THE tavern was a small one; it had a red counter covered with zinc, a door at one side through which one passed into a large cellar lit by two smoky oil lamps and several black lanterns. That night there was a great concourse and influx of people in the place. Quentin and Springer entered, traversed the outer room, then crossed the cellar, where there were several occupied tables, and sat down at a small one in the light of an oil lamp.

“This is our table,” said Quentin.

He clapped his hands, and the landlord, a man by the name of El Pullí, appeared; he ordered some crabs, a ration of fried fish, and a bottle of Montilla. Then he said:

“Bring me the bill for everything I owe.”

El Pullí returned presently with the crabs, the fried fish, and the wine, and, upon a dish; a paper upon which several letters and figures had been scrawled in blue ink.

Quentin took the paper, pulled out several bills from his vest pocket, and proceeded to toss them upon the plate.

“Is that right?” he asked of El Pullí.

“It must be right if you counted it,” replied the man.[194]

“Here’s something for the boy,” added Quentin, putting a dollar upon the table.

“I have two boys, Don Quentin,” answered El Pullí slyly.

“Well, then, here’s something for the other one.”

That clinking of silver produced an extraordinary effect in the tavern. Every one looked at Quentin, who, pretending not to notice the fact, began to eat and to carry on an animated conversation with his friend.

At this point two men approached the table: one was tall, smiling, some thirty years old, toothless, with a black beard and reddish, blood-shot eyes; the other was short, blond, timid-and insignificant-looking.

Quentin greeted them with a slight nod, and indicated that they should be seated.

“Here,” said Quentin to Springer, indicating the man with the beard, “you have a thoroughgoing poet; the only bad thing about him is his name: he is called Cornejo. He is Corneille translated into Cordovese. But sit down, gentlemen, and order what you like; then we shall talk.”

The two men seated themselves.

The poet looked something like a carp, with his dull, protruding eyes. He wore very short trousers, checked yellow and black, and carried a cane so worn by use that he had to stretch out his arm to touch the ground with it. From what Quentin said, Cornejo was a fantastic individual. He had on a blue, threadbare coat which he called his “black suit,” and a ragged overcoat which he called his “surtout.” He always had patches in his trousers; sometimes these were made of cloth, and sometimes of rawhide; he lived in the perpetual combination of a zealous appetite and an empty stomach; he fed only[195] upon alcohol and vanity; hence his poetical compositions were so ethereal that they were windy, rather than wingèd verse.

Once when he was walking with a comrade who was also a poet and a ragamuffin, he said, pointing to some grand ladies in a carriage:

“My lad, they are looking at us with a contempt that is ... inexplicable.”

The fellow went through life wandering from tavern to tavern, reciting verses of Espronceda and Zorilla; sometimes between the madrigals and romances, he composed some terrible poems of his own in which he appeared as a ferocious person who cared for no liquid but blood, for no perfume but the odour of graveyards, and for no skies but tempestuous ones.

Cornejo was very popular among the workingmen, and he knew all the toughs and ruffians who swarmed in the taverns. The short, blond chap who accompanied him was nervous.

“This gentleman,” said the poet to Quentin, pointing to the little fellow, “is the printer. If you can give him something....”

“Very well. How much do I owe you?” asked Quentin.

“Here is the invoice,” said the little man humbly.

“Don’t bring any invoices to me! How much is it?”

“Forty dollars.”

“Good. That’s all right.”

Quentin filled a glass of wine, and the printer looked at him rather anxiously.

“How much do you need to assure the publication of the paper for three months?[196]”

The printer took out paper and pencil and rapidly made some figures.

“Two hundred dollars,” said he.

“Good,” replied Quentin, and he took some bills from his pocket-book and put them upon the table. “Here are the two hundred dollars. I’ll pay you the forty that I owe you when I can.”

“That’s all right,” said the printer, picking up the money without daring to count it. “Would you like me to give you a receipt?”

“I—What for?”

The printer rose, bowed ceremoniously, and went out.

“How about you, Cornejo?” murmured Quentin. “Do you need some?”

“Throw me ten or twelve dollars.”

“Here are twenty; but you’ve got to get to work. If you don’t, I’ll kick you out.”

