The Life and Miracles of Se?or de Mingote—Wherein Beginneth the Succulent Exploitation of Don Sergio According to the best historians of Madrid the acquaintance of the Baroness de Aynant with Bonifacio de Mingote dated back some two years.
During one of the numerous periods in which the baroness had found herself financially embarrassed she had resorted to a usurer on the Calle del Pez. Instead of the moneylender there appeared his clerk, Mingote himself, who arranged the matter between the two of them. Ever since that time Mingote was a regular visitor at the baroness’s. Who was Don Bonifacio? What was Don Bonifacio?
There are bimanous creatures who rouse a most extraordinary curiosity. In the natural history of man they resemble those species of monotremes situated between the birds and the mammals,—the wonder of zo?logists. It is to this class of interesting bimanal animals that Mingote belonged.
This Mingote was about fifty, short, stout, with dyed moustaches, fleshy face, red, tiny nose, cynical mouth and the general appearance of a police agent or a busybody broker. He dressed ostentatiously,[69] and delighted in wearing a thick chain in his waistcoat and false diamonds, as big as chick-peas, on his shirt-front and his fingers.
Mingote had exercised every office that a person may engage in outside the boundaries of decency: he had been a usurer, a member of the police, leader of a claque, exchange broker, rural home agent, court officer, procurer....
Manuel had the opportunity of knowing him inside out. He was a past master in all the arts of deception,—an ingrate, impudent, cowardly with the brave and brave with cowards, as petulant and vain as few, fond of attributing to himself the bravery and merit that belonged to another, and of distributing among others the defects that were exclusively his own.
Manuel noticed that the baroness was always in the habit of speaking ill of Mingote, whenever that worthy was absent, and yet, when she listened to his chatter, she did so with evident pleasure. Doubtless she admired his subtlety and the rogue’s finesse in his evil arts.
After he had been speaking for some time his shameless conversation would become repellent.
Mingote’s chief preoccupation was to conceal his cynical nature, but his cynicism, through its very powers of expansion, oozed from his very soul, glittered in his eyes, flickered on his lips and flowed in his every word.
“Folks who insult me only waste their time,” he would declare, calmly. “When it comes to shamelessness, I can’t be beat.”
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And he was right. There were times in which he would realize the bad effect produced by some rascality of his, whereupon he would make special efforts to appear a very Roland or Cid of perfection. But within a very short while from out of the cuirass of this punctilious knight would stick the mountebank’s claw.
“In matters of honor I admit of no distinctions,” the man would say, in one of his knightly moods. “You may declare to me that honor is a martingale. True enough. But such is my misfortune; I am by temperament a cavalier.”
Mingote was a partisan of anarchico-philanthropico-collectivist ideas; some of his letters he ended with the salutation, “Health and Social Revolution,” which served as no obstacle against his trying to establish, at various times, a loan shop, a house of assignation and other similarly honest means of subsistence.
This ex-loan shark had collaborated in several ignominious labours with the comrades of dynamite and picric acid, wheedling money out of them, now for the purpose of effecting a coup and purchasing bombs, again for the compiling of a libertarian dictionary, wherein he, Mingote, with his formidable powers of analysis, more formidable than the highest explosives, shattered to fragments all the traditional notions of this stupid society.
Whenever Mingote spoke of his dictionary, his disdain for existence, his fanatical glance, his melancholy attitude of a soul misunderstood all indicated the genius of revolution.
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On the other hand, when he recounted his successes as an advertising agent, as a business broker, the modern man would appear,—the struggle-for-lifer of the public auction and the loan shop, of the druggist and the perfumer.
“It was I,” he would boast, “who auctioned off La Chavito. I sold the stable to the Marquis de Sacro-Cerro and the lands to the Viscountess. It was I who launched the Pipot Cataphoretic; the Alex Wild Arabian Jasmine Pectoral; Chiper’s Manicure Paste; Pirogoff’s Electrical Cataplasm; Clarckson’s Peptic Flour; Tomás y Gil’s Artificial Heart; Rocagut’s Sudorific Plaster, and yet, here I stand, utterly deserted.”
Mingote imagined that all Madrid was in a conspiracy to keep him down; but he was waiting for the opportune moment in which he should triumph over his enemies.
His greatest illusions were founded upon his mines, which, though they were supposedly wonderful, he was not averse to selling in cheap lots. He was for ever carrying around in his pockets, wrapped up in newspaper sheets, various specimens from his mines in this place and that.
