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As soon as the chaplain and the young master were able to confer in private, Don Pedro asked, without looking Julián in the face:

“And... her? Is she still about the place? I did not see her when we arrived.”

As Julián knitted his brows, he added:

“She is, she is... Before arriving, I would have wagered a hundred pesos that you had found no way of shaking her off.”

“Sir, in truth...” stammered Julián, considerably distressed. “I hardly know what to say... It has been an affair that became more and more entangled... Primitivo swore to me by all that is sacred that the girl was going to marry the piper of Naya...”

“I know who he is,” said Don Pedro between his teeth, his brow darkening.

“Well, I... as was natural enough, believed it. Furthermore, I had occasion to convince myself that the piper and Sabel... indeed... are intimate.”

“Have you found out all that?” enquired the Marquis ironically.

“Sir, I... Although I am not much suited to such matters, I wished to inform myself so as not to play the simpleton... I made enquiries here and there, and everyone agrees that they are courting with a view to marriage; even Don Eugenio, the Abbot of Naya, told me that the young fellow had asked for his certificates. And indeed, under the pretext of some hitch or complication in those blessed papers, the ceremony has not taken place yet.”

Don Pedro remained silent, and at last burst out:

“You are a saint. They could never have come to me with such tales.”

“Sir, the truth is that if they meant to deceive me... I say they are the greatest rogues alive. And as for Sabel, if she is not dying of love for the piper, she feigns it to a miracle. Two weeks ago, she went to Don Eugenio’s house, fell on her knees in tears, and begged him for God’s sake to hasten the wedding arrangements, for that day would be the happiest of her life. Don Eugenio told me so himself, and Don Eugenio never says one thing for another.”

“Wench! Arch-rascal!” stammered the young master in a fury, pacing the room with rapid strides.

He calmed down soon enough, however, and added:

“None of that surprises me, nor do I say that Don Eugenio is lying; but... you... you are a simpleton, a poor innocent, because it is not a question of Sabel here, do you understand? It is a question of her father, of her father! And her father has taken you in like a child, plain and simple. That... that woman, I well know she is itching to be off; but Primitivo is the very man to murder her before he lets such a thing happen.”

“Indeed, I too was beginning to suspect as much... Believe me, I was beginning to suspect it.”

The young master shrugged his shoulders with disdain and exclaimed:

“A fine time to think of it!... Leave this business to me now... And as for the rest... how goes it, how goes it?”

“Very quiet... like lambs... They have not opposed me openly in anything.”

“No, but behind your back they will have done whatever took their fancy... Look here, Don Julián, sometimes I feel like feeding you pap with a spoon. Just like a squab.”

Julián replied, looking thoroughly crestfallen:

“Sir, you hit the mark squarely. There is no way of obtaining anything here if Primitivo is against it. You were right when you assured me of it last year. And for some time past, they seem to hold him in still greater respect, not to say greater dread. Ever since the revolution broke out and political affairs grew troubled, with fresh, startling news arriving every day, I believe Primitivo has been dabbling in those intrigues, recruiting satellites across the countryside... Don Eugenio assured me of it, adding that even before this he had many folk in his pocket by lending money at usurious interest.”

Don Pedro preserved silence. At length he raised his head and said:

“Do you remember the donkey we had to fetch from Cebre for my wife?”

“How could I forget it!”

“Well, the judge’s lady... have a laugh now, man... the judge’s lady agreed to lend it to me only because Primitivo came with me. Otherwise...”

Julián offered no reflection on an incident that caused the Marquis such indignation. As their conference concluded, Don Pedro laid a hand on his shoulder.

“And why do you not congratulate me, you heedless man?” he exclaimed, with the very same radiance that had shone in his eyes at Cebre.

Julián failed to understand. The young master explained himself, drooling with delight. Yes, sir, by October, the season of chestnuts... the world was expecting a Moscoso, an authentic and legitimate Moscoso... and handsome as a sun into the bargain!

“And could it not also be a little Moscosa?” asked Julián after repeated congratulations.

“Impossible!” cried the Marquis with all his might. And as the chaplain began to laugh, he added: “Do not say such things even in jest, Don Julián... Not even in jest. It must be a boy, for if not, I will wring the neck of whatever comes. I have already warned Nucha to take good care not to bring me anything other than a male. I am capable of breaking her ribs if she disobeys me. God would not play me so foul a trick. In my family there has always been male succession: Moscosos breed Moscosos, it is proverbial. Did you not observe it when you were swallowing the dust of the family archives? But you are capable of not even having noticed my wife’s condition, if I had not informed you of it just now.”

And it was the truth. Not only had he failed to notice it, but so natural a contingency had never even crossed his mind. The veneration he felt for Nucha, which grew with every day’s acquaintance, barred the way to the thought that the same physiological accidents might befall her as befell all other women in the world. This ingenuous childishness was justified by Nucha’s appearance. The total innocence painted in her dreamy eyes, seemingly lost in contemplation of an inner world, had not diminished with marriage; her cheeks, slightly more rounded, still flushed with the carmine of modesty at the slightest cause. If any change could be observed, any revealing sign of the passage from virgin to wife, it was perhaps an increase in modesty—a modesty, so to speak, more conscious and confident in itself, an instinct elevated into a virtue. Julián never tired of admiring Nucha’s noble gravity whenever a daring pleasantry or an improper word met her ears; that natural dignity which wrapped her round like a garment, an impalpable shield protecting her even against the boldness of thought; the graciousness with which she acknowledged the slightest courtesy, repaying it with composed but sincere phrases; the serenity of her whole being, like the peaceful close of an exquisite evening. It seemed to Julián that Nucha was neither more nor less than the ideal type of the biblical Bride, the poetic embodiment of the Virtuous Woman, while the halo of candour still lingered upon her brow, though already her future fortitude and majesty could be foretold. In the fullness of time, that grace would turn to dignity, and dark tresses would yield to silver threads without sin ever stamping a stain or remorse tracing a wrinkle on that pure brow. What a mellow autumn such a gentle spring promised! Reflecting upon this, Julián once more congratulated himself on the part he had played in the young master’s fortunate choice.

