“Mariquita,” said Stein in approaching her, “let us offer to God our pure and holy love; let us promise Him to render ourselves acceptable by our fidelity, and by the discharge of those duties which will be imposed on us when this love shall have been consecrated at the divine altar. Now let me embrace you as my wife and companion.”
“No!” cried Mariquita, drawing back suddenly, and knitting her eyebrows. “No person shall touch me.”
“It is well, my pretty fugitive,” answered Stein with sweetness, “I respect all your delicacy, and submit myself to your will. Is it not appropriate to say, with one of our ancient and sublime poets, that the greatest of all felicities is, to ‘obey in loving?’ ”
CHAPTER XII
THE gratitude which the fisherman felt for him who had saved Marisalada, was complete when he saw him so attached to his daughter: an impassioned friendship which could only be compared to the admiration excited in him by the brilliant qualities of Stein.
From thence they were devoted to each other: the brusque mariner and the man of science sympathized, because men of kindred natures and gifted with good sentiments feel, when they come in contact, such an attraction, that, scorning the distance which separates their positions, they meet as brothers.
It thus happened when Stein offered himself as the old man’s son-in-law: the good father could not articulate a word, so much was he overcome with the joy which filled his heart. He besought Stein only, when taking his hand, to come and live in his cabin. Stein cordially assented. The fisherman appeared then to recover all his strength and all the agility of his youth, to employ them in ameliorating and embellishing his habitation. He cleared away the little garret to make there his personal lodging, leaving the first story for his children; he whitened and ornamented the walls; he levelled the ground, and covered it with a precious mat of palms, which he weaved for that purpose; he engaged Maria to make up for him a trousseau for the bride in character with the simplicity of his dwelling.
Great was the news caused by the rumored approaching marriage of Stein, to all those who knew and loved him. Old Maria was so joyous that she passed three nights without sleep. She predicted that when Don Frederico permanently established himself in the country none of the inhabitants would die except from old age. Brother Gabriel manifested so much contentment and such pleasure in seeing Maria so sprightly, that he entered into the feelings of his protectress, and ventured to say a witty thing, the first and the last in all his life; he said in a loud voice, “that the cura had forgotten the De profundis.”
This remark became of some consequence, inasmuch as Maria, for fifteen days, was earnest in reporting, after the usual compliments, the famous forgetfulness of the De profundis, which remark she considered as the glory and honor of her protégé. He himself was so embarrassed with the success attendant upon his innocent wit, that he vowed never again to succumb to a similar temptation.
Don Modesto was of opinion that the Gaviota had gained the first prize in the lottery, and the people of the village the second: “Because,” said he, “I would never have been maimed if I had met at Gaëte a surgeon as skilful as Stein.”
Dolores added, that if the fisherman had twice given life to his daughter, the will of God had twice given her happiness, in conferring on her such a father and such a husband.
Manuel observed, that there was in Heaven a cake reserved for husbands who never repented of their marriage, and which, up to this moment, no one had yet put his teeth into.
His wife said, it was because husbands never entered there!
As to Momo, he concluded that since the Gaviota had found a husband, the Plague need not lose hope of finding one also.
Rosa Mistica took the affair differently. Mariquita had, by a recent act, increased her list of evil deeds; some devotees were assembled to sing, in honor of the Virgin, couplets accompanied by a wretched harpsicord, played by an old blind man. Rosita presided at this ceremony. Not being able to ignore the aptitude of Marisalada, she silenced her ancient resentments, and thought, by the mediation of Don Modesto, to induce the fisherman’s daughter to take part in the pious concert.
Don Modesto took his cane, and set out on his campaign. Marisalada replied to the old commandant a dry “No,” without prologue or epilogue.
This monosyllable frightened Modesto more than a discharge of artillery; the negotiator knew not what to do. Don Modesto was one of those men who are sufficiently good-hearted to desire the good of their friends, but who want strength to achieve it, and imagination to find the means of obtaining it.
“Pedro,” said he to the fisherman, after this peremptory refusal, “do you know I tremble in all my limbs? What will Rosita say? What will all the village say? Can you not then influence her?”
“If she will not, what can I do?” replied the fisherman.
And the poor Don Modesto resigned himself to report this ungracious message, which would not only offend, but scandalize the mysticism of his hostess.
