange of profound affection, impassioned and exclusive, was the love which she felt: as with certain men of a special organization, who require in place of sweet liqueurs and fine wines the powerful excitement of alcoholic drinks.

Everywhere reigned the most profound silence. A gloomy presentiment seemed to agitate every soul. Many arose and left the place.

The bull himself, now in the middle of the arena, appeared valiant: he proudly defied his adversary.

Pepe Vera chose the spot which seemed to him the most favorable, with his habitual calm and self-possessed manner; and designated it to the chulos, by pointing with his finger.

“Here!” he said to them.

The chulos sprang out like rockets in a display of fireworks; the bull had not for an instant the idea of pursuing them. They disappeared. Medianoche found himself face to face with the matador.

This situation did not last long. The bull precipitated himself with a rapidity so sudden, that Pepe had not time to put himself on guard. All he could do was to dodge the first attack of his adversary. But the animal, contrary to the habits of those of his species, took a sudden spring, and, turning suddenly, he came like a clap of thunder on the matador, caught him on his horns, furiously shook his head, and threw at a distance from him the body of Pepe Vera, which fell like an inert mass upon the ground of the arena.

A cry, such as the imagination of Dante alone could conceive, broke forth from a thousand human breasts, a cry profound, mournful, prolonged, and terrific.

The picadores rushed towards the bull to prevent his returning to his victim. The chulos also surrounded him.

“The medias lunas! the medias lunas!” (long partisans by which sometimes the tendons are cut) cried the crowd.

The alcalde repeated the cry of the crowd.

Then were seen to appear these terrible weapons, and soon Medianoche had his tendons cut; he was red with rage and with pain.

At last he fell under the ignoble poniard of the horse-killer.

The chulos raised up the body of Pepe Vera.

“Dead!”

Such was the cry which escaped from the lips of the group of chulos; and which, passing from mouth to mouth throughout the vast amphitheatre, brought mourning to all hearts.

Fifteen days had fled since this fatal bull-fight. In a bedchamber, from which the luxurious furniture had disappeared, on an elegant bed, but whose furniture was soiled and torn, was lying a young woman, pale, meagre, and broken down.