El Tesoro de Gastón: Novela 📖💎

¡Bienvenidos a otro fascinante relato! 📚 El Tesoro de Gastón: Novela, escrita por la aclamada condesa de Emilia Pardo Bazán, nos lleva a través de una trama llena de misterio, romance y emociones. En esta historia, el joven Gastón busca desentrañar los secretos de un tesoro perdido, mientras enfrenta situaciones que desafían su carácter y su destino. 😲💫 ¿Será capaz de descubrir el tesoro oculto o perderá todo lo que le importa? 🏰

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📖 Título: El Tesoro de Gastón: Novela
📚 Autor: Condesa de Emilia Pardo Bazán
💎 Género: Novela, Misterio, Romance
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Gaston’s Treasure, a captivating novel written by Countess Emilia Pardo Bazán, transports us to the world of the Spanish aristocracy, where love, greed, and family secrets intertwine. Through her complex characters and intriguing situations, the author invites us to reflect on the values ​​and decisions that shape each individual’s destiny. Join us on this literary journey filled with emotions and unexpected twists. Chapter 1. Arrival. When he got off at the Gare du Nord, exhausted despite having spent the night in a wagon lit, Gaston de Landrey called a porter, as the most bourgeois of travelers might do, and entrusted him with his carry-on bag, his case, his blankets, and his luggage receipt. What could he do, this time he didn’t have a valet! Another considerable mortification was having to climb into a cab, giving him the address: 20 Ferraz… Always, on his return from Paris, his own fine little carriage had been waiting for him, gleaming with cleanliness, in which he would lean back without speaking a word, for the coachman already knew that at that hour the young gentleman could only go home to wash, have breakfast, and stay in bed until at least six in the evening… In short, what a remedy! One must take the weather as it comes, and the weather was proving very calamitous for Gaston. While the cab, with an unpleasant rattling of glass, made its short run, Gaston thought of a thousand things, neither pleasant nor joyful. Physical fatigue struggled with anxiety and worry, mitigating them. Only after taking refuge in his pretty garçonnière, Only after he had soaked the enormous Syrian sponge on his back, changed his underwear, and sipped the pair of boiled eggs and the cup of Russian tea presented to him by Thelma, his only current servant, an excellent woman who had known him well; only at that moment, usually so pleasant, of stretching out between white sheets after a long journey, did Gaston decide to look the present and the future in the face. He stirred in his bed and turned around impatiently, for he could see a dark, closed horizon, gray as a rainy day. He was ruined, indeed; but he could hardly understand the cause of the disaster. That he had spent a lot was true; that since his mother’s death he had led a bustling, careless, and splendid life, there was no denying it either. However, when calculating , a task Gaston did not usually dedicate himself to, such complete ruin was not justified by what he had spent up to that point. The wealth of the Landrey household, almost doubled by the wise economy and firm administration of that incomparable mother, provided material for much more. Six years! To dissolve in six years, like salt in water, a wealth that yielded from fifteen to seventeen thousand duros! Gaston’s memory, clear and decisive, were his mother’s words, spoken at a conference that took place about two months before the misfortune. “Tonín,” the lady had said affectionately, “I’m quite ill; don’t be alarmed, don’t be distressed, my dear, for we all have to die someday, and what matters is that it be very well with God; the rest… will all be sorted out!” I’m sorry to leave you an orphan in the minority, but you’ll soon come of age, and as soon as you’re settling into your own affairs, remember two things, son… That there’s neither a little that isn’t enough nor much that isn’t spent, and… that we shouldn’t be rich… only… to indulge our whims, forgetting the poor and our souls! The income has increased… thanks to the fact that I haven’t entrusted to anyone what I could have done myself… and that I’m a woman, an ignoramus, an unhappy one! You, who are a man, and who receive double your capital, can increase it, without neglecting… that there are duties, especially for a gentleman!… and that our fortune is given to us in trust, so that we may administer it honestly!… Isn’t it true, Tonín, that you’re going to think about what I’ve told you… so… so that we’re not… together? Give me a kiss… Oh!… Careful, the wound is around there! And Gaston suddenly felt his eyes moisten, remembering that his mother’s “ouch!” had betrayed, for the first time, the horrible A carefully concealed illness, the zaratán in the breast. Shortly afterward, she was operated on, and soon succumbed to a violent hemorrhage… and Gaston saw his mother so pale, lying in the open coffin, and he remembered days of weeping, of being unable to accustom himself to being an orphan, to absolute solitude… Then, with the mobility of youthful years, came consolation, and with adulthood, the joy of seeing himself master of his shares and his estate, free, young, opulent! Turning suddenly in bed, as if the mattress were covered with thorns, Gaston ruminated again on the surprise of having so quickly awakened to the inheritance of his ancestors. “It’s not humanly possible!” he calculated. “I can’t believe it ! Let’s see; I’m not a vicious person; I only gambled for fun.” I have not had any of those enthusiasms for paid women, on which millions are consumed without realizing it. What did I do, in short ? Live in luxury; spend long periods abroad, especially in delightful Paris; eat and smoke luxuriously; amuse myself like the young man I am; pay without haggling good coachmen and thoroughbred horses, tailor’s and upholsterer’s bills, jeweler’s and shirtmaker’s bills, hotel bills, restaurant bills… All this, even if it were charged in the seventies, would not absorb even a third of my fortune… oh, don’t deny that to me. Even if barefoot monks preach it to me! It happens to me like a person who has left a sum of money in a drawer, and doesn’t know how much, but upon opening the drawer again, he notices that it makes less room, and says: “Freaky… ”
Here Gaston sighed, hugged the pillow seeking coolness for his cheeks, and thought he glimpsed, as if filtering through the closed wood of the windows, a ray of light. “The fact is that I was very prudent. No one can accuse me of being improvident. To whom better could I have entrusted my business, and the management and administration of my property, than Don Jerónimo Uñasín? Such an experienced old man, with such a reputation for seriousness and honesty in business dealings; and also with a charming disposition; I never asked him for money urgently, that he didn’t send me by return mail without any objection… What Don Jerónimo has no excuse for is not having warned me that my expenses were excessive; that at that rate I’d be as good as the rooster of Morón… Upon reflecting so sensibly, for the first time the incautious youth felt something that might be called the bite of suspicion and the sting of resentment. He recalled Don Jerónimo’s face and fancied he saw features of the Hebrew type: the aquiline nose, like a prey, the voracious mouth, the cautious and avid eyes… His mother’s words echoed again in his forgetful heart: “I haven’t trusted anyone with what I could have done myself…” At last he fell asleep. At six o’clock, obeying orders, Telma came to awaken him from a troubled sleep, filled with nightmares; he hurriedly got ready , and at a quarter to seven he was conferring with Don Jerónimo. The interview lasted more than an hour, from which Gastón emerged with his blood burning with anger and his spirit impregnated with bitterness. The bandage had suddenly broken, and Gastón saw—and how time had come!—that that scoundrel of a general attorney was the true author of his ruin. To questions, rebukes, and complaints, Don Jerónimo had only responded with a hypocritical and saccharine little smile, which made someone smack him in the face with a fistful. “What did you want me to do?” the soap opera hissed. “ Weren’t you constantly asking for more and more funds? Weren’t you of legal age, the owner of your shares, and aware of the amount of your income? You, from Paris, had a draft after another, and Jerónimo Uñasín had to leave you feeling fine, and have to search for and unearth the sums even in the depths of hell… You truly thank me for the trouble I’ve been through, the embarrassment, the shame, yes, sir!” What a shame and a great shame it is, at my age, to go around soliciting moneylenders and putting up with insults! I did it all because you were the son of the Landrey family, who valued me so much… Now I know that I was too foolish, that I should have closed myself off to them. the band and answer you when you asked me for monies: “Another size, sir…” ” But you saw very well that I was becoming poor,” exclaimed Gaston with barely suppressed indignation, “and you ought, as a person of more experience, to advise me, to call my attention, to warn me… I gave you unlimited power… I had placed my trust in you. ” “Yes, yes, warn! A fine reception awaited me! I know what young men are like when their whims are thwarted… And besides, Don Gastoncito, who told me that by throwing the house out the window like that, you weren’t preparing for a grand wedding? There are young ladies in Paris from the American colony who beat the gold to the curb… We must respect the freedom of each person very, very much!” and I would regret all my life if, because of me, you were to lose the brilliant position you deserve… “God keep me by your side,” thought Gaston upon hearing this new insolence, and realizing that his anger was rising to his head, and his hands were clenching with eagerness to slap the Jew. At last, with a violent effort upon himself, laboriously rolling his tongue in his dry, bile-filled mouth, he said: “Well, let’s cut short these arguments, which lead nowhere; get to the point… Do I have anything left, enough to eat?” Don Jeronimo hesitated for a moment, and affected a fit of coughing, noisy and asthmatic, before replying, feigning fatigue: “Look here, what’s that… until… boom! until… I… recognize… and liquidate… boom!… the credits… and proceed… with the sale of… the mortgaged properties… it’s impossible to say if the… boom!” liabilities… exceed the assets… We may have a deficit… but boom! eh… eh… it won’t be very large… “So,” asked Gaston, his lips trembling, “it might still happen that after selling everything… I’ll owe money? ” “Eh, eh… I reckon it’s a trifle…” Gaston would hear no more. Taking his hat, he said goodbye with a gruff remark, and left the nest of the bird of prey whose beak and talons he was too late to see. At the reception, while he was gathering his hat and walking stick, he could not help noticing, with painful and sterile lucidity, details that surprised him: a superb carved hall piece of furniture, a rich antique tapestry, a new carpet as thick as lamb’s fleece, a portrait from the Pantoja school, a lamp in very good taste. It looked like the entrance to a stately home, and when he remembered that Don Jerónimo had once honored himself with a corduroy rug and Vitoria chairs, Gastón called himself a fool, but he restrained himself from beating up the furniture and the owner in particular… He returned to his home on foot, devouring his grief, trying to overcome it, but without success. Telma, solicitous, had prepared a meal of his favorite dishes; but Magdalena was in no mood for taffetas, nor was Gastón in a position to properly appreciate the merit of the artichoke puree, the pyramid of prawns, and the lamb ribs delicately coated in béchamel sauce. “My child, I must get used to lentils and dry bread,” he responded with a humorous display when the old maid, carrying away the platter, anxiously asked if he had already ” lost his hand.” And the faithful servant, before crossing the door, fixed her master with a canine and intelligent look, a look that spoke of pity… Dressed in his tails, after eating, Gaston spent the night trying to see two or three people from whom he hoped for advice and help. He found none at home, and it would be a rare case for the opposite to happen in Madrid, where the night is devoted to circles, theaters, and societies. Exhausted, tired of wandering around the rental, he retired at twelve-thirty. A great desolation, a deadly pessimism overwhelmed him, putting him within a whisker of furious despair. No doubt the next day it would be easy for him to find his night-owl friends at home, friendly and smiling; but what would he get from them? At most… kind words… Not Daroca, the stockbroker; nor the brand-new Marquis of Casa Planell, the very rich banker; nor Díaz Carpio, the current Undersecretary of the Treasury; much less the gummy Carlitos Lanzafuerte, were going to open the purse and place it at the disposal of the _thundered_!… Such an ugly name did Gaston give himself. As Telma left the usual drink, the glass of sugared water with drops of cognac and lemon, on the nightstand , while Gaston, inert, lay on the midday, waiting for the maid to leave so he could begin to undress, she said, not without a certain timidity, the suspicion of servants who see their masters very sad: “Young master… the day before yesterday the Lady Commander sent to ask for you . Don’t you know? Your aunt, the one from the convent… Asked if you had already returned from France… and that she wanted to see you… That when you came, for God’s sake, you should go, without any delay… ” “Good, good!” he answered impatiently. So he turned off the candle and lay down on the bed. The archaic figure of the Comendadora rose in the darkness. Gaston, abandoned by everyone, was driven by an instinct to seek comfort and solace, to long for communication with someone who truly pitied and loved him. And his great-aunt, the Comendadora, was the only close relative he had in the world. Chapter 2. The Comendadora. Since his melancholy thoughts wouldn’t let him sleep, Gaston got up early, dressed diligently, and, democratically boarding the streetcar, allowed himself to be taken very close to the convent of the Comendadoras, which rises somberly, dominated by its vast church, on one of the loneliest streets in old Madrid. The Comendadoras have no iron gate. Hand in hand, like secular ladies—and noble ones at that—they receive their visitors in a low, spacious, matted, whitewashed parlor, whose walls are adorned with religious paintings soaked in bitumen, and furnished with straw sofas with lyre backs and nailed braziers—a parlor from the beginning of the century. Pacing feverishly, Gaston waited for his aunt. The concierge had told him that Doña Catalina—that was the Comendadora’s name—was in the choir stall and would be in about twenty minutes. “I’m in no hurry, thank you,” replied the young man; but, alone now, he paced the parlor with quick steps. From the moment he got up and went out into the street, he had been struggling with the idea that all this talk of his ruin was a bad dream. A house so old, as solid as Landrey’s, to fall to the ground because of the schemes of a cursed usurer! No; it couldn’t be that he, Gaston de Landrey, with his own hands accustomed to wearing gloves, with his own head accustomed to the essences and the barber’s washbasins, had to work and think like the rest of us mortals in order to earn his daily bread… Life would go on, swift and dissipated; the only possible life, _life_ in the Parisian sense of the word. At this thought, a wave of hope flooded Gaston, hope that came from he knew not where, perhaps from the tranquility of the parlor, from the aristocratic silence of the convent, where all things ought to be immutable . Just as he was deepest in his dreams, the side door, a thick oak leaf, opened, and the Commandery appeared in the opening, motionless and silent, the same Doña Catalina de Landrey y Castro, with her black veil, her white scapular, and the red heraldic cross on her breast. Rushing forward, Gaston ran to embrace his aunt, to support her, to carry her on his arms to the low chair near the railing that overlooked the street, the place where they used to converse in the past; but the old woman murmured pleadingly: “To the garden… to the garden… it’s sunny there… we won’t be cold there! ” Gaston didn’t feel the slightest bit of cold in the parlor: it was the month of May and the temperature was mild and the morning was radiant. Nevertheless, he nodded with a smile and tried to take the old woman by the waist. “No, I’ll go first!” she exclaimed. Slowly, gliding like a shadow, she preceded Gaston through two or three corridors and anterooms, until she reached a worm-eaten door whose latch she lifted. As she stepped onto the threshold of the garden, Gaston stopped, dazzled. The garden was not very large: it served as the courtyard of the convent, and in its In the center, for all its adornment, was a well with a curb, the humble well of Castile. Four symmetrical squares, cut in a circular shape to leave room for the well and space to draw water, formed the simple layout of the monastic garden. Except that these flowerbeds, to the absolute exclusion of all other flowers or plants, were literally carpeted with flowering lily vines. It was a thicket of lilies. And beneath the golden sheet generously spread by the sun, the snowy whiteness of the flowers, their dense abundance, their slenderness, their elegant, chaste, and mystical form, flattered the eyes and sweetly intoxicated the heart. It was a Marian garden, cultivated solely for love of the Virgin, so that her altar could be covered with symbolic bouquets, in the graceful cult called the May flowers; or rather, it was another altar that sprouted from the dry, bare earth, by virtue of the continuous irrigation of pious hands, in love with Mary. In one corner of the garden, the shade was still shining, and the Commander sat leisurely on a brick bench, inviting her nephew to follow her example. The light that bathed the garden fell upon Doña Catalina’s face, revealing the labors of the years; we won’t describe the damage, because amidst its age, beneath the severe contours of the headdress, that face still bore traces of past beauty, vestiges of something that must have been sculptural. The majestic features seemed modeled in that yellowish, cracked wax of old, very dry candles; the mouth was nothing more than a pale line, dilated