TWO evenings later, Quentin was in the Café del Recreo. His streak of bad luck at the Casino continued. María Lucena was talking to Springer: Quentin was smoking, and thoughtfully contemplating the ceiling. Very much bored, he rose to his feet, with the intention of going to bed.

In the street he met the clerk, Diego Palomares, who was going in the same direction.

“What’s doing, Palomares?” he said.

“Nothing. I’m living a dull and stupid life.”

“I too.”

“You? What you have done is to understand life as few people can. While I....”

“Why, what’s the matter with you?”

“You are a revolutionist, aren’t you?” said Palomares. “Well, if you ever take up arms against the rich, call on me. I’ll go with all my heart, even to the extent of making them cough up their livers. There are nothing but rich men and poor men in this world, say what you will of your Progressists and Moderates. Ah! The blackguards!”

“Have they done anything to you at the store?”

“Not just now; but they have been for many years. Twenty years working as if it were my own business, and helping them to get rich; they in opulence, and me with thirty dollars a month. And that man, just be[315]cause he saw me take home a chicken to my sick girl, said to me: ‘I see that you are living like a prince.’ Curse him! Would to God he had sunk in the ocean!”

Palomares had been drinking, and with the excitement of the alcohol, he exposed the very depths of his soul.

“You are terrible,” said Quentin.

“You think I’m a coward! No; I have a wife and three small children ... and I’m already decrepit.... Believe me, we should unite against them, and wish them death. Yes sir! Here’s what I say: the coachman should overturn his master’s carriage, the labourer should burn the crops, the shepherd should drive his flock over a precipice, the clerk should rob his employer—even the wet nurses should poison their milk.”

“You’re all twisted, Palomares.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I thought you were a sheep, and you are almost, almost a wolf.”

“Why, there are some days when I would like to set fire to the whole town. Then I’d stay outside with a gun and shoot anybody who tried to escape.”

“The tortoise will get there,” remarked Quentin.

He said good-bye to Palomares, and went home. As he opened the door and stepped into the entryway, he heard some one weeping sadly. Attracted by the wails, he went through the corridor, crossed a patio, and asked in a loud voice:

“What’s the matter?”

A door opened, and a weeping woman with disheveled hair came out with a lamp in her hand. In a voice choked with sobs, she told Quentin that her two-year-old son had died, that her husband was not in town, and that she had no money with which to buy a casket.[316]

“Would you like to see the boy, Se?orito?”

Quentin entered a small whitewashed room; the boy’s body lay on a mattress across the table.

“How much do you need to bury him?” asked Quentin.

“A couple of dollars.”

“I’ll see if I have them. If not, we’ll pawn something from my house.”

Quentin went back through the patio followed by the woman; and the two climbed up to the main floor. Quentin lit the lamp, and went through all the drawers. He found four dollars in María Lucena’s bureau, and gave them to the woman. This done, he closed the door and got into bed.... The voices of María Lucena and her mother awakened him.

“There were four dollars here,” cried the actress. “Who took them?”

“I took them,” said Quentin calmly.

“Eh?”

“Yes. One of our neighbours was crying because her baby boy had died and she could not buy him a casket; so I gave them to her. I’ll return them to you tomorrow.”

“That’s it. That’s fine,” said the actress. “Give that woman the money I earn.”

“Am I not telling you that I will return them to you?”

“Little that woman cares for her baby,” screamed María.

“She’s probably buying drinks with the money by this time,” added her mother.

“Se?oras,” said Quentin, sitting up in bed, “I find you absolutely repulsive.[317]”

“You are the one who is repulsive,” screeched the old woman.

“Very well; the thing to do now is to get out of this den of harpies; they are beginning to smell.”

“Well, son; get out, and never come back,” cried María.

Quentin dressed rapidly, and put on his boots and his hat.

“Well; give me the key.”

“I give the key to no one,” rejoined the actress.

“See here, don’t you exhaust my patience, or I’ll give you a thumping.”

When the old woman heard this, thrusting her face close to Quentin’s, she began to insult him, shaking her hands in his face.

“Rowdy!” she said, “you’re an indecent rowdy. A fandango-dancing rowdy!”

“Hush, ancient Canidia,” said Quentin, pushing the old woman away from him, “and get you gone to your laboratory.”

“Don’t you call my mother names; do you hear?”

“Nobody can call me names.”

“Well: will you give me the key or won’t you?” asked Quentin.

“No.”

Quentin went to the balcony window and opened it wide. He jumped to the other side of the railing, hung by his wrists, felt for the grated window of the floor below, and dropped to the sidewalk.

“Until—never!” he called from the............