The Grandee Part 5

Nevertheless, she had heard so much flattery; and the glitter of her father's money seemed so irresistible, that she thought she could well aspire to making him her husband. If she did not really think so, she pretended to do so when speaking of the count behind his back, and affecting a certain familiarity in his presence.

In Lancia, as in all the little capitals, the young men and women adopt the fashion of _tutoyant_ each other, and this was authorised from their having known each other and played together as children. But for a long time the Conde de Onis never exchanged a word with Fernanda, although they constantly met in the street. Nevertheless, when they first met at a little party at the De Mere's, the young beauty immediately addressed him as _tu_, and dropped his t.i.tle. It was Luis here, and Luis there, as if she were quite accustomed to his name. The count was surprised without being displeased. No one is sorry to find himself _tutoye_ by a lovely girl, and a naturally shy and timid man, like the count, was not likely to be the exception.

Fernanda at once tried to enlist him as an admirer, or at least to make him appear as such in the eyes of the public, who looked upon it as a proper state of things. There was no other husband for Fernanda, and no other wife for the count in the province.

The distance that separated them was retrospective: it existed only in Fernanda's lack of ancestors, and it was generally thought that the young girl's beauty, money, and brilliant education, would make the count overlook this drawback.

These relations lasted about a year.

The two met at a party of the Senoritas de Mere, which was always considered a pleasant occasion. She had often hinted to the count that he might go to that house, but he had either not understood, or pretended not to understand her. But one day Fernanda openly made the suggestion. He tried to get out of it as well as he could. Was he timid?

or was he proud? Fernanda could not make him out; however, this reserve increased his attraction for her, and made her like him all the more.

But suddenly, when the public least expected it--when, in fact, it had begun to ask the reason of the delay of the marriage, the engagement was broken off. It was done diplomatically and secretly, so much so that it had been over for a month, and yet people were still joking them, not knowing there had been a break. The fact when revealed, produced a great sensation, and became the subject of ceaseless conversation at all the parties. No one could say what had happened, or who had given the initiative in the matter. If the count was asked, he stoutly maintained that Fernanda had given him up; and so much stress did he lay upon the statement, that n.o.body doubted his sincerity. The heiress, Estrada-Rosa, corroborated her lover's a.s.sertion without going into particulars, and this in the off-hand tone she always adopted when speaking of, or to, the count, for they went on seeing each other pretty frequently, albeit not quite so often, although they attended parties at the houses of mutual friends. Moreover, Fernanda soon after became an _habituee_ at the dances at the Quinones' house. But the past relations were never renewed, and when the two former lovers met and talked a little as now, the guests looked on with bated breath and interested eyes.

"They will go on as before; they will end by marrying!" they thought.

But they were disillusioned at the sight of the indifference with which they parted.

Just as he was going to reply to the last words of the proud heiress, the glance of the count wandered absently round the room and fell upon a pair of eyes fixed upon him with a sharp and jealous gaze, whereupon he gave his hand to his friend and said with a forced smile:

"How badly you treat me, Fernanda! It will ever be so, I suppose, but I, you know, am always your devoted admirer. _Au revoir._"

"I am sorry that this devotion neither pleases nor displeases me," she returned, without moving a step away.

Then the count went off shrugging his shoulders resignedly and saying:

"And I am still more sorry."

Pa.s.sing by the couples, who had commenced the _riG.o.don_, he returned to the lady of the house, who was at that moment with Manuel Antonio, one of the persons most worthy of note in this period we are recording.

He was known as much by the nickname of the Chatterbox, or Magpie, as by his own name. This fact is sufficient to give us an idea of his moral and physical characteristics.

Manuel Antonio was not young--he was certainly fifty; and all the artificial means not distinguished for refinement, then in vogue in Lancia, were brought into play to hide the fact.

He had an unmistakable wig, several false teeth badly put in, a little black on his eyebrows and red on his lips; there was a strong scent of patchouli about him, and there was a dash of originality in his whole get-up befitting his reputation for former splendour. He really had been a rare combination of face and figure: tall, slender, and well-built, with regular delicate features, fine auburn hair falling in graceful curls, a smiling countenance, and gentle voice. There now only remained a faint trace of all this beauty. The straight shoulders had become bent, the beautiful curls had vanished like a dream that was past; unwelcome wrinkles furrowed the smooth brow; and the rows of pearly teeth, so ornamental to his mouth, were subst.i.tuted by ugly gaps which time had made, and the dentist had failed to replace satisfactorily.

Finally, his slight, delicate, silky moustache had become white, bristly, and s.h.a.ggy, and neither dye nor cosmetic could keep it presentable.