by a mysterious smile; the graying eyebrows and eyelashes ominously shadowed the eyes, where an extraordinary life persisted, a kind of magnetism. She hammered them into Gaston with such force, such insistence, that for a moment the young man believed the Comendadora knew of his ruin, and he calculated to himself, somewhat impatiently: “What a sermon awaits me. Hold on.” Gaston remembered that, when he used to come to the convent as a child, he felt so sorry for his aunt the Comendadora. Always confined within those four walls, always wrapped in those austere cloths! Later, as a man and capable of understanding, he had learned Doña Catalina’s story , and his pity grew. Doña Catalina was the daughter of Don Martín de Landrey, one of the nobles who, in the struggle between the Spanish and the French for independence, infected with Voltaireanism and what they then called “new ideas,” embraced the side of the invader. It should be noted that the Landreys descended in a direct line from a Breton knight who came with Beltrán Duguesclin or Claquín to support Don Enrique de Trastamara, who married a Spanish woman, who refused to return to Brittany when she saw it incorporated into the French crown, and whom the fratricide esteemed and showered with favors, granting him properties and fiefs in Galicia, so similar to old Armorica, noted for its loyalty to Don Pedro, and in which it suited the bastard to establish his supporters. In a certain way, Don Martín de Landrey obeyed the atavism when he became French; but his relatives did not believe it so, nor did Doña Catalina, who was then a child, but who was aware of everything. Already weak and sickly, the grief of seeing her father, whom she adored, pointed at, scorned, and mistreated when the intruder finally left Spain was so overwhelming that she contracted a rare nervous ailment, convulsions followed by profound fainting spells. Her brother, Gaston’s grandfather, an ardent patriot and staunch Spaniard, had quarreled with Don Martin over a difference of opinion and was living in Madrid with an uncle, the Marquis of Lanzafuerte, a somewhat favorite of Ferdinand VII. Catherine shut herself away with her father in the dismantled castle of Landrey, to escape the ill-will and antipathy that the French movement aroused in Compostela, as well as at court. Father and daughter lived there for many years in sullen solitude, she always sick, he also ailing, and each day more misanthropic and saturated with bile, and when Don Martin’s last hour came, the daughter suffered the horrible pain of seeing her father die like a reprobate, refusing under a thousand pretexts all kinds of spiritual aid, and now, finally, threatening to seize the pistols he had at his bedside and make an example of him if a priest crossed the threshold! As soon as she had closed the eyes of the unfortunate man, Doña Catalina, instead of collapsing to the ground in one of her usual fits, appeared almost impassive; she watched over the body, attended to the burial, ordered masses, many masses, and spent nearly a month shut up in the deceased’s rooms, searching chests of drawers and closets, putting documents and papers in order. One night, the farmers and fishermen on the coast where Landrey Castle stands saw with surprise a great red glow, and if at first they thought it was a fire, they soon realized that it was a huge bonfire lit in the middle of the courtyard of honor. Before the bonfire stood Doña Catalina, in charge of the operation, while two servants brought books and manuscripts in baskets, tore the volumes to pieces, and threw them into the fire, stirring and feeding the flame with a supply of firewood and dry branches so that it would quickly devour the mess. Gastón had heard his mother say that the works of quite a few bitter-skinned Frenchmen were burned there, as well as many pieces of paper that proved Don Martín de Landrey’s close connections with Spanish Freemasonry, his affiliation with the sect, and the high rank he held within it… The burning lasted until dawn, and only when the dawn light whitened the battlements of the towers did Doña Catalina slowly withdraw, after making sure, by stirring the already dying fire with a stick, that only ashes remained. A few days after this event, Doña Catalina, leaving everything well arranged and having distributed substantial alms among the poor peasants and forgiven, on behalf of her legitimate inheritance, debts and arrears in rent payments, left for Madrid, where her brother Don Felipe de Landrey was claiming her. Doña Catalina had with her a little girl of about three years old, motherless, daughter of the steward, who was none other than Telma, Gaston’s current servant. In Madrid, they wanted to entertain and celebrate Catalina; besides her brother, she had an extensive family of cousins, for one of her great-grandfather’s sisters had married the Duke of Ambas Castillas, and another, the Duke of Lanzafuerte, both leaving numerous and handsome offspring, who later joined other very high-ranking families. Catalina pleaded strict mourning to avoid distractions or revels, and on the day that marked exactly one year since her father’s death, she announced her determined intention to join the Comendadoras. She was free and in control of her actions, and no one could oppose her desire, so clearly expressed. However, Don Felipe objected, citing the danger to her health; with that terrible nervous condition, those fainting spells and seizures, was it prudent, was it even Christian, to shut herself away in a convent? Doña Catalina replied that the Church had arranged things so well that there were convents for all states of health; that the Comendadoras did not lead a penitent life, but rather a secluded and regular one, and that she was certain she would endure the ordeal well. And indeed , not only did she endure it, but within the convent her weak and broken frame was tempered to the strength of steel. Balance was established, peace reigned in her once-struggling spirit, and little by little the sad face and cloudy eyes of Doña Catalina transformed into the beautiful countenance and serene pupils of the one everyone called the beautiful nun. “Since your Aunt Catalina took her vows, she revived,” his mother would tell Gaston. “The poor thing, it’s known, had offered this sacrifice for Don Martín’s sins. She did what she was duty-bound to do, and nothing is more beneficial to the soul and body.” Despite his mother’s affirmation, Gaston remembered that he had not ceased to pity his Aunt Catalina, to consider her a victim sacrificed to worries, a life cut short in its prime, a kind of a phantom condemned to disappear from the world. For him , given over to the disorder and excesses of the will , the rule of living constituted slavery, and any barrier was cruel tyranny. Nothing else, Doña Catalina made him feel sorry for her! And why, at that moment, at that virginal hour of the pure and radiant morning, in that peaceful monastic garden, where only the flight of an occasional bumblebee could be heard, where the lilies timidly opened their white satin chalices and silently poured their fragrant bottle, did Gaston, instead of pitying Doña Catalina, realize that he envied her? Yes, he couldn’t doubt it; he envied the Commander, as a sailor, from his skiff, which the waves creak and soon will swallow, envies the poor hermit who drinks from the peaceful fountain before prayer… It was beautiful to have lived without blemish; to have done what we believe to be good and just; to have borne witness to her faith before men, and to have reached almost ninety years of age with that mysterious smile, not that of the sphinx, but that of the saint who already glimpses heavenly blessedness… “We’ll be better off here,” the Commander said in a cracked voice, interrupting her nephew’s calendars. “It’s very important that no one hears us… no one!… At this hour, nuns don’t appear around here… What I’m going to tell you is only for you… do you understand? For you… you are the only son of my brother Felipe… and there are no more people in this world than you and I who directly bear the surname of Landrey… ” Gaston shuddered. He had just had the feeling that he was not going to hear from his aunt’s lips the obligatory sermon to the spendthrift nephew. She knew of Doña Catalina’s devotion to the family name, the only worldly weakness ever evident in the exemplary recluse, who had not ceased for a day to learn of the births, marriages, deaths, misfortunes, and prosperity of her nephews. It was unlikely that the Comendadora knew the state of Gaston’s estate, and consequently, what she was about to let out of her sunken, somber sibyl’s mouth, the announced revelation, could only refer to the past, to that “yesterday” of all families, more romantic in noble ones, where it is closely intertwined with history. Chapter 3. The Revelation. “How afraid I was of dying before you returned from that Paris!” exclaimed the old woman, tediously emphasizing the name of the French capital. “How I prayed to Saint Rita that she would spare me a few more days!” “But, Aunt, you’re fit to live a hundred years!” Gaston declared mockingly. Doña Catalina fixed her pitch-black eyes, the only thing that survived on her mummified countenance, on her nephew’s face, with an extraordinary , almost superhuman expression. “The lamp is running out of oil,” she said in a muffled voice, “but divine mercy has not allowed death to surprise me. I know for certain that the time is approaching… ” “Come on, Aunt, don’t be so apprehensive… You must bury me and ask to be admitted to heaven,” insisted the nephew. “Don’t tell anyone, my son,” continued the recluse, ignoring him. “I will only reveal you and the confessor!… As I see you … I have seen… I have seen Don Martín de Landrey, your great-grandfather… my father! ” Gaston shuddered. In that embalmed garden, amidst the vital effluvia shed by the sun as it rose to its zenith, he felt the cold breath of the beyond pass by, a breath from the other world. “If you could see how bad his color was!” continued Doña Catalina, shivering as if the fresh May lilies were snowflakes. “Just as when I placed him in the coffin… And such a suffering face!… Holy Virgin, Mother of the afflicted, forgiveness for him… and for all sinners!” The Commander’s burdened head fell onto her chest, and Gaston, affectionately, could only murmur: “Aunt… could it have been… a fantasy of yours?… There are times like that… when we go crazy!” “No! It was him in person… I could have recognized him! I could have mistaken him!” with any noise her voice, which she said to me… in such a sad tone… as if the words were coming out of the wall!… “Catalina… I’ll wait for you… see you later, Catalina!” She paused, and Gaston saw the lady’s arid eyes moisten slightly, as she moved her lips, praying to herself, without articulating. Gaston, still shaken by the journey and the recent painful impressions, felt a dizziness that he attributed to the strong scent of the flowers, more aromatic the hotter the sun was. Gaston did not want to admit that, despite himself, he was impressed by the Comendadora’s words. Suddenly Doña Catalina straightened up, now calm and apparently forgetting her fears. “It is natural to die, my son,” she declared serenely. “Others were young and they left first. That is truly frightening. There is no other Landrey now but you.” The earth calls me, after eighty-eight years and five months in the world. You are now beginning your journey… How much you resemble your grandfather, poor Felipe!… How right you were to come so quickly!… “As soon as Telma told me. I arrived in Madrid just yesterday… You see, not even twenty-four hours… ” Something that resembled a smile and was more of a funereal grimace animated the Commander’s withered face. “Come closer, my dear child… I can hardly speak anymore; I can’t exert myself… If I stop, don’t be alarmed… I’m short of breath… I’m very old… Besides, I’m cold… Look, look… I’m frozen. ” The Commander’s icy right hand fell on Gaston’s, who felt the urge to withdraw it, but restrained himself. He seemed to feel the touch of a corpse: so inert and dry at the same time was that hand that must have been beautiful and that still retained the proportions and the delicate design of a patrician hand. “Are you a good Christian?” Doña Catalina asked suddenly. “Well, I don’t know; a Christian, yes,” Gaston replied, not without surprise. “The thing is, if you are… one of those… who only believe in matter… then… even if your name is Landrey… I… have nothing to say to you!” “Do you firmly believe in God, who forgives us… who has redeemed us? Do you believe, or don’t you believe? Don’t lie… A Landrey doesn’t lie… that would be too shameful! It would be worthy of a villain! ” “I believe in God,” Gaston murmured, smiling at what he thought was a childish interrogation. “And in the Virgin? ” “And in the Virgin,” the young man affirmed with involuntary warmth, more moved than he appeared. Doña Catalina folded her hands as if transported by joy. Then, without further ado, she exclaimed, fixing her lively eyes on Gaston: “Have you ever been to our castle of Landrey, near Puebla de Beirana? ” “Never, dear aunt,” declared Gaston, disoriented and somewhat confused. “And yet I was always curious. It must be a beautiful antique… I mean, with character… precisely that, an antique. But you know how it goes: plans are made, the trip is fantasized about… and today for this and tomorrow for that… everything remains a project, and days, and months, and years go by… Nothing, I haven’t seen Landrey. ” “Badly done… Your father and grandfather did the same… I didn’t approve of it! That’s our homestead, the place where our name is respected , the place where we were like kings! The lords of Landrey! That was saying something!” The one who founded the castle and the manors—by the way, his name was like yours, Gaston de Landrey—was one of those who came to help Don Enrique… My father told me this a thousand times, and he was certainly a very studious man… Study is a good thing as long as it doesn’t separate us from God!… Why did I say this?… Ah! Yes, yes… That Landrey or Landroi was already a very noble knight… his grandparents had been on the Crusades with Saint Louis… The point is to be great in heaven… but anyway, those who have been there for centuries… The Commandery stopped, no doubt tired, and Gaston, who remained silent out of respect, began to believe that he was wasting his time pitifully. “The poor thing is already senile,” he thought, “and the saint is going to heaven… Incoherences, hallucination… Nearly ninety years old and the cloister!” He will want me to restore Landrey and gather troops there and raise the banner and cauldron… And how noble pride reveals its weakness, in conflict with Christian humility! If only he knew that the last Landrey was going to lack the most essential things! “My brother,” continued the Commander, “could have been a titular, and he preferred to be Landrey plain and simple… There are new counts and dukes, but the Landreys are all old… Ah! Now I remember, now I know… We were talking about the castle. I say, no; we were talking about your great-grandfather, my father… may God forgive him!” and Doña Catalina’s voice broke into a sob. “The poor thing!… this happened the night before he died… because he died in Landrey, in the room with the vine, which has one painted in tempera… Well, he called me… like that, in a loud voice… “Catalina!” “Here I am.” “Can you hear me well?” “Yes, sir, say what you want.” “Come closer, little saint… ” she called me _little saint_ out of affection and as a joke. “As soon as I die, you will search my papers… and burn what needs to be burned…” “Don’t be afraid…” “But be careful!… In the shell cabinet, there are some letters… burn them without reading them!” “Whatever you command, sir…” “There is also in the same cabinet… listen! a silver box, with a spring… and inside two folded and rolled papers… in my handwriting… You will read those… and keep them… and use them to find the treasure!” “The treasure!” repeated Gaston, fascinated by the magic word his aunt had just pronounced. “That’s what she said: ‘the treasure…'” And I remember well that she took my hand and squeezed it very, very hard, and added… you will see! “It’s yours alone… it’s your dowry… I forbid you to give Felipe anything… not one maravedi! Not Felipe… He’s my enemy: he’s treated me like a dog… I know he’s called me a traitor… He thinks I’m a renegade, a plague victim, and cursed… You here, shut up within these walls with me in the prime of your life… To each his own… Felipe, the heir apparent, takes almost everything… You have a small legitimate inheritance… You’re richer than he is! The treasure’s yours !” The Comendadora fell silent again, exhausted by her exertions, but her eyes sparkled. Gaston didn’t know what was happening to him: the scent of the lilies pierced his temples like a nail, and his heart beat with hope: at that moment he thought the nun was very much alive. The latter, with a pained tone, spoke slowly: “She died the next day… ” “And the box?” the young man exclaimed in a daze. “Ah!… The box… It’s true, son, it’s true… No, don’t think I lost it… There it was, as he said, in the shell cabinet… next to the letters… which smelled of essences… and I burned them… How well they burned! Like tinder! ” “But… the little box… with its mysterious papers inside… ” “I picked it up… Of course!… Here it is… Wait… wait.” And with a movement that would seem comical to someone unable to appreciate what it represented in terms of dignity, modesty, and immaculate life, the Commander turned toward the wall, raised her scapular, and searched her breast with a hand that old age made unsteady… Gaston, anxious, concealed his impatience and curiosity. Turning her face to the lady, she presented her nephew with an oblong object, a small silver box somewhat larger than a snuffbox and finely chiseled in the Louis XV style; hunters in tricorn hats and damsels with hedgehog hair were stalking a deer among the foliage of a small wood. Gaston held out his hand eagerly, but Lady Catherine stopped him, smiling with an almost childish display of malice. “The spring… Otherwise, neither you nor ten like you can open it…” And, resting the nail of her dry thumb in a certain way on the hinge of the box, the lid slowly rose, and Gaston could see a yellowish paper rolled up in the gilded bottom. The nun almost laughed, joyful and triumphant. “Eh?” You see, there it is… I’ve had it for more than sixty years … It hasn’t left my side for a single day… “But, Aunt,” Gaston observed, frantically, and unable to contain himself, he was giving himself over to fervent illusions, “if you had this, why didn’t you look for the treasure? Or have you already looked for it? I don’t understand…” –No, no, I haven’t sought it… God didn’t want me to seek it… For things that… that I know… since my father passed away… I offered to become a nun… and for that I didn’t need great riches! My father had forbidden the treasure to belong to Philip… I could have given it to the poor… but… I don’t know if God will punish me for this… the truth is, I have a delirium about the family name… it’s a lack of humility, I know it. .. I wanted a Landrey to carry that treasure to him!