“I would prefer a thousand times,” said he, in returning to Villamar, “to present myself before all the batteries of Gaëte, than before Rosita with a no on my lips. In what a state she will be!”
And Don Modesto was right; for it was in vain that he essayed to ornament her answer by an exordium which merely insinuated, to comment by vague hints, to embellish by verbose paraphrases: he did not less keenly offend Rosita, who cried out in a loud tone —
“They who would not employ in the service of God the gifts they have received of Him, merit perdition.”
Also, when she learned the project of marriage, she sighed, and raised her eyes to Heaven:
“Poor Don Frederico!” she said.
Momo, according to his bad habits, took pleasure in conveying the news of this marriage to Ramon Perez.
“Really!” cried the barber, in consternation.
“You are sad; I am much more sad in seeing that there are people who ought to be beaten for the absurdity of their tastes. See a little! To be smitten of this saucebox! but Don Frederico proves the proverb, ‘Late married, badly married.’ ”
“I am not sad,” replied Ramon Perez, “because Marisalada is loved by Don Frederico, but because she loves this stranger who has hair of hemp and fishes’ eyes. Why does not the ingrate recollect this sentence, ‘Who marries late becomes either a dupe or a deceiver.’ ”
“It will not be he who will be the first to deceive. For as to Don Frederico, he is a brave man, nothing can be said to the contrary; but this vixen has bewitched him with her singing, which lasts from the rising to the setting sun. I have already said to him: Don Frederico, listen to the proverb, ‘Take a house with a hearth: take a wife who knows how to spin.’ He has not attended to either: it is a misfortune. As to thee, Ramon Perez, they have simply made a great mistake.”
“That is easily seen,” replied the barber, giving so hasty a turn to the key of his guitar that the treble-string broke: “he whom we would drive from our house must be a stranger. But you ought to know, Momo, that I care for very little. The year will finish one day, and if the king is dead, long live the king!”
Then he commenced to strike his guitar with rage, singing with bombastic voice:
“Cold creature! what of thy contempts,
My heart, no longer irate, is now cured;
Stains which no mulberry exempts,
By the mulberry green are no longer endured.
* * * *
“Love is fled! three pirouettes, and then —
Crack! and my happy days return;
I have gold to please young girls I ween,
To purchase other loves I’ll learn.”
CHAPTER XIII
THE marriage of Stein and the Gaviota was celebrated in the church of Villamar. The fisherman, instead of a red flannel shirt, wore a white shirt, irreproachably starched, and a vest of dark blue cloth. In this gala costume he was so embarrassed that he could hardly move.
Don Modesto, one of the witnesses, presented himself in all the éclat of his old uniform, rendered threadbare by constant brushing, and become too large by reason of his having grown so thin. The nankeen pantaloons which Rosita had washed for the thousandth time, had shrunken so as to descend only half way down his legs. His epaulets had become copper-colored. The cocked hat, which had survived eight lustres, and had not altered its pride, occupied dignifiedly its elevated position. But in the mean time there sparkled on the honorable breast of the poor soldier the cross of honor, valiantly gained on the field of battle, as shines a pure diamond in a fine setting. The women, according to custom, assisted, all dressed in black during the ceremony, but they changed their toilets for the fête.
Marisalada was all in white. The dresses which Maria and Dolores had received as presents from Stein on the occasion, were made of wove cotton smuggled into Gibraltar. The design was called scarfs of iris, because of the assemblage of colors the most opposite and the least harmonizing. One would believe the manufacturer wished to mock his Andalusian customers. In fine, everybody thought them handsome, except Momo, who would not put himself out on this occasion, and dressed himself to look as eccentric as possible.
“This is well for you, bad droll fellow. ‘The ape, though dressed in silk, is nothing but an ape.’ ”
“You cut a figure! You, who to be the wife of the doctor have ceased to be the Gaviota, and dress yourself in new clothes to render yourself handsomer! Oh! yes – white becomes you so well! Put a red cap on your head, and you will resemble a phosphoric match.”
Then he began to sing in a false voice —
“Oh! oh!
Like a crow —
You are pretty, girl, all in white,
Coquettish, like hunger, you siren;
Like wax with clear color at night.
And in bulk like a thread of iron.”
Marisalada immediately replied —
“Thy mouth, ugly ape,
Like a basket in shape,
Therein linen to lie;
This you cannot deny.
And thy teeth can tell,
They’ve no parallel!
And thine ear-rings, I know.