What a trial this was for the handsome young man of Lancia and for the friends who had known him in the palmy days of his beauty! But his mind kept as youthful as when he was eighteen. He was the same impa.s.sioned, affectionate creature, sweet one moment, irascible and terrible another, following the bent of his caprices and living in quiet idleness.

He enjoyed the pleasures of the bath so intensely that he would have it three or more times running, until the water was as clear as when it left the spring. He loved flowers and birds, but no delight equalled that of trying on different articles of adornment before the gla.s.s to see which suited him best. He considered that a dash of the feminine made his costume more fetching, so in winter he liked to wear a short cape with a gold clasp and a wide brimmed hat which suited him to perfection. In summer he dressed in white flannel, very well cut to show off the graceful lines of his figure. His neckerchiefs were nearly always of gauze, his shoes low, and the collar of his shirt cut sailor fashion. On his wrist he wore a bracelet; it was certainly only a bright gold band, but this detail caught the eyes of all his fellow citizens.

Whenever Manuel Antonio was spoken of, the bracelet was sure to be mentioned, as if there was nothing about his interesting person more calculated to excite attention. But if years had not materially changed this kind creature, so eminently created for love, they had nevertheless made him more cautious and more reserved. He did not show his preferences in the ingenuous fashion of former years, and he did not give play to the impulsive fancies of his susceptible heart until he had proved the worthiness of the object of his affection. Many were the disillusions he had suffered in his life, and it was particularly sad when he was getting old to meet not only coldness from his old friends, from those to whom he had been lavish in marks of kindness, but to find that he was an object of derision, in fact the laughing-stock of the youths of the new generation. The young people of the present day made a regular b.u.t.t of him.

As they had not witnessed his triumphs, nor known his past radiant beauty, they were far from professing that respect that the last generation had had for him. They never lost an opportunity of worrying and teasing him cruelly. When he appeared in the Calle de Altavilla, or entered the Cafe de Maranon, he was surrounded by a crowd of _gamins_.

Cristo! the remarks that were made; and, sad to say, they pa.s.sed from using their tongues to using their hands. This was what Manuel Antonio could not put up with. They could talk as much as they liked, for he had the gift of repartee and could well hold his own with his turn for sarcasm and his sense of the ridiculous; and years, and long practice had made him such an adept in this art of repartee, that his retorts were terrible; and those who tried to get a rise out of him generally got the worst of it, and were staggered by the words they brought on themselves. But when these shameless fellows pa.s.sed from speech to touch, patting his face and pulling his beard, he entirely lost his self-control, and gave vent to expressions which were neither intentional nor rational. Needless to say that as this was known to be his weak point, the teasing always terminated in this way. Nevertheless, apart from the pardonable desire to retort on those who hurt him, he was not naturally malignant, but really a most useful and serviceable being.

His talents were many, and various. He could crochet most perfectly, and his coverlets were unrivalled in Lancia. He decked an altar, or dressed the images as well as any sacristan. He could upholster furniture, make wax flowers, paper walls, embroider with hair, and paint plates. And when any of his female friends wished to have her hair well dressed to go to some ball, Manuel Antonio gallantly went to the rescue, and did it as cleverly as the best hairdresser in Madrid. If any of his friends were ill, then was the time to see the unfailing care and attention of our old Narcissus. He immediately took up his post by the sick bed, he kept count of the draughts, made the bed, and put on poultices as cleverly as the most practised nurse. Then, if the illness became serious, he knew how to suggest the idea of confession with so much tact, that instead of the patient being offended, he accepted it as the most natural thing in the world. And when he saw that death was imminent, he prepared for the reception of the solemn guest, and no lady could have taken greater pains to receive some most important personage:

There was the little altar with the embroidered cloth, lighted with candles, the staircase adorned with pots of flowers, the ground covered with rose-leaves, and the servants and relations at the door, holding lighted tapers in gloved hands. Not a single detail was forgotten. The Chatterbox, in his glory, a.s.sumed the manners of a general at the head of his troops. Everybody obeyed and seconded him as if he were a chief.

Then, if the patient died, it is hardly necessary to say that his power was still more omnipotent. From the laying-out of the corpse to the final function of burial, there was nothing but what he had a hand in.

And as there were generally sick people to nurse, images to dress, friends who wanted their hair dressed, or flowers to be arranged, Manuel had rather a busy life. In performing these offices, or in going from house to house fetching and carrying news, the days and years slipped by. He lived with two sisters, older than himself, and they looked after him, and cared for him as if he were still a child. They paid no heed to their brother's wig, wrinkles, or false teeth, and the hours he spent on his toilette, and his baths provoked a compa.s.sionate smile.