“Don’t you worry.” The poet stuck the bill carelessly into his pocket, and began to listen to the conversation of the persons at the next table. One of these was a man with a huge beard whom they called El Sardino; the other was a charcoal-burner with a grimy face called El Manano.

“Listen to this conversation,” said the poet. “It’s worth it.”

“But what does that man give you?” El Manano was saying to El Sardino, making strange grimaces with his sooty face, and waving his arms.

“He gives me nothing,” replied the other very seriously, “but he reports me.”

“He reports you! You must be easy!”

“It’s true.”

“But what good has it done you to know him?[197]”

“It’s done me a lot of good, and I am grateful.”

“That’s almost like scratching a place to lie down in, comrade,” said El Manano meaningly.

“Well, I’m like that,” replied El Sardino. “Of course nothing gets ahead of me, and I always take my hat off so they can see the way my hair is parted.”

“You’ve told me that before.”

“I don’t understand a word of what they are saying,” said the Swiss with a smile.

“Nor do they understand each other,” remarked Quentin.

“That’s their way of talking,” said the poet.

“And who are those fellows?” asked Springer.

“El Sardino is an itinerant pedlar,” replied Cornejo. “He makes sling-shots for the children out of branches of rose-bay, and whistles out of maiden-hair ferns; the kind that have little seeds in them to make them trill. El Manano is a charcoal-burner.”

“Of whom were they speaking?”

“Probably of Pacheco.”

“The bandit?” asked Springer.

Cornejo fell silent; glanced at Quentin, and then, swallowing, murmured:

“Don’t say it so loud; he has many friends here.”

“That’s what we are,” replied Quentin.

The poet could not have been pleased by this turn of the conversation, for without saying another word, he addressed the charcoal-burner:

“Hello, Manano!” he cried. “It looks as if we’d caught it now, eh? Well, look out they don’t take you to La Higuerilla!”

“Me!—to La Higuerilla?” exclaimed the drunkard; “nobody can do that![198]”

“Don’t you want to go there any more?”

“No.”

“Why not? You used to be glad to go.”

“Because they used to treat a fellow right; but now, as you’ve said in poetry, they don’t give you anything but water, a blow or two with a stick now and then, and that stuff that smells so bad ... pneumonia.”

The poet smiled at this testimony of his popularity.

El Sardino and El Manano had resumed their same parabolic manner of speech, when there came humming into the tavern a small, straight man with a short, black moustache that looked as if it were painted on his lip, a broad-brimmed hat pulled over his eyes, a huge watch chain across his vest, and a knotted and twisted stick.

When Springer caught sight of this ludicrous individual, he smiled mockingly, and the poet said:

“Here’s Carrahola.”

“What a funny chap!”

“He’s a bully,” replied Cornejo.

“Bah!” exclaimed Quentin, “he’s a poor fellow, who because he is so small, has the fad of carrying everything extra large: his stick, his sombrero, his cigar-case.”

And indeed, as if to demonstrate this, Carrahola pulled a silver watch, as white and as large as a stew-pan, from his vest pocket, and after ascertaining the time, asked the landlord:

“Has Se?or José come yet?”

“No, Se?or.”

“But is he coming?”

“I can’t tell you; I think so.”

Carrahola went up to the table at which Quentin, Springer, and Cornejo were sitting, drew up a chair, and sat down without greeting them.[199]

“This is a great night for finding lone jackasses, Carrahola,” said the poet, turning to the little man.

The fellow turned his head as if he had heard the voice from the other side of the room, and paid no attention. Carrahola doubtless considered himself a great bully; he noted the expectancy in the tavern, so he seized Quentin’s glass, held it up to the light, and emptied it with one swallow. Quentin took the glass, and, without saying a word, took careful aim, and tossed it through an open window. Then, clapping his hands, he said to El Pullí who came toward him:

“A glass; and kindly notify this person,” and he pointed to Carrahola, “that he is in the way here.”

“Move on,” said the innkeeper; “this table is occupied.”

Carrahola pretended not to understand; he took a plug of tobacco and a knife from his coat, and began to scrape tobacco; then he suddenly put the instrument upon the table.

“What do you do with that?” inquired Quentin, pointing to the blade with his finger. “Flourish it?”

Carrahola rose tragically from the table, put his knife away slowly, seized his en............