… And taking hold of Gaston’s twitching hand again, he added in a low voice, almost in the lad’s ear: “You can make God forgive me for this weakness… You are a Christian, my son… Use the treasure, not as a pagan, but as a Christian… Riches are a trust… Do not abuse it, do not squander it, share it with the unfortunate… and remember also your soul… yours… mine … and above all, my poor father’s!… This last I do not charge you, I command you… do you hear? I command you with one foot in the grave… ” “I promise you to do as you wish,” declared Gaston, overcome, full of faith in the treasure. And taking the little box, he hastened to unroll the paper it contained, eager to read it. Before she could do so, she suddenly remembered and exclaimed: “Look, Aunt, you spoke of two papers… and here is just one .” An indescribable expression of thoughtful sorrow darkened Doña Catalina’s gaze . Her head began to tremble senilely and her hands clasped together, as if begging for mercy. “I, I destroyed the other one!” she moaned disconsolately. “You? Why? Did you destroy it on purpose? What was it? ” “It was the most valuable one… It was the map!” “The map!” repeated Gaston. “A map of the castle, no doubt?” “Of the castle and its surroundings… In blue ink, and marked with red dots… Done by himself… He had a brain, he knew everything!” –But how did you destroy that document… how was it?… –Because… You see!… In the world, I suffered from fainting spells… and anguish… as well as convulsions… When I shut myself in alone to burn those letters… the ones with the essences! While they were burning, I opened this silver box… I took out the papers… I looked at them… And lo and behold, suddenly I have an attack… I don’t want to knock, because no one should see the letters … I passed it there, without help… I fall next to the fire… the rolled-up plan rolls into the fireplace… and thank Our Lady, I didn’t burn… but the soles of my shoes were toasted ! Miraculously, I was saved. –And the other paper… not the plan… Let’s see what it says?- exclaimed Gaston, unable to repress his impatience. And unrolling the little piece of paper, he saw that it only contained these lines, written in very clear handwriting: “You will find what you seek, if guided by the North you follow the path of the ancients in danger of death. The old stones are the most precious, and he who humbles himself will exalt himself.” “Do you not know what this means?” asked the boy, who found the text, more than dark, black as a wolf’s mouth. “No, my son… With the map, it was surely understood… I did nothing, and now my head… You see… The years!… But in Landrey you will understand perfectly, you who are young and clever… Put that little box away, put it away!” and go, it’s almost noon, the visiting room is ending, and they’ll come to call me… And if you do what you promised me… God bless you!… Doña Catalina stretched out her skinny arms and took Gastón’s pretty chestnut-haired head, pressing her face close to the youthful white forehead of the last of her lineage. A deadly chill wound through the youth’s veins; he thought he’d just been kissed by a lipless ghost. Chapter 4. Little Worm. Gastón left the convent fluctuating between conviction and skepticism. His conviction was involuntary; but his disbelief, sustained by the pride he held in his desire to avoid being thought innocent, was not based solely on the enigmatic nature of the text on the paper and the destruction of the plan, but on the implausibility of anything existing. less than a treasure, buried in such a novelistic way, in such a romantic place, and arriving so close to saving the house of Landrey from ruin . Come on, it had to be a nonsense, a chimera born from the poor marrow of a dazed nun! Despite the box, which he clutched to his chest—and which he instinctively covered with both hands on the tram to protect it from some rat—Gaston feared being made a fool of himself if he gave absolute faith to the story. What most influences the fact that events seem _unreal_ to us is the comparison with an environment in which they do not fit. Gaston had come from Paris, saturated with that positive and prosaic atmosphere , with no other aspiration than the material enjoyment of the present moment, and the Comendadora, always with her eyes fixed on the past and the future, taking the earth as a transit, existing only to expiate her father’s sins and to evoke the memories of her race, was like a figure in a painting or a tapestry, something artistic, singular and interesting, no doubt, but as far removed from reality as the stone saints in the old porticos… “The madness is contagious,” the young man mused, “and if I’m with the good lady for one more hour, nothing! I’ll believe the treasure story wholeheartedly . ” Nevertheless, Gaston felt a certain fever, that slight fever that accompanies attacks of sudden, violent hope. He spent the day wandering around Madrid, unable to decide whether to see anyone, and went to bed early, like a man who has much to confer with himself. He soon fell into a deep sleep and dreamed strange things. He saw himself descending into a dark underground passage by a twisting spiral staircase. Ahead of him, leading the way, was a specter in a monastic habit, carrying in his fleshless hands—the hands of a skeleton—a lantern, the familiar dull lantern of novels and gruesome dramas. As the specter glided down the steps of the damp, slippery staircase, he made a fearful clanking noise, like bones clinking together, and the folds of the habit, as they clung to his body, formed fleshless planes and dull, round sticks. The light from the lantern, as it fell on the wall, revealed fungal growths, and filthy, frightened insects scurried about in search of dark corners. Down and down they went, never finding the end of that horrible staircase, which undoubtedly disappeared into the bowels of the planet, seeking its center. Gaston yearned with exhaustion, but the specter continued to descend ever faster , and they had to follow him into the very depths of hell. Far below, in the gloomy depths, Gaston saw a red dot, and as they descended, the dot grew larger, spread, and finally became the mouth of a gigantic furnace, in which burned—a terrifying spectacle!—a dummy in a coat and jacket, a puppet from the beginning of the century, writhing in the flames without being consumed… And the specter, standing before the furnace, sobbed: “Holy water! Holy water! Bring holy water, Gaston!” At this point in his sleep, the young man awoke. He felt a devouring thirst and reached out for the cup on the nightstand. As he was drinking eagerly, the door opened, Telma burst in like a pinwheel, flung open the windows to let in the daylight, and stood in front of the bed, exclaiming in a voice punctuated by tears: “Young master… Young master… The Lady Commander… ” “What… what’s happening? ” “Oh, young master!… They just brought the message! Tonight… ” “She’s dead, isn’t she?” asked the young man, who had received the news at that moment, without the slightest surprise, as if it had been a foregone conclusion. “Yes, sir… Oh, Jesus! My dear young lady, she was like my mother! A saint to my soul!” cried Telma, shedding abundant tears. “I’m going to the convent right now…” declared Gaston, as the maid left, choked with grief. And indeed, it did not take an hour for Doña Catalina’s nephew to set foot in the convent’s parlor again: only this time he was received by the abbess, a lady in her fifties, fat, affable, and of stately bearing, with worldly overtones, because before donning the noble habit, Doña Francisca de Borja Mascareñas y Quevedo had frequented salons more than churches, and much was said about her conversion, attributing it to rude disappointments, or as she said in her graceful and expressive language, to _slaps in the soul_. What the abbess told Gaston was what was to be expected about the neither unthinkable nor surprising case of the death of such an elderly nun: “Very old, very old, the poor thing was… We were already fearing what would happen, and every night that she retired, we would say: “Will Mother Catalina get up?” So a lay sister slept by her side, as a precaution, and thanks to this measure she did not lack help in her last moments. She was able to receive—and it was no small consolation for her and for all of us—the Viaticum and the Last Supper. Praise the Lord! She died peacefully… She was overjoyed to have seen you… She told me that yesterday afternoon. And do you know that for about two weeks now she’d been mulling over the fact that her last moment was approaching? It was a presentiment, no doubt… “But what did she die of?” Gaston asked anxiously. “Because she was so well yesterday, so talkative, so whole! ” “At that age! A natural death… a clock running out of wind! Nothing, a little asthma attack, which for a young person would be a matter of coughing and clearing her throat a little…” But she didn’t have the strength to clear her throat, and the slightest thing—gasp! A phlegm! is enough to choke an old man… We are nothing… a pittance!” When you turn your head like that… everything ends: joy, dreams, plans, likes and dislikes… It would be frightening if we thought about it. “Can’t I see her?” asked Gaston, feeling his chest constricted and his heart in his mouth. “She’s lying in state, in her bed, and the cells are confined… No, that’s not possible… And it’s a shame, because if you could see how natural she ‘s become! She even seems young… The funeral will be sung now, shortly , in the church, and they will lower the closed coffin: and this afternoon the body will be buried. Would you like to keep some memento of your aunt? I can give you the rosary she used, with the little medals… ” “Thank you a thousand times, madam,” replied Gaston, bowing. “I have a memento of Aunt Catherine, which she herself, foreseeing the misfortune, gave me yesterday.” And as the abbess looked at him with some curiosity, Gaston added simply: “A little silver snuff-box… But if you think I have no right to keep it, I am ready to return it. ” “Good heavens!” said the abbess courteously. “She has done divinely; may you enjoy it for a thousand years. She loved you very much, and you may well pray for it, although I piously believe that she is the one who ought to intercede for us.” “I hope that a year from now I’ll give you a solid silver Saint Catherine’s box as compensation for the snuff-box!” added Gaston. “If anything happens to you that you need to send me… This very afternoon I need to leave for an estate I have there in Galicia, in Puebla de Beirana… unless you need to give me any instructions relating to your aunt’s burial, in which case… ” “May Saint Catherine grant you a safe journey,” replied the abbess , smiling, while the young man respectfully kissed the sleeve of his habit. As he left the parlor, Gaston entered the church. Preparations for the funeral were just beginning, and in the center stood the tomb, dressed in black cloth bordered with braid of dull and tarnished gold. The altar boy was adjusting the axes in the large axes. Shortly after, the box, also covered in black cloth, was lowered, and the sacristan helped to place it on the catafalque. Four or six knights of the Order, summoned early, still awake, were taking their places in the pews of the nave. One of them, the Count of Sacrovalle, saw Gaston leaning against a pillar, and called him with his hand, offering him a place on the pew at the head of the table. The tall candles were lit, their yellow flames flickering brightly, and the altar was filled with priests in black robes, and in the choir the silhouettes of the nuns appeared, visible behind the thick wooden grating. The organ began to groan, accompanying the voices of the priests who clearly and earnestly intoned the prayers and grave invocations, so human in their terror, of the Office for the Dead. Gaston hid his face in his handkerchief. He felt as if fine, sharp teeth were sinking deep inside him, far beyond his heart, in a place that, because it was so hidden and sensitive, must be the apex of his conscience. Gaston could not attribute such an effect to the pain of having lost Doña Catalina: if it was true that he loved her, she occupied little space in his life; the Commendatrix left him no emptiness: her many years made her death something foreseen, something that drew no tears. No: what Gaston felt was an inner torment, a secret anger against himself , that dark sensation that slowly condenses to form the feeling of moral responsibility. It was our self-loathing , the censure—more severe than any other—that we place on our own actions; it was the inner judge who so often sleeps, but who, when he shakes off his drowsiness, searches our souls and condemns us without defense or appeal, because he has the proof, the evidence, in his hand… From the mourning coffin, Gaston thought a voice rose, asking: “Are you a Christian?” And that the judge, the rigid judge in a black cap, responded: “As if you were not… You have been one in name, but in deeds? When have you remembered God? When have you thought of your neighbor? On what and how have you squandered your wealth? Good food, indulgence, delights, idleness… And what else would you do if you were a pagan? Were you a Christian when, leaving a disorderly dinner on a cold night, you would not give alms because you could not unbutton your fur coat? Were you a Christian, or even a knight, when, for no good reason , at that lonely crossroads in the Bois de Boulogne, you split the head of your best friend open? Were you a Christian, or even a knight, when with your right hand you clasped the hand of the Duke of Argentan, while in your left you rustled a tiny note from his wife? Were you a Christian when?… The list was long, and Gaston continued with his handkerchief over his face, listening to the inflexible judge. “And you are still indignant because, taking advantage of your hours of worship to the idols, a scoundrel has stolen your purse! Considering how well you used it… And you will still be capable of digging up Landrey’s treasure, and giving it the same pass, the same dispatches as the estate your mother left you! Woe to you, if for such an object you discover this treasure!” Don’t I know that yesterday, when you dreamed of him, you were thinking of new joys, new madness?…–And here the invisible judge took on human form: it was Lady Catalina, the color of wax, with closed eyelids, a sharp nose, a lipless mouth, her hands on her bare bones, all of her of such a hideous and fearful appearance that Gaston removed his handkerchief and looked at the coffin with the eyes of a madman… Meanwhile, the sublime accents of the _Dies irae_ resounded, and the old Count of Sacrovalle said to the exhausted Marquis of Altocueto: “Do you know that I notice your nephew is very distressed? That boy has good feelings… ” That same night, on the mail train, Telma and Gaston left for the Northwest, heading for the castle of Landrey. Chapter 5. Landrey. Gaston and his faithful servant had to travel in three ways before setting foot in the castle: leaving the train, they took the coach that leads to Puebla de Beirana on a neglected provincial road , and before reaching the Puebla they hired two shaggy and worn-out horses with their equipment and baggage for the stretch of road that leads to “the towers.” At first, at that hour of twilight, Gaston could see nothing of his ancestral home but a formless mass, a cluster of picturesque buildings standing out against a background of a light green, rather than blue, sky highlighted to the west by a band of pale gold, almost white. Armed with a willow pole cut from a hedge, Gaston drove his his false mount, whose hooves pounded heavily on the stone pavement, now unseated and overgrown with weeds, which led to the high gate of the courtyard of honor, flanked by buckets or drums, and surmounted by a gallant shield with ivy plumes. The decoration he saw seemed grandiose to him. At the same time, feeling the rough pack of the nag hurt him, he remembered his fine Parisian ponies, now sold, and thought with melancholy that it would probably never be possible for him to ride the back of another animal as fine and as ardent as Digby, son of the famous Douglas I and the Arabian mare Zelmira, brought from Algiers by the colonel of spahis La Morlière… The old man, the civilized Epicurean, was now reborn, unwillingly. It also occurred to him that he was going to spend a miserable night, and several days and nights no more pleasant, because the castle must have been uninhabited after so many years. The steward, of whom Gastón only knew that his name was Don Cipriano Lourido, and that he was the mayor of the town, although he had not been notified of the master’s arrival, could at least offer him a bed. With this confidence, he pushed open the gate of unhewn logs that replaced the iron-walled door and entered the courtyard, calling aloud for someone. Telma, quickly dismounting, began to shout as well. The harsh barking of a dog was the only reply. The castle door was closed with stone and mud. Finally, a wrinkled face appeared at a barred window , and an old woman asked in a hostile tone: “Who’s there?” Telma, in dialect, responded, no less angrily: “It’s the master, the young master, the owner of this house, and if you don’t open it soon, you’ll see what happens to you. ” The witch disappeared, and for ten minutes nothing was heard; it was as if it were an enchanted castle. Then the baggage carrier, scratching his head mockingly, gave his opinion: “It would be advisable for the young master to go down and settle in Puebla, because Don Cipriano Lourido hadn’t lived in the castle for more than four years; it seems he had a very magnificent house in the plaza… There, in the castle, there were only a few caretakers, provided by Lourido himself… It was doubtful that they would open the door at such an hour.” “And why didn’t you tell me that when I got off the coach, you