“This,” and Mingote would exhibit a bit of ore, “comes from the Suspiro del Moro Mine. What a specimen! Eh? Admirable. Isn’t it? Iron ... almost pure. Ninety nine and one half per cent. mineralized. This other is of calamine. Sixty eight per cent. There are half a million tons.”
When his hoax had been discovered, not only was he unperturbed, but he would burst into laughter.
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The baroness greeted Mingote’s projects with loud guffaws.
“But if you haven’t any mines, how are you going to sell them?” she would ask.
“Ah, that doesn’t matter. I invent them. It’s the same thing. As soon as we have put this thing through with Don Sergio we’ll go into business. We’ll lay out a mine; deposit, three or four hundred pesetas, whatever it amounts to. Then we’ll carry minerals from somewhere else to the land, and at once we issue shares: The Prosperity Company, Limited. Capital, 7,000,000 pesetas. We rent a building, put up an imposing copper sign with gilt lettering over the door and a servant in blue livery. We’ll collect on the shares, and the deal is worked.”
Did Mingote believe in his fancies? He himself could not have said for certain. The man was a stranger even to himself. There, within his soul, he harboured the notion of an adverse fate which prevented his prospering because he was an unblushing knave. As for skill, he had enough and to spare; nobody was as wily as he in receiving a creditor and sending him off unpaid; he was an expert in adulation and mendacity; yet, despite his constant lying, he was as gullible as any one else when it came to the deceptions of other rogues.
He believed in secret societies, in Free Masonry, in the H ... and all such mummery.
Amidst danger and perilous situations, despite the extraordinary cowardice of the ex-loan shark, his cleverness never abandoned him. Cracking a joke was a necessity to him, and in all probability, were[73] he impaled, with the hangman’s rope around his neck, or on the very steps of the scaffold, all atremble with terror, he would have had to make some droll remark between the chattering of his teeth and the tremors of horror.
He would quarrel with folk about the most futile matters; in the street cars and at the theatres he would get into altercations with the conductors and ushers; he would raise his stick to the street-urchins, and treat everybody with the utmost disdain. He would make indecorous proposals to women in the very presence of their husbands or their parents, and despite all this, he very rarely received the cuffs or the cudgellings that any one else in his place would have earned.
Vainglorious and petulant, he himself would laugh at his petulance. He would transform his smile into a menacing gesture, and his menacing gesture into a smile; at times he felt a certain rare, comical sort of modesty and would blush, but never did he lose his self-composure.
The ex-loan shark, though he was by no means of an agreeable type, was very successful with the women. He devoted himself to old age. His tactics were rapid and expedite; after the first week he was already borrowing money.
He counted his mistresses in pairs, each with two or three little Mingotes. In complicity with them the ex-moneylender had organized a marvellous system of mendicity carried on through means of letters, and as the income from his agency kept dwindling, these mistresses, the great Mingote and the[74] little Mingotes, managed to live upon the profits of the women. Whenever people inquired as to these women, Mingote replied that they constituted his household servants.
This was Mingote, the marvellous, rare Mingote, aider and abettor of the Baroness of Aynant.
The very day on which Manuel and the sublime pedagogue recounted the details of their visit to Don Sergio, the baroness and Mingote inaugurated their campaign. The baroness rented a parlour for a few days from a boarding-house keeper on the first floor.
“But what are you doing this for?” asked Mingote. “The worse the old man finds you situated, the more splendid it will be for our purpose.”
“I gave you credit for more cleverness than that, Mingote,” replied the baroness coldly. “If Don Sergio were to find me in a filthy hole like this, he’d throw me an alms. But otherwise,—we’ll see. For the rest, kindly let me conduct my own affairs.”
Mingote, confounded, kept silent. Undoubtedly in such a matter as this, he had something to learn.
The baroness arranged her rented room in good taste, sent one of her gowns out to be sewed and ironed, and dressed Manuel, even using rice powder, to the great desperation of the child. When all was in readiness, Mingote wrote to Don Sergio,—il vecchio Cromwell, as he called the old man,—a post card signed by Pe?alar, giving him the directions to the house.
The baroness and Manuel awaited the arrival of[75] il vecchio. About midafternoon they heard the rumble of a carriage that drew up before their door.
“There he is,” said the baroness. She peered through the slats of the shutters. “Yes, it’s he,” she added, lying down upon the sofa and picking up a book.