But three pendants can show.”
After this compliment she turned her back on him.
Momo, who was never behindhand when he meditated insolence and sallies, replied bravely —
“Go – go; when they give thee the benediction, it will be the first time thou hast received it during thine whole life, and I predict that it will be the last.”
The marriage was held in the village, at the house of Maria, the cabin of the fisherman being too small to contain all the assembly. Stein, who, in the exercise of his profession, had saved some money, although in most cases he gave his services gratuitously, desired to do the thing in grand style, and not to restrict the invitations. He had abundance of wine, lemonade, biscuits, and cakes, and three guitars. The guests sang, danced, screamed, without omitting wit and pleasantry, joyous and gay.
Maria came and went, served the refreshments, played the part of godmother of the wedding, and never ceased to repeat, “I am as content as if I were the bride;” to which brother Gabriel invariably added, “I am as content as if I were the husband.”
“Mother,” said Manuel to Maria, on seeing her pass near him, “the color of this dress is very gay for a widow.”
“Hold your tongue,” replied the mother. “Every thing ought to be gay on a day like this. Besides, ‘we must not look a gift horse in the mouth.’ Brother Gabriel, come along, take this glass of lemonade and this cake, and drink to the health of the newly married couple, before returning to the convent.”
“I drink to the health of the new-married couple before I return to the convent,” said brother Gabriel.
The good monk emptied his glass, and escaped before any one, except Maria, remarked his absence.
The reunion became animated by degrees.
“Bomba!” cried the sacristan, a little humpbacked man, crooked and lame, “Bomba!” (This is the exclamation which announces ordinarily in Spain at a dinner or at fête, a little excited, that a guest is about to propose a toast.)
Every one was silent at this signal.
“I drink,” said the sacristan, “to the health of the bride and groom, and to this honorable company, and to the repose of all Christian souls!”
“Bravo! let us drink! and long live La Mancha! who gives us wine in lieu of water.”
“In your turn, Ramon Perez, sing a couplet, and do not keep your voice for a better occasion.”
Ramon sang —
“A happy future – all good wishes
To the pretty wife!
And to her husband I’ve no species
Of envy or of strife.”
“Bravo! well sung!” cried all the assembly. “Now the fandango and the ball!”
After the prelude to this eminently national dance, a man and a woman rose simultaneously, and placed themselves face to face. Their graceful movements accomplished, so to speak, an elegant balancing of bodies, to the sound of their gay castinets.
In an instant the two dancers yielded their places to two others, who placed themselves in front, while the first couple retired. This divertisement, according to the usages of the country, was often repeated.
The guitarist had again his song —
“To him who weds a beauteous bride,
And to the holy temple hied:
She has sworn, and now stands with wedded heart:
She enters free – in irons must depart.”
“Bomba!” soon cried one of the most expert in matters of toasts. “I drink to this excellent doctor, whom God sent to our country that we might attain a greater age than Methuselah! But I add one condition, that in case of longevity to me, he will not prolong either the life of my wife, or my purgatory.”
This toast provoked an explosion of applause.
“What do you say to all this?” demanded all the guests at the wedding of Manuel.
“What do I say? That I say nothing.”
“Badly answered! Get along – wake up, and propose a toast.”
Manuel took a glass of lemonade, and said —
“I drink to the newly married, to our friends, to our commandant, and to the resurrection of Fort St. Cristobal!”
“Long live the commandant!” cried all present. “And you, Manuel, who know how to compose couplets, sing something.”
Manuel sang the following couplet:
“Of these allurements men take care,
Hymen’s intoxication sweet:
’Tis done! and ’till old age, beware,
The fright will ne’er thy bosom quit.”
After some other couplets had been sung, the greatest orator of the assembly said to Manuel:
“These people only sing trifles without head or tail. You who know how to say good things, above all when the wine gets a little in your head, make a stanza of ten lines in honor of the newly married, and take this glass of wine to loosen your tongue.”
Manuel took the glass of wine, and commenced:
“Bomba!
Viva!
Sweet vanquisher of secret pains,
Physician gay of blackest dreams,
I’ve seen thee born between green leaves,
And, pressed, thy bosom madly heaves:
Give to my voice the needful force,
To the bride and groom I’d raise my voice!
Here’s Hymen! let’s our glasses drain,
To bride and groom, again, again.”