fool?” exclaimed Gaston. “Young master… because they didn’t ask me…!” replied the baggage carrier with great phlegm. The castellan of Landrey was about to fly into a rage when some creaking bolts were drawn, the door opened, and the landlord, suspicious and humble, appeared, muttering: “Good night, may God grant us…” By the light of a shabby kerosene lamp, Gaston climbed the stone stairs that led to an upper floor. They were vast rooms, parlors , more like salons, with peeling tempera paintings and the remains of furniture that must have been sumptuous but was falling to pieces, destroyed by neglect and damp. In some places, the ceiling was riddled with holes, and the dripping water had rotted the floor, whose worm-eaten planks gave way underfoot. Empty spaces where furniture had once stood could also be seen, as well as planks torn away, perhaps to feed the fire on a winter’s night. Telma, going through all the rooms while Gaston checked these details, returned terrified: there were no sheets, no tablecloths, no food, no firewood, there was nothing, nothing, and it was impossible to live there! “One night passes anyhow, woman, and tomorrow God will tell,” replied the servant, putting on a brave face. “We still have some meat from our journey, and there’s half a bottle of Swedish punch. I’ll sleep wrapped in my blankets, and you’ll manage in your shawls. Patience… ” “If I’m sorry, it’s for the young master,” replied the maid. “As for me… Oh, young master! This castle scares anyone. When I left here I was two years old; Doña Catalina, who loved me very much, took me with her, and then I stayed with Don Felipe, your grandfather , may he rest in peace… I don’t know how things were during Don Martín’s lifetime . But when I was already a young girl, I came to help my father when He died, and I remember very well that nothing was missing here: not the silk furniture, nor the beds with their little metal ornaments, nor the whiteness of the armoires, nor the very rich clocks that Don Martín brought from England… My father took care of everything, and it was a joy to see these rooms. Well, it hasn’t been that long, thirty-something years! Where does the wealth that was here go? The landlord says that it was given to him just like that… Gaston made no objection, and although he was burning with desire to search his dwelling, understanding that without light it would be impossible, he resolved to finish the chicken wing and the truffled liver terrine that he still had left, and wrapping the blanket around his body, he lay down on an Empire sofa, rickety, ratty, and with herniated balls. It’s clear that he slept fairly well, and that there was no need to wake him up by the watchful rooster. At first light, he got to his feet, battered as a coon, and, shaking himself and stretching himself, he examined the room where he had spent the night more closely, finding it, if possible, more battered and pitiful. However, a cheerful and fresh note cheered him; it was a swallow, which, entering through the glassless window, let out a hoot as it fled, frightened by the presence of a human being. At once, Gaston, surprised, couldn’t even remember why he was there, in that dilapidated room. He suddenly remembered, and the idea of ​​the treasure then seemed to him a funny absurdity, inspired by a novel of the genre by Anne Radcliffe. “I should have come here for that!” he thought, teasing himself. The truth is, it wasn’t only for that; he was also fleeing the hustle and bustle of his affairs in Madrid, from the compassionate or disdainful faces that crazy people usually see; He was fleeing from his commitments, from his summer vacation in Biarritz or Belgium, in the sumptuous modern chateau of the House of Planell, from everything that had once been his pleasure and his habit… He was returning to Landrey, to the family home, tossed about by the storm. However, the treasure had been the star of his pilgrimage… “The treasure!” He called to Telma smilingly, and taking some bills from his wallet, because on the day of his departure he had sold a loss to Pimiento, a jewelry dealer, ten exquisite tie pins, among them the one with the black tear, a very rare pearl that had belonged to Sara Bernhardt, he said peremptorily: Today you will bring from La Puebla what is necessary for you and me… Linen especially… You will look for a carpenter and a bricklayer… ah! and a glazier… We need to make two bedrooms, a dining room, and the kitchen habitable… We’ll see later… “Let the young master drink this milk,” she begged, presenting it to him in a crude earthenware bowl. Gaston drank it with great gusto, and Telma added: “If only you could see how those scoundrel landlords hid the cow and haggled over the milking ! I got it out by the skin of their teeth… ” “Pay them, pay them for their milk! ” “Brave scoundrels! As if the meadows and the sharecropping money and the stable and everything didn’t belong to the young master!” Telma grumbled, leaving with a bellicose air, ready to turn the town upside down in a jiffy. Gaston began to explore the interior of his residence and once again confirmed its deplorable condition. What caught his attention most was that, apart from the action of time and neglect, there were places where the hand of man had contributed to them. On the ceilings, especially, there were signs of vandalism; the beams had been torn out and the pontoons had been exposed. Several rooms, once furnished, were now devoid of furniture, with only a few wobbly, ordinary chairs that could never have belonged to them. And, even more unusual, on the walls, where the building couldn’t possibly have suffered so much, near the floor, large spaces could be seen that had undoubtedly crumbled, carefully rebuilt with very recent plaster and plaster. Looking for the staircase they had entered the previous night, Gaston went out into the vast entrance hall, and from there into the courtyard, eager to get a glimpse of the castle’s exterior. In the dense vegetation that carpeted the courtyard, only a single path remained, opened by the passage of people. The facade overlooking this courtyard was that of the main building where Gaston had slept; a relatively modern facade, from the mid- 18th century, decorated with a doorway with Corinthian columns and a Baroque coat of arms with a helmet and crest of curled feathers. “This is it,” Gaston thought, “the Manor House, built by my great-great-grandfather, who must have found the castle, and with good reason, very uncomfortable.” To the right rose a wall, that of the orchard, whose apple and pear trees jutted out from the ridge, and to the left a sturdy vaulted postern gate gave access to the castle grounds. The gate was missing, and Gaston freely entered the enclosure where, like a warrior symbol of glory, grew a dense thicket of laurel, a tree that thrives among the stones. Bypassing the fragrant undergrowth and climbing a gap in the ruined parapet, Gaston reached the second enclosure, and, having gone around it, found himself at the foot of the heralded, semicircular gate with its well-cut voussoirs. It was the keep, still standing and crenellated, overlooking the complex properly called the castle, a work whose finely fitted stones, solidity and elegance of proportions, and the pointed design of its windows, proclaimed itself to be a 15th-century construction, a time of splendor for the lords of Landrey, who were already well established in the country and always protected by the kings of the House of Trastamara. The fortified enclosure extended well beyond the tower and formed a kind of reef overlooking the valley, indicating the strength and power of that castle, frequently threatened during the Portuguese wars and the internal struggles that marked the accession to the throne of the first Isabella, to the detriment of Lady Juana, the Beltraneja. Part of the enclosure, which enjoyed the south wind, had been used to build the Pazo and plant the orchard; another part was used to grow corn; but one side, overlooking the river, was the same as in the time of the warring Landreys: ruined walls, brambles, and even powerful oak trees obstructed the bastions, through which the river served as an impregnable natural ditch. At the most prominent point of the peninsula-like structure that formed the castle complex, Gaston stood at the foot of another tower, or rather, at the foot of the four, now partly crumbling, walls of a tall , narrow, upright, majestic tower, blackish and crumbling with age, with loopholes and a few narrow windows, clearly long before the castle. That was the true site, the original lair of Beltrán Claquín’s companion, of the Breton nobleman who had come to live his life on Spanish soil; and Gaston, filled with a certain inexplicable respect, stood at the foot of the tower, whose very low door was blocked by a pile of stones. Chapter 6. The North. Gaston had spent the morning exploring the whole of Landrey , for the circuit was vast, the buildings numerous, and the lad, imbued and unwittingly guided by the secret illusion of treasure, involuntarily lingered longer than was reasonable to examine the shape of a wall or the direction of a passage. His appetite aroused by the fresh air, he returned home to wait for Thelma, who shortly appeared on the road, followed by a donkey laden with goods and two burly laborers carrying various bundles and packages. Gaston did not disdain to help with the unloading, which was completed, Thelma hurried to prepare something for him to eat, leaving the arrangement of his trousseau for later. “Young master,” Thelma remarked, lifting the tablecloths, “I have spent almost nothing, because I couldn’t find anywhere to buy clothes or mattresses. Everything is on loan; and do you know who lends it to us?” The Caiaphas of Lourido! A hair’s breadth from the wolf. He came out to meet me, pure jelly, and told me that the young master shouldn’t come without warning him, and then he told me to go to his house, where there are all the comforts, and that the young master can’t live here. And there you have it, the mattresses belong to Don Cipriano. and Don Cipriano’s blankets, and Don Cipriano’s oil lamp, and all I could buy was the ore, the plates, the pots, and the pans… For that, Don Cipriano gave me a packet of ground coffee and some sweets… If only Doña Catalina could raise her head and see Señor de Landrey being treated by Lourido, who came home in his white pants—I remember well—and that the first night my father made him scrub his face with a scouring pad because he was so disgustingly filthy! If the man had brought along old clothes of the year, they would have asked for them! “Telma,” asked Gastón, interrupting her, “you who have lived in this house for a long time, explain to me… There is a very old tower here, very old. Do you remember it ever being inhabited? ” “Does that one, so black, so ugly, say they call it the Moorish Queen’s?” responded Telma, laughing. “Of the Moorish Queen?” repeated Gaston, surprised. “You didn’t know it had that name? Isn’t it true that the young master has never been here… That tower, young master, is the granddaddy of them all, the one they say was built first, a thousand years ago. And they also tell—but who believes lies?—that a very beautiful Moorish woman was imprisoned in that tower, a queen from down there among them, brought back from the war by a lord of Landrey; and that the Moorish woman was very sad to see herself walled up like that, and she remained withered, withered, until she died, and that they buried her with some magnificent jewels she had, necklaces and bracelets, and earrings and many precious things, right there beneath the tower, in a terrible cave that leads to no one knows where … it seems to go ten leagues under the mountain! Tales, tales!” added Thelma, giving her a strong spirit. Gaston listened with throbbing interest. The popular tale, intertwined in his imagination with authentic information known only to him , caused him an indescribable excitement. During his morning exploration, he hadn’t failed to orient himself and notice that the decayed and half-crumbling tower fell to the north with such precision as if it were a magnetized needle and Landrey an immense ship. He remembered the words from the manuscript, which he had memorized: “You will find what you seek, if guided by the north…” At his whim, he would immediately return to the tower, to continue searching, now with doubled insistence, its revealing stones; but he was hindered by an untimely visit, that of Mr. Lourido himself, who, dismounting a round and well-groomed chestnut mare, climbed the stairs as quickly as his obesity allowed. Adversity had already begun to train Gaston, and instinct dictated that he should receive the agent with signs of cordiality and contentment, just as if he were delighted with his good offices and had found Landrey in his most flourishing condition. “We must see this one coming,” he thought, while he attentively observed Don Cipriano’s face, coarse and vulgar, red and dark, but with features of incomparable astuteness and dissimulation in the tiny, suspicious eyes, in the turned-up nose, and in the greedy, very white teeth, which he retained intact at fifty-five years of age. Don Cipriano came, of course, to greet the young gentleman; to be sorry that I had not warned him of his arrival, in which case he would wait for him at the station and bring him back, better mounted and looked after, not to Landrey, but to La Puebla, because to remain in Landrey was madness, and the young master ought not to be long in going down to live at Don Cipriano’s house, where they could transact business in peace.” And Lourido emphasized the word, giving it special significance. “A thousand thanks,” said Gaston courteously; “but I have come to live in Landrey. It pained me that this castle should be uninhabited, abandoned… ” “A great many repairs have been made to it, young master,” replied the agent hastily, “and that was without me…” a gesture expressive of rubbing his thumb against his forefinger. ” I did not cease mending…” and thus saying, he pointed to the wall. “I see that work has been done there,” declared Gaston, “but on the other hand, the The beams on the roof seem to have been torn off on purpose… Gaston said these words in a joking tone, so as not to sound like a reprimand, and he could not help being surprised by the effect they had on Lourido, whose cautious and restless eyes rolled around in their sockets like those of a mouse caught in a mousetrap and not knowing which way to get out. “The young master,” he finally articulated in a troubled voice, “does not know what an old house is… Over there in the lands where the young master wandered, the houses are new… Does the young master think the beams are made of iron? The years have a lot to do with it… the beams are falling down!” “I know,” Gaston responded diplomatically. “I understand well that you must have had to struggle with a thousand difficulties… No, I’m not complaining. On the contrary: I have to thank you for all the junk you sent me today.” If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t sleep between sheets… “Believe me, young master,” insisted Lourido, now calmer. “Come to Puebla, and don’t live among moths and rats anymore. In my hut you won’t want for anything. ” “They’ve already told me you have the best house in town,” murmured Gaston, “and I envy you, but for now I want to stay within these ruined walls. ” “The castle is falling down; if the young master is thinking of doing any work, take a good look at it first,” Lourido indicated; “because it’s bound to cost you thousands and thousands of pesos… We’ll talk about this later, young master, because you don’t know many things that I can tell you, and it’s in your best interest to do so before taking any steps. Anyone who comes from outside comes with their eyes closed: it would be a shame to get involved in any squabbles.” “I’ll go down to La Puebla to discuss this with you,” replied Gaston, concealing his irony, “and believe me, without your most astute and friendly advice I’ll undertake nothing. Indeed, I’m in the dark. ” “I think so,” declared the agent peremptorily, growing calmer and calmer, and bursting with importance. The visit and offers continued until late in the afternoon, and Gaston, for that day, gave up exploring his domain. He went to bed with the chickens and got up early the next day, setting out just as dawn was beginning to gild the peaks of the hemicycle of mountains that surround Landrey on two sides. If reasons of discretion did not prevent us, it would be appropriate to specify where this delightful region lies . But it is fair to say that Landrey is situated on the slope of one of the mountain ranges where, between Capes Ortegal and Finisterre, the last, barely perceptible undulations of the Cantabrian mountain range spiral. Gaston, on heading for the tower so early in the morning, intended to climb to its highest point and take in the entire panorama. With some difficulty, he managed to clear the heavy stones and rubble piled up before the door, and with his hands badly scratched, he jumped inside. The ruin was worse there. Whole sections of the wall, crumbling, had blocked the lower room, making it very difficult to recognize its shape. Gaston climbed the rubble until he placed his foot on one of the projecting stones that supported the staircase and the framework of the floor. Taking advantage of this aid and the very unevenness of the wall, and not without risk of falling headlong on the tumbled ashlars, Grasping at the parasitic plants that yielded beneath his hand, and with mad audacity, he managed to reach his goal: the window on the top floor of the tower. Once there, he could comfortably settle down, for the window opening, with its two pillars, formed a sort of study, and its parapet offered a secure seat. The elegant frame of the slender pointed arch enclosed a marvelous picture. Gaston, at first, felt dizzy. The tower, on that side, was founded on a bare rock that descended to the river, if not sheer, at least in a steep slope; a natural defense that the founders had not neglected. Finally, Gaston calmed down, familiarizing himself with the height, and requested his marine binoculars, which he never parted from while traveling. He adjusted them and enjoyed the landscape. The mountain range barely outlined, in the distance, its soft crests, a gentle violet, like a necklace of amethysts, and at the foot of the tower, the river, one of those deep and quiet Galician rivers that neither dry up nor overflow, widened its course until it emptied into the sea, forming