When she was well dressed and decked out she appeared appetizing; a blonde, buxom, good-looking wench.
“See here. It would be better for you to go into that other room,” said the baroness to Manuel, pointing to a bedchamber. “I’ll tell him that you’re studying.”
Manuel, who was by no means delighted with the r?le that had been assigned to him, disappeared into the alcove. Between this and the parlour was a curtained glass door. Manuel found this observation post quite comfortable, and began to spy through the shades. He was interested to see how the baroness would manage, how she would weave the strands of that deception, in which the least oversight might enmesh her.
When the maidservant of the boarding-house entered to announce Don Sergio, the baroness was already completely submerged in her part. Il vecchio came in solemnly, and saluted her; the baroness made a gesture of astonishment at sight of him, and then, with a languorous, haughty wave of the hand she indicated that he might be seated.
“The old Cromwell,” took a seat; Manuel could observe him calmly. He was pale,—of a chalky complexion.
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“An ugly old papa I’ve picked up,” said Manuel to himself.
The baroness and Don Sergio began to talk in whispers. It was impossible to hear what they were saying. The chalky-complexioned old fellow gazed about the room, estimated the furniture, and was doubtless surprised to find so elegant a parlour.
Then he continued to speak heatedly; the baroness listened to him languidly, smiling with a certain amiable, kindly irony. It seemed to Manuel that all the old man needed was a pair of little horns and goat’s feet to represent, together with the baroness, a group he had seen a few days previously in a show-window on the Carrera de San Jerónimo. The title was “The Nymph and the Satyr.” Manuel thought that the old man was about to get down on his knees, and he felt like shouting, “Get out, Cromwell!”
The old gentleman continued to speak in his insinuating manner, when all at once he grew excited and began to gesticulate violently. “This abandonment of the boy is unspeakable!” he exclaimed.
“Unspeakable!”
“Yes, se?ora.”
“But you,—what right have you to speak?”
“Every right in the world. Yes, se?ora.”
The baroness seemed to be amazed at these words, and replied with vague excuses; then she became indignant and rising most gracefully from the sofa threw the book onto the floor, and accused the irate Cromwell of every ill that might befall the boy.[77] He was to blame for everything, because he was a miserly old wretch.
The terrible vecchio replied to this arraignment in a brusk tone, averring that to lewd, extravagant women all men were stingy.
“If you have come here,” interrupted the baroness, “to insult a woman because she is alone and unprotected, I’ll not have it.”
Then came the chalky old man’s explanations, his efforts to clear himself of blame, his offers....
“I need you for nothing,” retorted the baroness haughtily. “I did not send for you.”
The vecchio coaxingly vowed and vowed again that he had come there only to offer her whatever she might need, and to beg her to let him stand the expenses of the boy’s education. He desired also to see the youngster a moment.
The baroness allowed herself to be won over; but she warned the chalky old fellow that the boy thought his parents had died.
“No, no. Don’t worry, Paquita,” exclaimed il vecchio.
The baroness rang the bell and asked the servant, in most nonchalant fashion:
“Is Sergio at home?”
“Yes, se?ora.”
“Ask him to come in.”
Manuel entered, in confusion.
“This gentleman wishes to see you,” said the lady.
“I’ve been told—I’ve been told that you are a very good student,” mumbled il vecchio.
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Manuel raised his two eyes in the greatest astonishment. Don Sergio pinched the boy’s none too rosy cheeks. Manuel stood there gazing at the floor, and after the baroness had given him permission, walked out of the room.
“He’s very shy,” explained the baroness.
“I was the same way myself when I was his age,” replied Don Sergio.
The lady smiled maliciously. Manuel went back to his place in the bed chamber and continued to spy upon them; the baroness bewailed her lack of means; Cromwell defended himself like a lion. At the conclusion of the conference the chalky old fellow drew out his wallet and deposited several banknotes upon the night table.
The baroness saw him to the door.
“So, Paquita, you are quite satisfied now?” he asked, before leaving.
“Ever so much!”
“And you’re not sorry that I came to see you?”
“Ay, Don Sergio! You deserted me so cruelly. And you—the only friend of my poor father!”
“Yes, it’s true, Paquita, it’s true,” murmured il vecchio, taking one of the baroness’s plump hands and fondling it.
And he descended the stairs, pausing every moment to bid the lady adieu.