“It is your turn, Ramon the devil. Has the liquor obstructed your throat? You are more insipid than a salad of tomatoes.”
Ramon took his guitar and sang:
“She to the church and sacrifices bold,
Herself surrenders, and I am consoled;
My lips with kisses delicately hushed,
Press the green grass which her small feet have pressed.”
This couplet having been followed by another of little value, Maria approached Stein and said to him:
“Don Frederico, the wine commences to tell on our guests. It is midnight, and the poor children are alone in the house with Momo and brother Gabriel. I fear Manuel raises his elbow too often. Pedro is asleep in the corner, and I think it will not be bad to sound the retreat. Our asses are harnessed, will you that we take ‘French leave?’ ” An instant after, the three women, mounted on their asses, were on their way to the convent. The men accompanied them on foot, while Ramon, in a fit of jealousy and of chagrin, on seeing the married couple depart, struck his guitar with an insolent air and bellowed rather than sang:
“Thou the calabash hast given me;
Or rather, I my congé see;
Great good this congé does meeting,
The tomatoes I have eaten!
In thy family, at which I dine,
Admitted once, revenged I am.”
“What a beautiful night!” said Stein to his wife, raising his eyes towards heaven. “See the starry firmament! See the evening star shining in its magnificence like the brightness of my happiness! My heart has now no want unsupplied, and I have nothing to regret.”
“And I who amused myself so much,” replied Marisalada, impatiently, “I do not see why we have left the fête so soon.”
“Good Maria,” said Pedro Santalo, “now we can die in peace.”
“Yes,” replied the old woman, “but we can as well live in joy; that would be much better.”
“How is it that you do not know how to restrain yourself when you have the glass in your hand?” said Dolores to her husband. “From the moment you slacken sail, there is not a cable that could bring you up.”
“Caramba!” replied Manuel: “I am here, what would you more? Still, one word more – I live on the brim and I return to the fête.”
The cries of the drinkers being continually heard, Dolores held her tongue, fearing that Manuel would put his threats into execution.
“José,” said Manuel to his brother-in-law, who had also been to the wedding, “is the moon full?”
“Certainly,” replied the shepherd. “Can you not see with your eyes? Do you not know what it is?”
“It should be a tear,” said Manuel, laughing.
“It is not a tear; it is a man.”
“A man!” exclaimed Dolores, altogether convinced by what her brother had said. “And what is this man?”
“I do not know – but I know his name.”
“And how is he called?”
“He is called Venus,” replied José.
Manuel began to laugh: he had drank more than usual, and, as they said, he was gay.
“Don Frederico,” said Manuel to the new-made husband, “shall I give you a piece of advice, in my quality of being older than you in this grand Confederacy?”
“Hold your tongue, for God’s sake, Manuel!” said Dolores.
“Will you leave me in peace? Listen, Don Frederico; to begin – with a wife and a dog, the bread in one hand, and a stick in the other.”
“Manuel!” repeated Dolores.
“Will you leave me tranquil? or I return to the wedding.”
Dolores thought it prudent to hold her peace.
“Don Frederico,” pursued Manuel, “wives or slaves, women are the most powerful enemies.”
“Do me the favor to hold your tongue, Manuel,” interrupted his mother.
“This is odd,” grumbled Manuel; “we were told we were assisting at an entertainment.”
“Do you not know, Manuel,” remarked the shepherd, “that these witticisms of thine are not to the taste of Don Frederico?”
“Señor,” said Manuel, in taking leave of the married pair, who proceeded towards the cabin, “when you repent of what you have done we will be united again, and we will together sing the same complaint.”
And he continued his route towards the convent. In the silence of night he was heard singing, in his clear and sonorous voice —
“Alas, poor wife and cherished horse!
Who the same hour died:
I sorely weep, but for which loss?
My poor horse shall decide.”
“Go to bed, Manuel, and nimbly,” his mother said to him, when they arrived at home.
“My wife takes care of that,” he replied; “is it not true, brunette?”
“What I wish is, that you were already asleep,” replied Dolores.
“Liar! how can you thus speak in opposition to your heart?”
“Do you not know how to hold your peace?” said his brother-in-law to him, laughing.
“Listen, José,” continued Manuel, “have you found in the thickets of the fields, or in the grottoes, any thing which could close the mouth of a woman? If you have found it, there will not be wanting people who will pay you for the information in solid gold. As to me, I have never met with it in this world, and I have learned nothing of it in the life of God.”