the peaceful estuary that bathes the sandy beach of Puebla, gleaming in the first rays of the sun like gold dust. The shoreline was a pink mother-of-pearl with veins of turquoise blue, and the great forests on the slopes were a fine, spring-like green. An enchanting peace, a youthful joy rose from nature, which seemed to emerge from an embalmed bath of dew. Gastón saw La Puebla so distinctly, with its white houses and red roofs half-open like a five-ribbed fan—the only five streets of any importance in the town—that he could have counted the houses, just as he could have counted the fishing boats that, hoisting their graceful lateen sails, were now scattered across the opalescent expanse of the sea. The plaza of La Puebla entered Gastón’s eyes, and in the tower of the humble parish church he saw the birds coming and going, and the ringing of the bells. Opposite the church, on the corner of the Town Hall, rose a brand-new, magnificent house, a hideous, four-story, glistening, attic , all gleaming, painted a furious green, with a triple gallery of glass, and above the door a lacquered plaque denoting “mutual insurance,” a testament to the owner’s wise foresight… Just as Mr. Landrey had trained his telescope on the Lourido Palace—it could not have been otherwise—in one of the galleries, heavily adorned with vines, two women appeared, one young and one older, both disheveled, in skirts and doublets, just out of bed because they were still stretching. The young woman, as could be seen with the aid of binoculars, was fresh-faced, red-faced, and white, with a copious head of blond hair, loose, floating disorderly around her neck and shoulders. “She’s Don Cipriano’s daughter ,” thought Gaston; And out of spite, she grabbed the telescope and dazzled her gaze. An expressive mimicry between the two women indicated that they were arguing and quarreling; the maid’s nonchalant gesture, her movements, and the swipes of her tail responded to the angry flailing of the duenna, a rather sharp-boned woman of very ugly anatomy. Suddenly, the old woman grabbed the young woman’s arm, and she, detaching herself like a snake, baring her fist, fled into the room. The gallery was deserted… She then changed the direction of her indiscreet telescope and, turning it to the right, admired the patches of chestnut trees and, beyond, the shady pine groves. From a bell tower half-hidden among the trees, the wind brought her the silvery sound of the bell ringing for mass. As this familiar chime, so joyful in the countryside and sweetened by its solitude , struck his ears, a new, previously unseen view appeared in the binoculars . It was a country house with its orchard, enclosed by a masonry wall. The house didn’t look new, but restored; the stone-arched balcony in front betrayed the repairs. Flowering rosebushes climbed the columns, and in front of the house, an English-style garden surrounded a natural pond, or tiny lake, shaded by drooping trees. Farther away, the fruit garden and several outbuildings, a threshing floor and a large granary, indicated that more than just flowers and ornamental plants were grown there. Just as Gaston noticed this detail, a boy came running out of the house, followed by a black dog, jumping and prancing after him. Minutes later, a woman dressed in light-colored clothing, her head covered with a very wide straw hat, joined the dog and the boy. It was not easy to make out the features of the lady in the garden at that distance; but that she was a lady was clear from a crossbow shot, from her movements, from the slenderness of her silhouette, and even from her large hat, which she took off for a moment; then Gaston could see that she had dark hair. The lady took the child by the hand, flattered him, and led him toward the trees, where the group disappeared. Chapter 7. The Tower of the Moorish Queen. These last views with the telescope had the power to leave one thoughtful. To Gaston. He hadn’t turned thirty, and he was prepared by his previous life, by the atmosphere of softness and sensuality he breathed, for a woman, in the mere fact of being one, to have a disturbing effect on him. Gaston was no vicious libertine, and this truth was written on the smoothness of his temples, in the moisture and brilliance of his eyes. But since he had known no moral restraint since the loss of his mother; since he had aspired to nothing serious; since he directed his existence toward no goal, whim and selfish epicureanism had taken hold of him, taking form in those games and whims of the imagination and the senses, unleashed like prancing colts. Having thoroughly examined the panorama, Gaston wanted to dismount from his observatory. The descent was even more dangerous than the ascent, and two or three times he thought he would plummet. At last, he saw himself safe among the rubble, and then, forgetting all other fantasies, he devoted himself to examining the crowded ruins. He couldn’t help noticing that some of the fallen stones looked not as if they had crumbled under the influence of time, but as if they had been violently torn away. They even had edges broken by iron. These stones, thus marked, occupied a corner of the tower and formed a fairly high pile; however, Gaston resolutely rolled two or three from the top and saw with surprise that the pile covered a very low door. He moved more stones, resting when this rough work tired him, and after much struggle, he managed to uncover enough of the door to admit the body of a man. With difficulty, he squeezed through, finding himself in a narrow, vaulted, crooked, sloping passage , with such a low ceiling that Gaston followed, bending to the ground. The passage soon ended at the first step of a winding stone staircase , no less narrow and harrowing. Gaston went down it, lighting matches, for it was completely dark, and judging by the direction of the passage, he judged that he must be to the left of the tower, toward the castle itself. Gaston counted up to twenty-one steps, and when he descended, he came out into a subterranean chamber, without any trace of ventilation or light, round and vaulted as well. He could not doubt that it was a dungeon, the in pace of the feudal tower. Gaston had heard of these in pace, always believing that they existed only in the imaginations of novelists and archaeologists; and finding himself in that place where he supposed the enemies of the powerful Lord of Landrey had languished, he shuddered profoundly. Recovering, and lighting another match, he examined the dungeon, moved by an interest that no longer had anything humanitarian about it. Would he discover there, by a fortunate chance, the path followed by the ancients, the vein that led to the golden vein of treasure? Matchstick by matchstick, Gaston recognized the walls and the ceiling, which he touched with his hand. A greenish, damp, slippery vegetation covered the stones, but there was no sign of an opening, a grate, a ring, or any other peculiarity that indicates a secret entrance. The ashlars were thick, solid, well-fitted, and the pavement presented nothing unusual either; smooth like the walls, with no hint of a trapdoor or a drainpipe. Gaston knocked everywhere , and there was no sound. Then, tired now, with the tips of his fingers scorched, he retraced his steps and went out to see the sun, to breathe freely. He laughed at himself. Hadn’t he, in his imagination, glimpsed the treasure? He sat down on the rubble and, holding his head in his hands, concentrated his thoughts on the hypothesis. All the powers of his intellect were called into play, challenged by the problem on which his future depended. Did the treasure really exist, not here or there, but somewhere, hidden, difficult, but not impossible to find? Or was it merely the delirium of a dying man and a recluse? And if they weren’t delirious, if the treasure was indeed deposited in some hiding place in the castle, hadn’t he discovered it? No one during the sixty-odd years that the Landrey mansion had been in sinful hands? Couldn’t that Don Cipriano Lourido, a bird of prey fattened on the bodies of his masters, have sniffed out the buried riches? When this possibility occurred to him, Gaston focused on it, struck by a flash of light. He remembered the torn-out beams, the newly plastered walls, the tower stones moved by hand and piled up as if to hide the door, and these strange signs seemed to him to eloquently demonstrate the suspicion germinating in his mind . “If Lourido didn’t discover the treasure, at least he’s looked for it,” he reasoned logically. “Could that be the explanation for his fortune and the foundation of that lovely house in the main square of La Puebla?” Once again he reviewed in his memory the words on the yellowed slip of paper: “You will find what you seek…” With the help of the map burned by Doña Catalina, the few enigmatic lines must have been crystal clear. The map was missing, but a logogriph. Lourido had neither a map nor even the slip of paper. “I have a head start on him,” Gaston deduced, “and if I’m wrong, I’ll be twice as stupid as he is. ” He remembered again the mysterious clause: “If, guided by the North, you follow the path that the ancients followed in danger of death…” What could the cursed “path” be? Gaston struck his forehead. A mine that would allow the inhabitants of the castle, besieged and unable to resist, to flee through an unknown underground passage and save themselves! A mine… the mine that the people of the country extended ten leagues, and where they believed the Moorish Queen was buried! How would he find the mine? There were two possible approaches: either from the castle itself, or where it flowed into the river: on the riverbank, or on the mountain. The only somewhat accurate sign was “guided by the north.” To the north was the ancient tower, and it was from there that the explorations had to begin. However, the dungeon offered no openings; the subterranean structure of the tower ended there. “I’ll return with a lantern, a pick, and a shovel,” thought Gaston, who, far from being discouraged, felt his pride growing. Engrossed in these thoughts, he was surprised by a noise behind him. Two voices, one childish, the other a woman’s, very resonant, arguing. Before Gaston realized anything, a boy about eight years old jumped down the stones piled up at the gate, risking twisting his foot, and nimbly landed beside Gaston, who caught him in his arms, supported him, and saved him from certain disaster. The woman let out a shriek and clambered impetuously up the first stones after the child, and Gaston rushed to her aid, crying: “Careful, madam… those stones are prone… hold on!” The lady ignored the offer; swift as a doe, she cleared the pile of ruins and jumped to the other side, anxiously feeling the child. Certain now that he hadn’t hurt himself, she turned to Gaston, saying: “Thank you so much… If it weren’t for you, this devil…” Gaston stared at her, surprised by the apparition. Before him was a woman who appeared to be between twenty-six and twenty-eight years old, tall and well-proportioned, with a graceful presence. Her attire, unusual in that corner of the world, was the one prescribed by the fashion for hikers: a fairly short skirt of green and blue plaid Scottish tartan , cloth leggings holding a tight and loose leather shoe, and a small blue alpaca coat, straight and loose, over which a turned-up collar of unstarched batiste left the throat free. This was dark and soft, culminating in a head that could not be called beautiful, but was expressive and graceful. The sun and the air had gilded her complexion, and its fine agate tones enhanced the light of her gray eyes and the freshness of her large, clean mouth. Her hair, very dark, was gathered in a simple bun under a yellow straw sailor hat, with no other adornment than the stuffed wing of a dove. The lady wore thick thread gloves and a patent leather sporran around her waist. Gaston bent down, uncovered his head, and said with great enthusiasm: “I only wish it were true that I had had the good fortune to be of some use to you! I am so useless that you didn’t even want me to help you lift the stones… ” “I am very used to difficult steps,” replied the hiker, “and as you can understand, out there on the rocks and in the precipices you don’t always find kind gentlemen who offer a hand… Miguel, my boy, tell me, haven’t you hurt yourself? ” “How badly!” cried the mischievous boy in a high-pitched voice. “I never needed the gentleman!” I jumped perfectly alone… “Shut up, braggart… If it weren’t your fancy to enter the Moorish Queen’s tower, we wouldn’t be bothering this knight… Thank him, and let’s go, we must return home before the broth gets cold… ” “I’m not leaving!” replied the boy. “I’m not leaving without looking for the treasure!” Gaston was astonished when the boy pronounced these words. “The treasure!” he repeated with such emotion that his voice trembled. “The Moorish Queen’s treasure,” explained the lady, laughing. “Are you a stranger?” Then it’s no surprise that I don’t know that a sultana was held captive in this tower and buried with her jewels in a huge mine below that reaches as far as the antipodes… Gaston felt cold… Instead of confirming his illusions, the legend, told in this way in jest, lent them the color of a foolish chimera. The gracious mouth that mocked the mine simultaneously dispelled his dreams of gold! “I knew none of that, madam,” he said, concealing his concern, “but if such a treasure is around here, Miguelito and I will find it. ” “Certainly!” the lady replied, with the same air of good humor. “By joining together… ” “For Miguelito and I to join together,” Gaston insisted, ” your mother must authorize us to be friends; and for her to deign to authorize us, she must know who Miguelito’s future friend is… My name is Gaston de Landrey.” “De Landrey!” she repeated with an accent of surprise and sympathy. ” You are the owner of the castle! ” “Not at the moment,” Gaston replied gallantly. “Thank you again… Landrey!” the lady murmured, as if speaking to herself. “What a beautiful name! How ancient in this country! Is this the first time you have come to his house? ” “Yes, but I will linger for a while. ” “Well done! These poor, charming, and neglected stones deserve it. I am so glad that Señor de Landrey is here… and I am glad that he has made friends with Miguelito, and that they have dug up the sultana’s money, which must have grown moldy by now… Since you will not guess my name, I will introduce myself, even if it is incorrect. My name is Antonia Rojas, widow of Sarmiento, and I live in a small country house, a little more than a quarter of a league from here.” If we can be of any help… ” I know the house. In fact, I saw you there… ” “Really? ” “This morning, around six o’clock, in the garden… Miguelito was near the pond, and you came out of the house; you were wearing a light-colored suit, and a hat bigger than that one… You took Miguelito by the hand … Ah! There was also a big, very handsome black dog…” A slight blush spread over the widow’s dark face, and Gaston realized that he was being indiscreet. His reflections were certainly indiscreet , for they revolved around a point that really had no reason to concern him: “Is this woman who chance brings me here a proper person? Is she even what you would call a lady?” Fatuity and strangeness must have been evident on her face, because the lady, until then so frank and ordinary, grew serious and glanced sideways at Gaston’s marine glasses. “These are the guilty ones,” said the young man in a daze, “and if you bear them a grudge, I will offer them to you so that you may throw them, if you like, into the river… ” Antonia Rojas raised her gaze, refused with a dignified and affable gesture, and without extending her hand to Mr. de Landrey, she made herself at liberty with a few words, courteous, but full of reserve and poise. “Will you allow me to escort you to your door?” asked Gaston, somewhat contritely. “I always go alone with my son, and I have grown fond of this custom,” replied the lady, climbing nimbly over the stones. “Will I disturb you by paying my respects?” insisted Gaston. “On the contrary,” were Antonia’s last words, as she smiled a moment of farewell, while Miguelito gave his friend the most willing kiss; that open and trusting kiss children give to people they have taken a liking to. Chapter 8. Lourido. The adventure worried Gaston, and he indulged in a thousand impertinent conjectures about the unknown excursionist. Curiosity induced him to go that same afternoon to the villa to “pay his respects”—as they say in the hypocritical jargon of the world—to the one he had seen in the tower. He didn’t dare, however, because if Miguelito’s mother were a proper lady, she would in fact take such unwelcome haste wherever it might lead , and the reception would be appropriate . He resolved, therefore, not to go down to Antonia Rojas’s villa until he had thoroughly informed himself of the woman’s reputation, deeds, and character, the only means society has found to prevent errors and inconveniences. From this worldly sentiment of Gastón’s, the reader will understand that the stirring of that little worm that had begun to gnaw at his spirit at the Comendadora’s funeral had already subsided… Fate brought Gastón the information he desired sooner than he could have imagined. Telma de la Puebla came, where she had gone down for a thousand trifles indispensable in every house, and brought a proper feast from Lourido for the young gentleman: they were waiting for him to dine the next day without fail. As if it were some diplomatic invitation, Gaston sent a note early in the morning accepting and greeting the ladies and young ladies of Lourido. Gaston dressed up to attend the banquet… However, upon dismounting from a poor horse in the plaza, upon seeing Lourido’s unsympathetic dwelling , with its gleaming tombstone of mutual insurance, he remembered only the positive: that inside lived a man with whom he had unfinished business, and that perhaps this man had become rich by unraveling what Don Martín de Landrey thought to leave so hidden. So he ascended the stairs, summoning courage and composure, and murmuring to himself: “What ambush will this rascal prepare for me?” Lourido received the young gentleman under a canopy. What an honor for him, and for Master Gaston, what a penance!