“Good Lord, what an old bore!” she grumbled, slamming the door. “Manuel, Manolito, you did splendidly! You’re a hero! Did you see? Il vecchio Cromwell, as Mingote calls him, has left a thousand pesetas. This very next day we move.”
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Very early on the following morning the baroness and Manuel went out in search of new rooms. After endless running about, their heads almost out of joint from so much gazing upward, they found a third floor apartment in the Plaza de Oriente, with which the baroness was simply enchanted. It cost twenty-five duros per month.
“It’ll seem dear to Ni?a Chucha, but I’ll take it,” said the baroness.
So she called at the first floor, where the house agent lived, talked to him and made an advance payment.
They moved in that very day, and Manuel laboured away with enthusiasm, carrying furniture from one place to the other, and setting the pieces down in the new quarters as Ni?a Chucha directed him.
As the furnishings of the house were rather meagre, and the baroness had some things stored away in the home of a Cuban woman, a friend of hers, she went several days later to see the lady and ask for the furniture. She did not show up during that whole day, nor did she appear for supper, but returned very late at night. Ni?a Chucha and Manuel waited up for her. She came home with eyes that shone more brightly than usual.
“The Colonel’s wife wouldn’t let me go,” she mumbled. “I dined with her, then I went with her daughters to the Apolo and they saw me to the door.”
Manuel could not understand how this could be so unusual for the baroness, and was quite astonished[80] to hear her reply to Ni?a Chucha’s recriminations, stammering and laughing at the top of her voice in a most incoherent manner. Manuel would have sworn that, as she left the dining-room, the baroness stumbled, but he was so sleepy that he was not certain, and he refrained from comment.
On the following day, just before lunch, Ni?a Chucha was in the street when there was a knock at the door. Manuel opened. It was the chalky old man.
“Hello, student,” he saluted. “And where is Do?a Paquita?”
“In her room,” was Manuel’s reply.
Don Sergio rapped at the door with his knuckles and repeated several times:
“May I come in?”
“Come in, Don Sergio,” invited the baroness, “and open the windows.”
The old man entered the room, tripped against the packages scattered over the floor, and opened the balcony shutters.
“But, dear Paquita? Still abed?” he asked, greatly astonished. “That’s not good for your health.”
“Oh, if you could only see how hard I’ve been working,” replied the baroness, stretching herself. “Yesterday I went to bed completely exhausted, and at five this morning I was already at work. But all this dragging of household effects has given me a terrible headache, and has forced me to lie down again.”
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“Why do you work so hard? You don’t have to.”
“There are things to be done; then again, in this house there is no one to lend a hand. All Chucha does is read novels. And as for Sergio, I’m not going to have him travel around like a porter. So that everything falls on my shoulders. I hope I’ll be feeling much better some other day, and then you’ll have the pleasure of seeing what a good girlie I am, and how I follow your instructions to the letter.”
“Excellent, Paquita, excellent. Just keep on being a good little girlie.”
The baroness, to prove how genuine was her girlishness, bestowed a few caresses upon Cromwell and then, in an indifferent tone, asked him for fifty pesetas.
“But....”
“Indeed I know that you’re going to scold me. Don’t you imagine that I’ve spent all the money, or anything like it. The truth is, I have a five-hundred peseta note that I don’t want to break, and as there’s a little account I’ve got to settle....”
“Very well, here you are.” And Don Sergio, with a smile that was meant to be amiable, extracted his pocket book from his pocket and left a blue bill upon the night table; whereupon he was seized with the notion that it was not very gallant to leave only what had been asked for, so he deposited another note.
The baroness placed the candlestick upon the[82] two notes and then, huddling into the bedclothes, she murmured in a drowsy voice:
“Ay, Don Sergio, my headache’s coming back!”
“Take good care of yourself, then, my dear. Take good care and don’t work so hard.”
After closing the balcony shutters, Don Sergio left the bedroom and met Ni?a Chucha, who had just come in from the street.
“You shouldn’t allow your mistress to work so hard,” he said to her dryly. “She’s getting ill.”
The mulattress gazed smilingly at the old man.
“Very good, sir,” she said.
“And the boy,—what’s he doing?”
“He’s studying,” answered Ni?a Chucha sarcastically, pointing to Manuel, who sat resting his elbows upon the dining-room table with his head in his hands.
And indeed he was devouring one of the serial issues of a novel by Tárrago y Mateos.