Thereupon he began to sing —
“The sun’s sublimest heat,
’Tis easier to put out,
Than e’er with fear to worry,
A woman in her fury.
Try the caress, be gay;
She with a stick will play:
A traitress she will be,
For good or bad, we’ll see.”
CHAPTER XIV
THREE years had passed. Stein, who could sojourn among these few men who required so little, believed himself happy. He loved his wife with tenderness, and was attached more every day to his father-in-law; and as to the excellent family, those who had rescued him, a dying man, his affection for them had never wavered. His uniform and rural life was in harmony with the modesty of his tastes, and with the tranquillity of his honest soul. And, besides, the monotony wanted not for attractions: an existence always uniformly calm resembles the man who peacefully sleeps without dreaming, or those melodies composed of a few words, but which charm us with so much sweetness. Perhaps there is nothing which leaves more agreeable souvenirs than this monotony of existence – this successive enchainment of days which have nothing to distinguish one from that which precedes, or from that which follows it.
What must have been the surprise to the inhabitants of the cabin when, one morning, Momo rushed in out of breath, calling to Stein to go to the convent without losing a single instant.
“Has any one of the family fallen ill?” asked Stein alarmed.
“No,” answered Momo, “it is a lord, whom they address as ‘your excellency,’ who has been hunting the wild boar and roebuck in the hillock with his friends; in leaping the ravine the horse missed, and both fell. The horse is slashed, the cavalier has broken as many bones as he has in his body, and they have conveyed him to the convent on a litter. The monastery was transformed into a real Babylon. They believed it was the day of judgment. People went and came like a crowd among which a wolf had forced his way. The only one who retained his tranquillity was he who had caused the excitement, and who at a glance it was seen was a man of the grand world, a real young man. There they were all in confusion, without knowing what to do. My grandma had told them that there was here a surgeon like whom there were few seen: they would not believe her; but as to obtain one from Cadiz would occupy two days, and three more to obtain one from Seville, his excellency said he would have the one recommended by my grandma. It is for this I am come here. Now I will give you my opinion. If I were in your place, at present, when they have despised you, I would not go to the convent if they dragged me there with two horses.”
“I am not capable,” replied Stein, “of forgetting my duties as a Christian, nor those of a surgeon. I should have a heart of bronze to see one of my kind suffer without alleviating his sufferings when I have the power to do it. Beyond this, they cannot have confidence in me, as I am unknown to them; it is not therefore an offence, it would not even be one if they knew me.”
Stein and Momo arrived promptly at the convent. Maria, who awaited the doctor with impatience, conducted him to the wounded man, who had been placed in the cell of the prior, where they had made up for him the best bed possible. Maria and Stein passed through the crowd of sportsmen and servants, by whom the invalid was surrounded. He was a tall young man; on his pale but tranquil face fell a profusion of black hair. So soon as Stein looked at him he uttered a cry, and rushed towards him; but, fearing to touch him, he suddenly stopped, and crossing his trembling hands he cried out —
“My God! the duke!”
“You know me?” demanded the stranger, for the person Stein had recognized was the Duke d’Almanza. “You know me?” repeated the duke, raising his head, and casting his large black eyes on Stein, without power to recall to his mind who it was that had addressed him.
“He does not recollect me,” murmured Stein, while the large tears trembled in his eyes; “that is not strange: generous souls forget the good they confer, preserving eternally the favors they receive.”
“Wretched beginning,” said one of the assistants; “a surgeon who weeps!”
“What sad chance!” added another.
“Doctor,” said the duke to Stein, “I place myself in your hands, I confide myself to God, to you, and to my lucky star. I am ready, do not lose time.”
At these words Stein raised his head; his countenance remained calm, and by a silent gesture, but imperative and firm, he banished the spectators to a distance. Then he felt the duke with an accustomed and experienced hand. He displayed so much assurance and dexterity that every one kept silent. No sound was heard in the cell but the agitated breathing of the patient.
“Duke,” said Stein, after having completed his examination of the sprained ankle and the broken leg, “without doubt it is here the weight of the horse has fallen. Still, I believe I shall succeed in effecting a complete cure.”
“Will I become a cripple for life?” asked the duke.
“In my opinion, I can assure you, no.”
“Prove it so, and I will say that you are the best surgeon in the world.”