… To eat in the poor hut, he who would be accustomed to nothing less than silverware and gold service at the tables of princes! If the Mayor didn’t say this very thing, the essence of his speech sounded something similar. Gastón affirmed that he would eat divinely, and then Lourido changed his tune, insisting that he would not allow the young gentleman to stay any longer in such a dilapidated dwelling as Landrey. “I’m not saying no to you, Don Cipriano,” responded Gastón, accepting a cigar and sitting in the armchair by the attorney’s desk. ” I’ve thought it over carefully, and it’s very tempting to come to this comfortable house; Landrey looks like a robbed hospital! Only I won’t decide until we settle things. I’d like to take charge of the state of my interests here… Since you’re rushing into this… it’s better for both of us if we talk at once. ” “Praise God!” responded the Mayor of La Puebla, rolling his shrewd little eyes. “There’s no relief like dealing with things like this one-on -one… We get nothing done with postponements.” Saying this, he stood up and went to open a small iron cupboard set into the wall. He rummaged around in it for a while, and finally triumphantly took out a voluminous bundle of papers, sealed and unsealed; he untied the balduque that contained it, and scattered the bundles on the table, which gave off their peculiar smell of moths and dust. “The young master,” he continued, “will be willing to do me the favor of reviewing these documents, which are the receipts for my administration since the young master inherited the property… The accounts from his mother’s time, which Rest in peace, I have them approved there. The others, too, were approved by the general attorney, Don Jerónimo, with the young master’s authority; so that I, for my part, am secure: my pious wish is that the young master be happy and have the satisfaction that I have fulfilled my duty to him and to the house; and as long as the young master doesn’t say: “Lourido fulfilled his duty,” the pain bothers me and I’m not at ease… “Are you saying,” questioned Gastón, “that Don Jerónimo approved those accounts? ” “Year by year, there appears his signature, round as a sun,” replied Lourido, leafing through the papers briskly. “And the young master should know that the house of Landrey has a credit with me… a tiny credit… nothing, a filthy thing. You’ll see the receipts, you’ll see! Serving the house of Landrey, I find myself up to my neck in water… that sometimes I go to the bottom. Nothing!” “I made a commitment, let’s go, and I looked for the money… underground. ” “Sometimes you find money underground,” replied Gaston, feigning distraction, but spying on the steward’s face, whose face he saw change. “So I owe you… how much? ” “For the young master, very little… For a poor man like Lourido… a fortune… Bah! At most, it will be four or five thousand duros… Since I have been managing you, young master, I have not been paid my fees, nor for the repairs and work I carried out on the castle, with Don Jerónimo ‘s authorization … ” “Repairs and work?” asked Gaston, beginning to boil with anger. “But it’s uninhabitable there! ” “And how would it be if I wasn’t careful? Nothing more than ruins. I had to search and shore up the foundations… ” “The foundations?” That project is the most likely way for a building to collapse… Gaston felt a light sweat break out at his temples. The work, searches, and repairs gave him a terrible feeling; with every step , the suspicion that Lourido had discovered the treasure grew deeper in his mind ; and a dull but furious rage rose in his soul like a whirlwind of dust in the desert. That bandit, that vulture fattened on Landrey’s corpse, fattened by the plunder of the family, wanted to consummate the robbery by still demanding money that Gaston neither possessed nor could muster, thus exposing him to shame! “Besides the work,” Lourido continued, who doubtless didn’t think it prudent to dwell on such a delicate point, “there were labors to be done to improve the lands, file lawsuits, suffer apportionments, sustain litigation… and everything was paid for out of the pocket of this Maragato. I’ve had a hard time!” If it weren’t for the fact that I knew that the young master wouldn’t leave me uncovered… Because everyone needs their own poverty, and for lack of those quarters I’m gasping for air, like a sardine pulled out of a net… Making a heroic effort, Gaston controlled himself. “Well, for today it’s impossible for me to satisfy you on that debt,” he declared resolutely. “The young master has a very easy way of paying,” Lourido indicated felinely. “If the young master would cede me the Landrey lands… which in the end are worthless to him and the young master doesn’t even notice them… because the young master, as you can see, wanders around Madrid and France and this interests him little… it ‘s just a small corner… ” “The Landrey lands!” repeated Gaston, feeling himself grow pale under the insult of the proposition, but restraining himself because he saw a trail of light and wanted to follow it. “I know I’m getting into a bad business… only, since the young master can’t pay and I need the money, as sure as we’re men… to get both of us out of this bad situation… ” “The land… and the castle?” Lourido lowered his eyelids so that the sudden flame of his tiny eyes wouldn’t show through, and, flushed with emotion, he answered, restraining himself: “You know… although the castle isn’t worth a farthing… but whoever buys the land, must buy the castle; whoever brings the cow brings the rope… ” “Do you know,” replied Gaston, to whom instinct then dictated a saving and Machiavellian course of action, “that the proposition is worth considering?” “I really have no great desire to preserve these ruined walls. However, to give it away like this, in payment of a debt… My own interest dictates that, if I do sell it, I should put it up for auction, and whoever offers the most… You can just see the profits… ” “Oh! The young master is going to be disappointed!… When someone wants to sell, that’s when no one is buying… Don’t think, young master, that Roschil would give you more than the present, Maragato… If the young master thinks it’s little… because don’t say I don’t show consideration for the house!… a couple of thousand duros more… and I’ll hang myself, I’ll hang myself!” Gastón was undoubtedly about to answer when young women’s voices sounded at the door. “Papa, Papa,” they said in two different tones, one affectedly refined and ingratiating, the other natural and affectionate. “Come in, girls…” They burst into the office, and Gaston rose and bowed down to the Mayor’s two young ladies. In the first, the one in the pompous blue dress with yellow ribbons, the one with the curly bun, the one with the floury complexion, Gaston recognized the one stretching so early in the morning on the veranda, and he thought it was a pity she had taken the trouble to dress herself up, because she was really pretty and fresh, and the ridiculous adornment spoiled her. “If you would allow me to dust that pretty face plastered with rice powder… ” The other girl, modestly dressed in the habit of Carmen, was short in stature and with a gaunt face, and she limped badly, supporting herself with a short crutch . “This one is called Florita,” said Lourido, introducing the floured one with ill-concealed pride. “And this one, Concha,” he added, pointing to the one with the crutch. “The poor thing is suffering… ” “But I haven’t lost my good humor,” the lame woman declared spontaneously, laughing with ingenuous amiability. Half an hour later, Gaston occupied, at Don Cipriano’s table, the place that the hosts had judged to be of honor; between the two girls, and opposite the lady of the house, whom Master Landrey had seen attempting to hit and scratch the blonde Flora, and who at the feast was striving to display an improbable, syrupy sweetness, belied by a sour and gaunt face. Abusing diminutives, he called his daughters Floritiña and Conchitiña; She talked incessantly, to the point of dizziness, about the inferiority of her meal and the great sacrifice Gaston was making in accepting it, as well as about the merits and abilities of her daughters, especially Flora. Gaston surmised that the lame girl was one of those creatures that indelicate families sacrifice, always postponing them for others more beautiful and healthy; and he unwittingly became interested in the girl, focusing more on her than on Florita, who was flushed with disappointment. Her desire to attract the young master’s attention was so evident that she served him, offered him olives and sweets, and even tried to put sugar in his coffee, which was encouraged by expressive glances from her mother and hearty peals of laughter from her father, who, apparently oblivious of affairs, debts, and acquisitions, was in complete harmony with Gaston. Throughout the incidents of the meal, Gaston never lost sight of his stranger from the Moorish Queen’s tower for a moment. He didn’t know how to steer the conversation back to her, but finally he did it by the most elementary means, saying with apparent indifference: “Do you know a lady from Rojas who has a very naughty boy? Yesterday I found them visiting the most ruined part of my poor castle…” As if touched by an electric current, Flora and her mother jumped up. “Come on, you’ve already got the little widow in your face!” said Lourido’s wife in a tone of pity for Gaston. “That was a lot! ” “No,” protested Gaston without effort, “it seems to me that lady didn’t count on my presence. The boy ran into the tower where I was… ” “Oh! The boy!” Flora intervened, ironically imitating Gaston’s accent. “Yes, yes… she’s taught the boy well! ” “Woman!” exclaimed Concha, revolted. “I don’t know how you say that!” It is a guilty conscience to think certain things. “But do you think,” said Gaston, feigning candor, “that they went to the tower just to find me? ” There was a duet of malicious laughter; Concha remained serious. “Well, even though you’re from Madrid, you seem quite innocent,” declared her mother, with a hint of bile in her voice. “Men… none of them see certain things, no matter how obvious they are.” And as she said this, the mayoress was waggling her skeletal fingers. “Besides,” continued Flora, interrupting her mother, “the widow is very clever, very deceitful! She’s deceiving Licurgo with that martial manner and that what do I care she’s spending. ” “Come on… is she a woman of bad conduct?” questioned Gaston, as if he had been convinced. “No, sir!” Concha cried, unable to contain herself. “She does all the charity she can and goes to church, I can see it!… much more than others!” “Don’t pay any attention to this little old woman,” warned the mother, swallowing the benevolent witness with her eyes. “Since all she does is pray and attend mass, she thinks everyone is a fake saint… And Rojas’s is a real saint. Of bad conduct… she may not be now, but the devil knows what she did when her husband was alive, when he was abroad , they looked just like the Wandering Jew!… So they struck a big thunderbolt, and she triumphed and spent like an empress, and then , the poor thing was already desperate, what did she want him to do? He killed himself… ” “Did that lady’s husband commit suicide?” asked Gaston, this time impressed. “I believe it!” cried the triumphant duenna. “She shot herself twice in the beard and the roof of her mouth… You can see what principles she must have, she walks around as if nothing had happened, happy… ” “After six years!” Concha warned. “Well, she was very sad and very sick! He was the brute and the bad Christian; she wasn’t. Did they want her to kill herself too? ” “I think the husband did it because it would reveal some of the wife’s intrigues,” declared Mrs. Lourido. “And besides, they had nothing left to fall dead over,” added Lourido. “She’s as miserable as a spider. ” “Miserable, yes,” replied Flora, “but as romantic as ever. Some suits and hats! I don’t know if that way of dressing is elegant… It seems strange. And the skirts with such short tails! What nerve!” “But, woman, it’s for walking in the mountains,” argued the defender, impatient and heated. “Should she have worn a train? If I weren’t lame, I’d dress like her! ” “You’d be beautiful! Enjoy your meal; to me, Rojas looks like a Civil Guard…” They were just coming back from the discussion when a young man entered, the municipal judge, with his hair curled like an iron and his collar and cuffs blown out, declared Flora’s candidate; and Gastón took advantage of the moment to change the conversation, because he already knew how much she cared. With that, they went from the dining room to the living room, where on the console stood a superb marble and bronze clock and two candelabras in the purest Empire style. “I recognize you,” thought M. de Landrey, “I recognize you, relics of my house, testimony to the rapacity of this vulture… Now he wants the principal thing to follow the accessory, and he proposes that the castle keep the clock company…” Flora distracted him from these thoughts by asking him if he played the piano, only to stir up chatter and make the municipal judge furious with jealousy ; and Gaston, who was a willing subject, lent himself admirably to the game. Chapter 9. Initiation. More impatiently than before, Gaston longed for the moment to greet Antonia Rojas, who already held for him the allure of mystery; and, thinking that on the third day it is not improper to visit a lady who permits it, he chose the early hours of the afternoon and began to guess the way, so as not to look for a guide to lead him. Without much difficulty he found his way around and reached the foot of the wall, finding the gate wide open. It was no matter how you went about stumbling around like Peter in his own house, and at the same time he couldn’t see anyone when the child came running out from between a flowerbed, holding out his arms and the heart in them. “Well, you’re here at last!” shrieked the high, fresh voice. “But you’ve been so long! I wanted to go look for the treasure with you yesterday… and Mama wouldn’t let me. How nice! I must show you my goats… Othello, don’t bark, you fool… they’re familiar people…” she added flatteringly to the big black dog, who, obeying the request to be welcome, wagged his bushy tail and rested his paws on his master’s shoulders. “Is your mama visible? ” “You bet! Come on,” shrieked Miguelito. And hopping on one leg, he preceded Gaston, who allowed himself to be led. They crossed the garden, and then the entrance hall of the house, bright and decorated with earthenware vases and greenhouse plants; They came out into a quadrangular courtyard surrounded by new buildings that looked like outbuildings, and into one of them, from which smoke was rising, Miguelito entered, followed by Gastón. The light that penetrated the vast shed through a series of high windows illuminated an unusual spectacle. In the middle of the shed, near a low kitchen where an enormous cauldron was bubbling, and at the foot of a barrel that gave off thick steam, was Antonia, dressed quite differently than the day Gastón had first met her. A light calico skirt and a short-sleeved bodice, protected by a rich Oxford apron striped in white and cherry; a red silk handkerchief tied at the waist, with the piquant grace of a Creole headdress, made up the lady’s attire. Her arms, brown and of a soft yet vigorous design at the same time, waved over the smoking barrel, spilling the contents of a glass flask into it. A neat and robust young woman, brandishing a shovel, was waiting to stir the bleach; because, it must be said, that decoration was merely a backdrop for the humble household operation of straining clothes… Gaston expected a shriek, a protest, an angry glance at the child. He was disappointed. What Antonia did, upon realizing the surprise, was laugh spontaneously… “Let’s not apologize, Monsieur de Landrey,” she said evenly , “because it would be a never-ending story. For my part, you’re forgiven. Miguelito, look, my boy, you know that visitors are taken to the living room. ” “Not this one!” Miguel declared. “This isn’t a visitor, he’s my friend… and I’m taking him to see the goats… ” “Yes, the goats and Mom!” Antonia added placidly. “Wait for me in the living room… or in the garden… See you in a moment!” Gastón reluctantly obeyed. The widow, fiery, with her roguish handkerchief and mechanic’s suit, had seemed perfect to him; a hundred times better than in the tower. He would gladly replace the shovel girl, helping to rummage through the laundry in the barrel. There was no choice but to let himself be led once more by Miguelito and admire the skipping of two little white goats, imprisoned in the backyard, at the foot of the granary—because they left nothing alive in the orchard or the garden. Eventually, they ended up in a low room, accessed through the hall, where modern and antique furniture, old paintings and English prints, and a superb grand piano produced a familiar ensemble, with tones both intimate and artistic. There were fresh flowers in the vases , and in the center of the room a small, well-kept living room aquarium was full of small fish and curious mollusks and zoophytes, which Miguelito proudly showed to his friend. “I must be a sailor, like my grandfather,” declared the child, “and I already know what’s at the bottom of the sea… These little fish came in the net, you know? And Mom and I go see how they pull it out… and we collect the prettiest things. We have so much fun! Look, look, that’s the sea urchin… Such thorns, huh? You can’t put your hand on it… Hey, that creature is called a seahorse… How strange!” Look at the scallop shell… that one the Apostle Saint James carries in his cape… Entertained by the boy’s chatter, Gaston kept waiting impatiently for Antonia, who was very soon to appear, without a scarf or apron and with long sleeves, but in a dress no less simple and more rustic than the other. Gaston excused himself, regretting having witnessed and interrupted her work, and she replied with simplicity and sincerity: “There is nothing annoying about being seen at work. Believe me, on the other hand, if I could do without working, perhaps I would be tempted by laziness; but Miguel and I would live very poorly. I am not rich , and I like things that are refined, clean, and careful: what am I to do but witness or carry them out in person? Here they leave the clothes, when washed, an unsightly brown color; with my chemicals I manage to make them come out very white. Habit, not virtue, is already making me fond of these chores, or at least, they are not as difficult for me as they were at first. There is nothing better than to take labors and obligations with good spirits; one becomes a friend of them. ” “I would need a few lessons from you to learn that philosophy, for I need it very much,” said Gaston. “That