With disinterested satisfaction, he told himself that he had succeeded in contributing to the establishment of something exceedingly pleasing to God and indispensable to the orderly course of society: Christian marriage, that blessed bond by means of which the Church, with admirable wisdom, attends simultaneously to spiritual and material ends, sanctifying the latter through the former. “The nature of so holy an institution,” Julián reasoned, “is opposed to shameless extremes and transports, to foolish romantic indulgences and the hoarse, ardent cooing of turtledoves”; wherefore whenever the husband lapsed into familiarities more overbearing than tender, it seemed to the chaplain that the wife suffered acutely, wounded in her candid modesty, in her decent composure; he imagined that her drooping eyelids, her blushes, her silence, were a mute protest against liberties unsuited to honest conjugal intercourse. If such things occurred before him—at table, for instance—Julián turned away his face, pretending to be distracted, or raised his glass to drink, or made as if to attend to the dogs that were snuffing about.

Then a scruple would assail him, one of those scruples that break from sheer subtlety. However perfect a wife Nucha might make, her disposition and virtues called her to another estate more meritorious still, one more akin to that of the angels, wherein woman preserves her virginal purity as a priceless treasure. Julián knew through his mother that Nucha had at times displayed an inclination toward the monastic life, and he fell into the fancy of lamenting that she had not entered a convent. Good as Nucha was for the wife of a man, she would have been better still as a bride of Christ; and chaste espousals would have left the flower of her bodily innocence untouched, sheltering her forever from the tribulations and struggles that are never lacking in the world.

This thought of struggles reminded him of Sabel. Who could doubt that her presence in the house was already a menace to the peace of mind of the lawful wife? Julián did not foresee immediate dangers, but he had a presentiment of something threatening for the future. That horrible, unlawful family, rooted in the ancient ancestral mansion like pellitory and ivy in crumbling walls! At times the chaplain felt a sudden impulse to seize a broom and sweep hard, very hard, until that evil brood was driven out. But when he was most determined to do so, he came up against the selfish tranquility of the young master and the passive, unyielding resistance of the majordomo. Furthermore, something occurred that increased the difficulty of the sweeping: the cook sent from Santiago began to turn sulky, complaining that she did not understand the hearth, that the wood would not burn properly, of the smoke, of everything; Sabel, very obliging, came to her assistance; and within a few days the cook, weary of village life, took her leave with bad grace, and Sabel remained in her place, without any other formality for the replacement than grasping the handle of the frying pan when the other let it go. Julián did not even have time to protest against this change of ministry and return to the old regime. To be sure, the spurious family showed itself at that time incomparably humble: Primitivo was nowhere to be found unless summoned when needed; Sabel vanished as soon as she had put the dinner on the fire and entrusted it to the care of the scullery maids; the urchin seemed to have evaporated into thin air.

And yet, the chaplain was constantly in fear and trembling. What if Nucha should find out! And who could doubt that she would find out at the least expected moment? Unfortunately, the new bride showed an extraordinary fondness for roaming the house, inspecting everything, and exploring the most recondite and out-of-the-way corners—such as garrets, wine cellars, the press-room, the dovecote, the granaries, the store-loft, kennels, pigsties, the hen-roost, stables, and haylofts. Julián’s heart was in his mouth, trembling lest in some of these outbuildings Nucha should receive point-blank, by some unforeseen accident, the hideous revelation. And yet, how could one oppose the beneficial prowling of a thrifty housewife through her domains? It seemed that with the young mistress joy, cleanliness, and order entered every corner of the Pazos, greeted by the swift dancing of dust whirled up by the brooms and the vibration of sunbeams striking into dark nooks and hovels where dense cobwebs had barred them from entering for years past.

Julián accompanied Nucha on her explorations to keep watch and avert, if possible, any unfortunate mishap. And indeed, his presence proved useful when Nucha discovered a certain unfledged chick in the hen-roost. The incident deserves to be told at leisure.

Nucha had observed that in that blessed house the hens never laid, or if they did, the eggs were never seen. Don Pedro asserted that a good many bushels of rye and millet were consumed every year in the poultry-yard; and yet the wretched hens produced nothing at all. As for cackling, they cackled fit to split their throats, an evident sign that they were about to lay; one heard the triumphant hymn of the laying hens together with the soft clucking of the brooders; one went to inspect the nest, felt the gentle warmth in it, saw the pressed straw retaining the shape of the egg... And nothing; not enough could be collected for a miserable omelette. Nucha kept a sharp lookout. One day, hurrying more promptly to the tell-tale cackling, she caught sight of an urchin of a few years crouching in the depths of the hen-roost, hiding like a little mouse. Only his bare feet protruded from the straw of the nest. Nucha pulled him by them, and out came his body, and after his body his hands, which already held the dish the housewife desired, for the eggs the boy had just concealed had broken in his haste, and the omelette was half made, or at least beaten.