Stein, without stirring, sent for Manuel, whose strength and punctuality he knew. With his assistance he commenced operations which were more painful than can be imagined; but Stein seemed to take no notice of the pain the invalid felt, and whom he made almost to lose consciousness.
In about half an hour the duke reposed, suffering, but relieved.
In lieu of marks of contempt and fear, Stein received from the duke’s friends congratulations and the most lively expressions of esteem and admiration; the good doctor, restored to his natural modesty and timidity, replied politely to all.
But do you know who “took a bath of roses?” it was Maria.
“Did I not tell you so?” she incessantly repeated to all the sportsmen, “did I not tell you so?”
The duke’s friends, entirely tranquillized, went to attend the prayers about to be offered up. The invalid had demanded to be left alone, under the care of his excellent doctor, his old friend as he called him, and sent away nearly all his servants.
In this way the duke and his doctor could renew their acquaintance at their ease. The first was one of those men of a character, elevated, and but little material, with whom neither habit the attachment injured his physical well-being; one of those privileged beings who knew how to come down to the level of circumstances, not by a start or caprice, but constantly, by an energetic nature, and by a firm will, an impenetrable breastplate of iron, which may be symbolized in these words – “What matters it?” His was one of those hearts which beat under the armor of the fifteenth century, and the traces of which cannot now be met with except in Spain.
Stein related his campaigns, his misadventures, his arrival at the convent, his love, and his marriage.
The duke listened with much interest; and the recital gave him a great desire to know Marisalada, the fisherman, and the cabin which Stein preferred to a palace. Thus, on the occasion of his first going out, he directed his walk, accompanied by his doctor, to the sea-coast. Spring had commenced, and the freshness of the breeze, the pure breath of the immense element, lent its charm to their pilgrimage. The fort of St. Cristobal appeared to be ornamented with a green crown, in honor of the noble personage in regard to whom it is presented for the first time. The flowers which covered the roof of the cabin, real garden of Semiramis, crowded against each other, were agitated by the zephyrs, and resembled timid young girls who have love whispered in their ears. The sea, beautiful and calm, wafted its waves just to the feet of the duke, as if they would bid him welcome. The lark careering through space sent forth his sweet and faint notes, until he was lost to sight. The duke, a little fatigued, seated himself on a piece of rock: he was poetic, and he silently enjoyed the magnificent spectacle. Suddenly was heard a voice, simple and melancholy. The duke, surprised, looked at Stein. The doctor sighed. The voice continued to be heard.
“Stein,” said the duke to him, “are these sirens on the waves or angels in the air?”
Stein, as his response, took his flute, and repeated the same melancholy strain. Then the duke saw approaching, half running, half leaping, a young woman, who stopped suddenly on perceiving him.
“This is my wife,” said Stein, “my Mariquita.”
“Who possesses,” said the duke with enthusiasm, “the most wonderful voice in the world. Señora, I have visited all the theatres of Europe, but never have enchanting accents excited me to this point of admiration.”
If the brown and lustrous skin of Marisalada could change to another color, the blush of pride and pleasure would have shown in her cheeks, when she heard these exalted praises from the lips of so eminent a person, and so competent a judge.
“You two,” continued the duke, “have all that you could require to make your way in the world; and you would remain hidden in obscurity, and forgotten! This must not be. Will you not let society share in your brilliant qualities? I repeat, this cannot be, this must not be.”
“We are so happy here, duke,” replied Stein, “that if I make the least change in my situation I would believe myself an ingrate towards my destiny.”
“Stein,” exclaimed the duke, “where is that firm and calm courage which I admired in you when we were on the voyage together on board the ‘Royal Sovereign?’ What have you done with your love of science, the desire to consecrate yourself to suffering humanity? Have you allowed yourself to be enervated by your happiness? Can it be true that felicity renders a man selfish?”
Stein drooped his head.
“Señora,” continued the duke, “at your age, and with these happy gifts of nature, can you decide to remain forever attached to this rock, and to these ruins?”
Mariquita, whose heart beat under the influence of an ardent joy and a tempting hope, replied with, however, an apparent coldness —
“What will I gain by it?”
“And your father,” her husband asked of her; “do you believe he will give his consent?”
“He is a fisherman,” replied the Gaviota, feigning not to understand the true sense of the question.
The duke then entered into a long explanation of all the advantages which might arise for her distinction and a fortune.