philosophy, as you call it,” Antonia replied cheerfully, “one has to teach it to oneself.” “Is there no teacher?” Master Landrey asked pointedly. “Yes, sir; I know a teacher of that kind,” murmured Antonia, whose fickle face changed expression and clouded over. “A very harsh teacher… What a misfortune!” “Then I can be a disciple,” declared Gaston, with a touch of melancholy. There was a moment of silence: the confidential turn of the conversation was undoubtedly unpleasant to Antonia. Miguelito saved the situation by taking his mother by the hand and insisting that Gaston must see the house and garden in every last detail. Antonia, smiling, declared as she rose to fulfill the child’s whim: “Just like that, this _proprietor’s_ stroll_ is inevitable… The drink, at once. We won’t forgive you either the lettuce or the carrots.” They toured the house, the garden, the orchard, and the outbuildings. The house, irregular in shape, was very comfortable and spacious inside, and its cleanliness and order made it seem like one of those exquisite cottages near London, where one lives comfortably, and every hour of the day brings honest and healthy enjoyment, both physical and intellectual. The rooms’ layout revealed a special sense of reality, of the necessities imposed by a solitary life and the education of a child. Gaston looked with interest at the study, its maps, its picture books, its geometry boxes, its notebooks, everything without stains or torn pages, everything in order, as it might be in a well-maintained school. Nothing was lacking in the mansion: not the little library, well stocked with useful and recreational books and classic Spanish works; nor the pantry, stocked with preserves and homemade sweets; nor the fruit bowl, where the apples from the last harvest were still yellowing; and Gaston, remembering his dismantled castle, appreciated more fully the grace and modest intimacy of Antonia’s house. The vegetable garden had also been exploited to the fullest extent imaginable: the vegetable beds looked like flower baskets, so well tended and arranged; the trees revealed clever pruning; and the stable, which housed two cows and their calves, looked no less clean or swept than the living room. Among the outbuildings, Gaston discovered a tiny, tiled dairy , worthy of Holland for the exquisite neatness of its bowls, jugs, and metal vats. And as he praised it warmly, Antonia stopped and said enthusiastically: “Ah! This dairy helps me live… it’s a little income that I never neglect for a minute!” I get from ten to twelve reales a day clean from these walls… and in the country they lift twelve reales by weight… Don’t laugh! Monsieur de Landrey laughs at this villager! –I don’t laugh… I envy you, on the contrary. But how the deuce do you get that much from a dairy? –I make cheeses, and I send them to Madrid… Without suspecting that they came from so close to your house, you may have tasted them. They don’t allow me,–and this mortifies my vanity, I confess,–to put the name on them. A sign I’d like: “Quinta de Sadorio,” printed with a mold… They want to pass them off as the famous Swiss fromage, and they succeed; and since they win, because I sell them cheaply and there are no customs duties, I have a guaranteed clientele… I can’t keep up with the orders, and it seems to me that soon I’ll have to expand my business, buying another little meadow… From surprise to surprise, Gastón went from one surprise to another. Was that the woman described in La Puebla as “romantic,” who had appeared to him in a hiker’s outfit at the tower of the Moorish Queen? Was there calculation in such a display of industriousness and thrift? Is it humanly possible to fake a lifestyle and customs like those of Antonia Rojas? Unwittingly , Gastón’s intentions and purposes regarding the widow were changing; if at first he had considered her easy prey, now, with his dawning respect, he judged her a high and inaccessible tower. They finished their tour of the property and went out to rest on a terrace near the pond, where they found light refreshments served: tea with milk, up to half a dozen small cheeses, and a plate of strawberries. It was too early for other fruit : Antonia served the tea and prepared the rôties spread with honey, which tasted like wildflowers and rosemary. And since Gaston seemed confused and grateful for the gift, Miguel explained that it was the same afternoon snack as every other… “No, my son,” his mother warned, “the cheeses are extraordinary, for this gentleman to try. The other stuff, yes: it’s a luxury we allow ourselves, to have a first-class English tea: some friends I have, consuls in Plymouth, sent it to me . The rest… homemade. The milk, from my cows; the honey, from my bees; the strawberries from the flowerbeds under the rosebushes… whose roses are shining in that little china cup… “Madam,” murmured Gaston, savoring the fragrant infusion with delight, “I’m no flatterer, but believe me, this elegant tea, this delicate service, seems like a dream to me to be offered to me a quarter of an hour from Landrey. I’ve never had anything in my life that tasted so good… ” “I was to think you would say that,” replied the widow maliciously. “Don’t you believe it? Well, I’m not in the habit of writing madrigals over tea, madam… What I marvel at most is that you have such excellent servants… and invisible ones, because we found everything here as if brought by the hand of the fairies. ” “My God! How good you are!” I have the same servants as everyone else… Two girls, whom I’ve been teaching the most basic things… But I make sure that, when I’m alone, they serve me with the same requisites as if someone were from outside, which doesn’t usually happen here, and that’s why, without me having sneaked out to order it, you see an ironed napkin and some gleaming spoons… A great mystery! What I can’t understand is why no one acts any differently; it’s more comfortable this way… I’m very comfortable; don’t you go supposing otherwise! Gaston felt, without understanding why, happy. The repast tasted glorious to him, and the air, perfumed with flower essences, bathing his temples, refreshed his spirit. He would have liked to extend that visit for a week; he felt so comfortable in Antonia’s garden. The
conversation, now straying from the topics of practical life, revolved around a thousand different subjects: they talked about travel, music, and even architecture, apropos of Landrey. Antonia praised the castle itself, which was later than the tower of the Moorish Queen, and she did not understand why Gaston had allowed such beautiful and solid stones to be touched in her absence. “They were firm, firmer than those of the Pazo, which is much later,” she exclaimed. “They have rummaged there everywhere, and without any explanation. How did you give permission? ” “I did not really give it, madam… That is a story we will talk about,” answered Gaston, confirmed in his suspicions by these questions from Antonia. “But I wish that one day you will visit Landrey with me and we will see these works.” When Gaston left Sadorio, the moon was shining in the sky, and In his heart shone a ray of sweet, joyful sunshine. The honeysuckles, from the brambles, sent penetrating and delicious aromas; the air was warm, the road poetic and silent, and Miguel’s last caress still warmed the young gentleman’s cheeks. Upon arriving at Landrey, he could not help but ask himself with surprise: “Am I in love? Or is it the effect of the place, the time, the circumstances?… The truth is, there could not be a more beautiful afternoon than this! ” Chapter 10. The Counselor. Although discretion may curb certain impulses, it would be strange if they did not triumph over it in a young man like Gaston, little accustomed to moral discipline, which often consists in living against one’s grain of taste. –Captivated by Antonia Rojas, Gastón longed to see her at every moment, and the same yeast of respect and involuntary admiration , mingled with other less orderly and peaceful feelings, led him to believe that his frequent contact with the widow and his repeated visits to Sadorio were not dangerous. At first, it was every three days, then every two, and finally, every day. Antonia didn’t wait for him: he never found her wandering through the garden, playing the piano, sitting languidly in an arbor, or cutting flowers with the long scissors she wore for this purpose at her waist. He always surprised her either supervising the preparation of some appetizing preserved squid, or ripening the harvest of early tomatoes, or having the melon patch sheared, or skimming milk, or cutting blouses for Miguelito: occupations that were not at all sentimental, and that didn’t warrant any poetic excess. A phenomenon occurred during these visits , distressing for the already smitten Gastón: during the first, Antonia received him generously and affably; during the second, she was reserved and courteous; and when these visits became fewer, she began to show herself curt, cold , and even uncivil, leaving him alone with Miguelito during the idle hours and going off to do her chores. The child, on the other hand, grew more affectionate with his friend every day, overwhelming him with caresses, questions , and attentions, in his own innocent way. Gastón, not knowing what to do to please his only friend in the house, contrived to find a small, inexpensive, and tame horse, which he bought in Puebla and brought to Sadorio, in order to give Miguel riding lessons. The idea produced a drunkenness of joy in the child; But Antonia, the first lesson over, called Gaston into the drawing room, and in phrases well chosen so as not to offend him, yet firm enough to reprimand him, told him plainly that his constant visits were not appropriate, nor were his gifts admissible. And as he showed great sorrow, Antonia softened her voice and added: “You must understand that, in this solitude, company is very pleasant; you must understand that I am neither unsociable, nor do I have so many distractions that I would interfere with what you provide me with your kind treatment. But I do not make you so unperceptive that you fail to realize the effect your daily visits must have on the public. ” “Is there an audience here, Antonia?” asked Gaston ironically. “There is one everywhere. This one is small and composed of simple people, but for that very reason they owe a good example, even in appearances; above all, when reality is honest and clear, and only honest and clear can be. Yes, my friend Landrey!” I want my little maids, Colasa and Minga, to truly esteem me … among other reasons, because I am to live with them for many years! In spite of himself, Gaston laughed at the lady’s wit, and bowing his head, he murmured: “Antonia, I truly wish to obey you… and you know that I shall obey you… but listen to me, since I have the good fortune that you speak to me with such noble frankness… which I prefer to the seriousness of yesterday. I have known you for a moment, you might say, and I have grown accustomed to your friendship so quickly and in such a strange way, that I need it as much as one needs air to breathe. Don’t frown: look, I am not courting; I swear it’s not about that! It’s just that I find myself in very special circumstances in my life, in those painful moments when it’s necessary for someone to listen to us and give us good advice; it’s that I find myself completely alone, isolated, disoriented, and I ‘m probably going to make a thousand blunders if I don’t have a good person who sees better than I do the issues on which my fortune and future depend. Chance has put me in contact with you, who also happens to be the only human being capable of inspiring my absolute, unconditional trust; because you have judgment and character… “Well, to the point,” Antonia interrupted, cutting short the praise. “If it’s about being of service to you… that’s different… Here I am. ” “Then accept for a while the role of my confidant and advisor. ” “Accepted,” the widow declared without hesitation. “I will be your confidant and advisor.” That doesn’t mean you come here often. You’ll come once a week… or less, if it’s not necessary. “I’ll resign myself,” sighed Gaston. “I’ll come on Saturdays, like the employees… or on Sundays… like the laundress. ” “I said maybe less often,” repeated Antonia smilingly. “I’ll probably schedule you for a biweekly shift. Anyway, that will depend on the consultation you want to ask me. I don’t know what kind it will be… So you can see that I’m starting by pleasing you: tomorrow you’re coming here for lunch, and after dinner, you’ll tell me those stories on which, you say, your future and your fortune depend. I’ll certainly need to reflect, because, as a Galician, I have a better back-and-forth than a deal. So, after the confidence, you won’t be back… for ten days.” But before you honor me with your trust, I in turn have the duty to inform you thoroughly about who I am, because you have only recently known me, and the references you may have heard about me may not shine with the most rigorous accuracy. “You have your supporters and your detractors, Antonia; and among the former is a very charming little lame girl, the daughter of my steward, Lourido. ” “Poor Concha!” Antonia murmured affectionately. “A most angelic creature! The resignation with which she suffers—because she is very ill— will win her a distinguished place where many proud and powerful people would like to achieve it.” And, thoughtful, the widow looked away from Gaston’s face. “I await your story, Antonia, so that my affection may increase,” M. de Landrey indicated respectfully. “Who knows?” I have something to accuse myself of, as you’ll see… I’m from Ferrol, and my father, Don Federico de Rojas, was a sailor. His extensive travels and natural talent made him, if not a scholar, at least a highly educated man. After my mother’s death , he concentrated all his affection on me and taught me certain things that girls don’t usually learn, for example, botany and natural history. From there came my fondness for collecting those strange creatures you see in the aquarium, and how much I enjoy my orchard and my garden, and my excursions into the mountains to create herbariums… I’ve filled a large closet with cardboard. I was eighteen years old when, at a dance on board, Don Luis Sarmiento met and courted me. He was young, rich, and very well-born; he fulfilled, in short, the qualities that parents dream of in their daughters’ suitors. There was no opposition; I got married, and a year later Miguelito was born. My husband was, besides all I have said, an excellent person: a gentleman, honorable, and of a very cheerful humor; only his parents had not taken care to teach him real life. He had already spent a lot as a bachelor, and to please and entertain me, he launched himself into greater expenditures after his marriage: he took me traveling throughout Europe, with a luxury that I now realize was foolish; he bought me jewels and suits; we rode trains, and we lived comfortably in Madrid, protecting artists and acquiring canvases and sculptures, as if our income were fifteen or twenty times more plentiful than it really was. Here I must accuse myself of my errors: instead of restraining My husband, I reveled like a madwoman in those splendors and pleasures, for I have such an instinct for pomp and art that I resemble no one but a Cleopatra… and to get to the point of making lye with my own hands, adversity had to beat me with some very strict discipline! Soon what had to happen happened: my husband found himself drowning in debt, mortgages, and usurious interest; the day came when he could no longer pay his debts or pay anyone, and then…’ Here Antonia’s blue, smiling eyes filled with tears, ‘then… he committed an attack…’ ‘They told me so,’ Gaston hastened to interrupt, seeing the difficulty Antonia was having in bringing up the point. ‘I wish,’ she continued, ‘you had told me the truth about our position!’ The same affection he had for me forced him to remain silent… He didn’t feel brave enough to confess to me that we were ruined and that our son would be poor. If God had inspired him with such sincerity—and that’s why I will never deny anyone the consolation of a confidence—I, with all my affection, would have comforted him, persuading him of the truth: that we could still live… so happily! We would have done what I did later: sell everything, get rid of everything, pay our creditors, and retire here in peace. The misfortune confused him and made him forget that he was a Christian, the head of a family, the father of a son to whom he owed the example of resignation and fortitude … He said nothing to me; he didn’t trust me, he closed his heart to me… he didn’t look at me as a friend… And do you know why? It was my fault: because he could see in me nothing but a senseless girl, dazed by the finery, the amusements, and the pleasures of the world and of wealth… You see how I have nothing to accuse myself of! The widow sighed deeply; and recovering herself and drying her eyes with her handkerchief, she continued: “I had only one consolation, and if it weren’t for him, I believe that that catastrophe, instead of costing me my health for a few years, would have cost me my life at once. ” “Your son?” said Gaston, guessing. “That’s not consolation, that’s myself,” replied Antonia. “No; consolation, and a great one!” It was that my husband lived for three more hours after the attempt… and he did not lose consciousness… and I begged him so much, and I kissed his face and hands so much in those three hours… that he repented… he confessed… and died absolved! The silence that followed these words had something magnetic about it: it seemed to Gaston that he had just discovered Antonia’s soul—strong, because she was a believer. His eyes, lit up with fervent enthusiasm, made the lady’s eyes descend to the ground. “Afterwards,” she said hastily, in order to break that sudden current, “I found myself involved in a thousand difficulties in untangling the tiny estate that remained for my son. I sold my jewels, my lace, even my dresses and fur and velvet coats; I sold the carriages, the paintings, the clay pieces, the tapestries, and the furniture, and of course, the silver and the tableware; Everything luxurious was sold, I believe at a bargain price, but in such shipwrecks it always happens that way: the sea must be given its share of the spoils. I remembered that this house of Sadorio’s had been repaired and enlarged by order of my husband, who was fond of the walls that had seen his birth; and here I took refuge and have lived ever since, taking advantage of the country’s cheapness and the resources for domestic economy provided by the orchard and the meadows. Miguel is growing robust, and I enjoy comforts that perhaps I didn’t have in my days of extravagance. Do you doubt it? In Madrid we didn’t have forests, or extensive gardens, or fresh flowers at all hours, or fish from the sea in the pan… You know, I’m even economizing… Gosh! I’m putting away a few savings for when Miguel has to pursue a career and I find myself obliged to accompany him; which I will do so that he doesn’t become discouraged or corrupt… That day when I will have to leave Sadorio… I think I will regret it very much. I have become accustomed to this freedom and this calm… We could easily draw a similar moral from this. of the maxims that Miguelito wrote on his front pages, after the slashes: “By loving duty we turn it into pleasure.” You already know my vulgar story… Chapter 11. The Council. Deeply impressed, Gastón left Sadorio that afternoon; and although the hours remaining before he saw Antonia again were few, they seemed many to his impatience. Sooner than he thought, however, he regained sight of his friend. It was Sunday, and as Gastón went down to La Puebla for high mass, the widow was kneeling there, but she didn’t even turn her head: she assisted at the holy sacrifice with unaffected composure, and at her side, Miguel—strange novelty!