Whilst they bitterly deplored the ravages made by time on their own faces and figures, they seemed to think that their brother had arrested the course of the common enemy, and that he had in fact some elixir for keeping himself eternally young. Manuel Antonio was methodical in his visits: he had several houses at which he called every day at the same time. He went to Don Juan Estrada's at three o'clock, the coffee hour; he took chocolate with the Countess of Onis every afternoon, and he was a regular _habitue_ at the evening receptions of the Senora de Quinones.

There were several other families that he frequently visited. He dropped into the houses of Maria Josefa Hevia and the Mateos in the morning for a little while, just to hear any news that was going, or to inspect their work, and sometimes of an evening, he went to the Senoritas de Mere.

"Look, here is the count!" he exclaimed in his peculiarly effeminate tone. "Ah! what a cunning fellow the count is!"

"How?" said the count, approaching.

"Ask Amalia."

Then the smile suddenly left the lips of the n.o.bleman.

"What? What do you mean?" he exclaimed with undisguised confusion.

Amalia also looked upset, and her pale cheeks grew red.

"We have been grumbling at you, my man, and a pretty character we gave you. Yes, Manuel Antonio has been saying that you are a dog in the manger," said Amalia.

"No, you were the one who said so."

"I?" exclaimed the lady.

"And why am I the dog in the manger?" said the count. "Let us hear."

"Because Amalia says you do not want to eat the meat yourself, and you will not let Don Santos eat it."

"Get along! Hold your tongue, you rude fellow!" said the lady half-laughing, giving him a pinch.

"What is being said of Don Santos?" asked a short, broad gentleman, with a fat purple face, who approached the group.

The count and Amalia did not know what to answer.

"They were remarking," said Manuel Antonio, with his ready tongue, "that Don Santos thought of taking us up to his place, the Castaneda (Chestnuts)."

"No, no, it was not that," returned the stout man with a forced smile.

"Yes it was, and Amalia maintained that you were not up to taking us to the Castaneda for the day."

"But, my good fellow, you seem bent on painting me in very black colours," said Amalia.

"Because I am a real friend. How pale you have been looking lately....

You must credit me, Santos, for having a higher opinion of your generosity than the majority of people. 'You don't know Don Santos,' I often say to those who declare that you do not like spending money. 'If Don Santos does not spend and does not entertain his friends, it is not from avarice but from indolence, and from want of a fitting occasion.

The man is self-distrustful, and incapable of proposing banquets or festivities; but let anybody start the idea, and you will see how gladly it will be followed up.'"

"Thank you, thank you, Manuel Antonio," murmured Don Santos, with a rabbit-like smile.

The poor man was indeed continually haunted by the fear of appearing mean. Like many of the Indians, the fact of his being immensely rich gave him a reputation, not utterly unfounded, of being mean. He arrived a few years ago from Cuba, where by dint of first packing cases with sugar and then selling them, he ama.s.sed an immense fortune. He was like a Bedouin, without any regard for what went on in the world; he could not speak a dozen words correctly, nor comport himself like other men.

The thirty years he had spent behind a counter had caused his legs to swell, which had given him the gait of a drunken man. The high colour of his complexion was so characteristic, that in Lancia, where few people escaped a nickname, he was dubbed _Garnet_.

In the midst of his misery he enjoyed making some show with his riches.

He built a most magnificent house: the steps were of marble from Carrara, the furniture from Paris, &c. Nevertheless, when he came to pay the large bills contracted in its construction, he was careful to see what could be taken off for the value of the paper and cord, used for packing the things for their transit from Paris. With this object in view, he would carefully examine these wrappings acc.u.mulated in a heap in a corner. When the house was finished, he took possession of the ground-floor, and let the other two. And then began his martyrdom--a martyrdom long and terrible. The servants and children of the second and third floors were his torturers. If he heard the floors of the second storey being rubbed, he was put in a bad humour, for he said that sand was bad for boarded floors. If he saw a mark made on the stucco by the careless hand of some little child, he was very angry and muttered words of dread import. If he heard a door shut violently, the sound seemed to go to his heart, and fears filled his mind lest the hinges should be loosened, and the bolts displaced. At last the continual excitement threw him into such a highly nervous state that his health visibly declined. A friend of his, who was quite as miserable, although endowed with more spirit, suggested that he should leave the house and live in another one. And so he did, for he returned to the hotel where he had put up during the building of his palace.