—also remained still and attentive, like a little saint, although with such quicksilver in his legs that when the mass was over and he went out into the atrium, he jumped more than a dozen times: he seemed to have gone mad. Florita, who had spotted Gastón in the church, hooked him up as she left, and while she was flirting with him in her typical country style, Antonia and Miguel disappeared. The Mayor’s wife and daughter were musing , “Why wasn’t Gastón staying to eat with them? Where was he, that he was so secretive? What was the substance of Sadorio’s honey? Had the bees stung him, that he was so serious?” He had a hard time getting away from these obsequious interlocutors, using as an excuse very urgent matters, and not without promising to return on Monday. “Just like that,” he thought, “Antonia, after today, is going to banish me for a while…” With a hurried step, like someone following the trail of his desire, he took the road to Sadorio; And now that he was nearing the fifth, he realized that he mustn’t arrive before the appointed hour, two o’clock, and he whiled away the time as best he could, entering a peasant woman’s house and asking for a glass of milk. It was served to him fresh and sparkling, for the cow was in the stable, it being Sunday, and there was no one to take her to pasture in the morning; and Gaston teased the old woman who was milking the cow and presenting the brimming bowl, discovering with childish joy that she was one of Antonia’s wards. “That winter, the old woman had been so far gone,” were her words, “that she was already on her last legs, may God grant me peace!” And if it weren’t for the broth they sent every day from Sadorio and the medicines the young lady paid for at the pharmacy in Puebla, I wouldn’t tell the tale… “–With this pleasant conversation for Gaston, the time drew near for him to appear at the villa, and he hurried there, leaving a duro in the milk bowl in the gnarled hand of the chatty old woman… who showered him with blessings. Antonia received him cordially, Miguel with rapturous affection, and the three of them sat down at a table whose elegance consisted in the decoration of natural flowers and the shine of the china and glass, and where only the delicacies tempted the appetite for their freshness and pleasant simplicity. The oysters from Puebla, washed down with lemon picked in the orchard; the cake of hare hunted in the neighboring mountains; the hen fattened in the home yard; The thick quince preserve, skillfully prepared by Colasa, made up the banquet. They went out to have coffee at their usual pleasant spot; and as Miguelito, playing with Otello, wandered off from time to time, Gaston took advantage of the propitious occasion and very slowly told Antonia his entire story. He omitted nothing, not his mother’s last warnings , nor the dissipation of his early years, nor his ruin, nor the duplicity of the cursed Uñasín, nor the revelation of Doña Catalina de Landrey, nor the advice about the treasure, nor the recent worries and unjust demands of Don Cipriano Lourido… Antonia listened attentively, and from time to time, if she did not find the story clear enough, she interrupted with specific questions, to which Gaston answered sincerely, trying not to alter the facts or the reality of his feelings in the slightest. The need for expansion and relief that he felt loosened his tongue and moved him to accuse himself, seeming as if he saw his moral image reflected in a clear mirror, and a higher power impelled him to minutely describe the defects and flaws of that image. When he had finished, Antonia remained silent for a moment: she reflected, and her usually cheerful face took on an expression of gravity in keeping with the functions of judge of a soul that she was preparing to exercise. “Antonia,” exclaimed Gaston earnestly, seeing her remain silent and thoughtful, “speak up; do not hesitate to describe me as you please, nor to shatter my illusions regarding the imaginary treasure. I am ready for anything, and you will almost do me a favor by finally extirpating my chimerical hopes. Treat me, Antonia, at least today… like a brother. In exchange for the dream of the treasure, you will give me another dream a hundred times more beautiful: I will dream that you are interested in me: you will see if I come out on top. ” “You won’t be angry if I express myself frankly?” asked the counselor, smiling. “Not a thousand times… _On the contrary_, as you told me the first time I saw you and asked if my visit would bother you. ” “Well, what I gather from your story is that you are responsible for half plus one of the misfortunes that have befallen you up to this day. Losing your mother was misfortune; ruining yourself, guilt. ” “I admit it. Go ahead; reprimand me. ” “Yes, I must reprimand you, and in very severe terms, because, my friend Gaston, there are ruins upon ruins. He who undertakes something useful; he who invests his capital with a good purpose and has the misfortune of not making the right choice and losing it; he who, through unexpected reverses, is left poor, deserves pity. You are not in that case: you have squandered everything in the most frivolous and insubstantial manner, and, to make matters worse, giving scandal to the world and a bad example to your friends and servants.” You had wealth to manage and an ancient and illustrious name to uphold; you have devoted that wealth to insipidity and folly, and you have left the name at the mercy of the Lourids, now the protectors of Monsieur de Landrey. You see if the tribulation is deserved. However prepared Gaston was to hear unpleasant things, and however great Antonia’s prestige was to say them to him, he felt a mortifying embarrassment and a desire to apologize. “That’s true, Antonia; but remember, so as not to judge me too harshly, that if I hadn’t encountered two scoundrels whom fate had dealt me, after all, my fortune would be somewhat diminished today. ” Antonia frowned, and her face assumed an even more severe and sad expression. “That doesn’t excuse you. On the contrary , it seems to me to accuse you more. You have been foolishly overconfident.” You didn’t want to bother even to find out to whom you were entrusting your interests, nor to devote even an hour of your wasted pleasures to watching over them. Scoundrels are born spontaneously alongside the abandoned like yourself. If Uñasín and Lourido hadn’t messed with you, others who would be called something else would have—the only difference is that. And don’t tell me you lacked good advice, Gastón… because you had such good advice that there is no better; and if you hadn’t forgotten your mother’s words , that fortune is given to us as if in trust… today you would be a happy, rich man with a clear conscience; you would be… listen carefully, Gastón, because this phrase seems to me to say it all… a “steward of God”… which is what one must be, and the rest is nonsense! A radiant light penetrated Gastón’s spirit, and he almost felt the impulse to kneel and beat his chest with a closed fist. All this might have mortified him a little, but… how true it all was! Antonia, perceptive at last as a woman, noted the effect of the homily very well, and her face widened. “If you aspire to restore Landrey’s wealth only to throw it over the balcony again, I have no faith in the advice I am going to give you: you will fall back into misery, and who knows, perhaps into dishonor. Before rebuilding your fortune, which is an external thing, rebuild yourself inside: I “It seems the most urgent thing. If your future is to be changed, change yourself, transform yourself into another man…” “I think you’re right, Antonia,” exclaimed Mr. de Landrey enthusiastically. “I know I’ve been… a wreck; frankly! I want to regenerate myself… but I won’t be able to if you don’t help me. I’m very alone: ​​no one loves me; no one cares about me…” I hadn’t noticed this until today; I lived in a frenzy, and in my daze, I didn’t understand the emptiness in my soul. Now I know I lack support and warmth… If you don’t extend your hand to me, Antonia, you who are so strong, so upright, so brave… I’ll do nothing; I’ll throw myself into the furrow.” Sarmiento’s widow was filled with emotion; but it was like the fleeting passage of a red cloud across a calm sky. Weighing her words, whose importance she recognized, she responded serenely: “If by extending a hand you mean what I’m doing… you already have it extended.” But outside that door,” and he pointed to the gate , “it’s you who must take advantage. Aren’t you a man? Shouldn’t a man be able to gather his strength and his will and accomplish a purpose? If I weren’t a woman, I would join you in working together on the restoration of Landrey; I would even enjoy the undertaking. Your delicacy must make you understand that on this occasion I cannot forget the reserve inherent in skirts. Not even as a consultant would I like you to come to me in the future. A course of conduct remains for you, or am I very much mistaken, or can you follow it alone? What, won’t you be able to remedy your situation? Because then… ” “And that course of conduct?” he murmured with tender submission. “You know it; it will turn inside out like a glove. You were a spender, and you must be economical; you were trusting, and you must be suspicious; you were a sleepyhead, and you must be an early riser; You were lazy, and you have to be active; you were lazy, and you have to work ten hours a day, do paperwork, crunch numbers, bury yourself up to your neck in accounts… You shouldn’t entrust your affairs to anyone, and you shouldn’t waste a single day on whims. Coming here is a whim too. Come in today, because we’re talking about serious matters; but if you happen to play hooky with Miguelito, I’m not going to lend myself to it. You no longer own a minute! “But, Antonia,” Gastón objected humorously, “what you advise me would be in character if I still had millions to manage. Those who robbed me took away those desires. By my faith, I feel quite free. ” “That’s the mistake,” Antonia exclaimed. “There’s no such ruin. What they’ve done is mess up your affairs in a terrible way; they want to eat you to the bone; but I’ll bet what I don’t have that if you set your mind to it, you’ll untangle them.” You yourself admit that you couldn’t possibly spend what the Uñasín peje (a thief) has invested. If you sit back, it’s clear they’ll end up taking it all. Do you want to hear what I would do in your place? “As if I had to blindly obey whatever you decide,” declared Gastón, feeling revived. “Then flatter Lourido; make him understand that he’ll get whatever you want; and just ask him for some light to unravel the Madrid situation. Use one scoundrel against another scoundrel. This is permissible, and since it’s not a matter of doing anything cunning… Lourido is a man who can hear the grass growing; he has great aptitude for business; in any field other than La Puebla, we’d have one of those banking kings who sweat for gold. Use Lourido to bring the Madrid man into line.” Study the problem with Lourido, and when you’ve thoroughly absorbed the doctrines of that master—for the present case, it’s not even necessary—pack your bags and go to Madrid to begin unraveling the ball of yarn. After you’ve put things in order there, you can devote yourself to what’s here. As for Landrey, for now, you must regard him as a secondary matter. “In all this, Antonia,” questioned Gaston, who had eagerly absorbed the widow’s words, “you’re not telling me anything about… the main thing. ” “What do you call the main thing? ” “The treasure. ” “The main thing, the treasure? Oh my God! I’m afraid that for half a century now, ” Now I’m preaching in the wilderness. ” “Do you think the treasure is a hoax? Say it at once… and I’ll think no more about it. ” “My opinion,” Antonia replied slowly, “is that the treasure exists. ” “Ah!” cried Gaston, already seeing the gold gleam and the precious stones sparkle. “That it exists… and you shouldn’t look for it! ” “How is that?” questioned Gaston, greatly surprised, although he was getting used to the originality of his advisor and friend. “You see… First, I’ll tell you why I suppose the treasure exists. There can be no doubt that it existed when your great-grandfather wrote the document and drew up the plan enclosed in the silver box. A father doesn’t deceive his beloved daughter from his deathbed.” “Doña Catalina’s story is not a figment of her imagination weakened by age either: what she told you is in accordance with what Telma knows and is confirmed by tradition,–the burning of papers, Don Martín’s disaffection for his son, his preference for the daughter who was with him.” “Since that happened, sixty years have passed, and the castle has been in the power of stewards and housekeepers. None of them has become millionaires or squandered funds: then none has discovered the treasure… ” “And Lourido?” interrupted Gaston. “Now we come to Lourido… It’s true that he passes for rich here, and he is so to a certain extent, because he sucked like a leech the goods of the house and lent at interest, and bought at contempt, exploiting the unfortunates; But even so, Lourido’s wealth is village wealth. We’ve seen it grow, and we know where it comes from. If he had found the treasure, he would prosper at once, and he would leave here, because his wife and daughter Flora are dying to fly to other spheres… Neither has Lourido found the treasure, although he searched for it well!… “He searched for it?” asked Gaston, shuddering at seeing his suspicions confirmed. “I believe so… I have little to do with what is called ‘lordship’ here, but I talk a great deal with the villagers… and they, in their own way, snoop around and know everything. In this region, the secret of the treasure is an open secret. Lourido has carried out several secret excavations, and people think that what he is looking for are the jewels that the Moorish Queen took to the tomb. I have laughed at those jewels and at the credulity of the peasants a thousand times, because I did not know what you have just confided in me.” Today I understand that Lourido had a nose for it. That he hasn’t been able to find anything so far is also proven to me by another reason: his determination to seize Landrey Castle. Master of the castle, he will raze it and will not stop until he finds the treasure, which drives him mad with greed. “Well, Antonia; all that is divinely deduced, what doesn’t seem so is the reason why I don’t do, in the exercise of my right, what Lourido failed to do,” exclaimed Gaston, breathing heavily. “The reason… Oh! And how stubborn you are! “How difficult it will be for you to mend your ways!” the widow declared with sorrow and even a certain tedium, which mortified her friend. “The reason is that the treasure represents for you the unknown and the fantastic, the whack of a wand in a magic trick, the fate that catches us asleep and throws our goods upon us as it might throw a bucket of water… What a joke you would make if, by discovering the treasure, you could replenish your fortune! What a brave act of valor! After all, fortune is the least of it. Your soul , your conduct, your regeneration through work and through a life that does not result in harm and perversion for yourself and also for others, that is what matters here, at least in my opinion… and we had agreed that I was the judge in this dispute… or are you backing out?” “No,” replied Gaston energetically, with an involuntary effort. ” I commend myself to you, and I imagine that I have understood your instructions well and that I am going to follow them in such a way… that you yourself will be amazed. ” “God willing! Well, that being the case, the treasure,” I repeat, “means to you something insane, a kind of lottery that you are counting on to remedy the evils caused by your improvidence and your crazy life. If you aspire to that I esteem him… he will leave the treasure alone. These things that are due to chance are appreciated when chance decides to send them our way, but they are not sought; to seek them would be to follow in the footsteps of Lourido… and you must not set yourself such an example. Gaston fell silent. He felt himself subjugated by this spirited woman, in whom he had to recognize superiority of judgment and firmness of will. This feeling was accompanied, it must be admitted, by a certain humiliation. He could not doubt that Antonia expressed ideas worthy of a man, and that he should have thought all this through earlier, instead of falling asleep to the lullaby of enjoyment and in the bosom of laziness and indolence. “What a lesson she is teaching me!” he thought. “It seems as if I see in a mirror the face of the most useless person on earth! But I will show Antonia that, when the time comes, I also know how to master circumstances!” And I must certainly find out if the one who administers this wise advice to me has anything resembling a heart in that healthy and beautiful body … Because to this day, at least to me, it seems that no such viscera exists in Antonia. While ingratitude and fatuity dictated similar reflections to the badly converted Gaston, Antonia, as if she wished to confirm her friend’s opinion of her detachment and insensitivity, added: “I have already told you everything I can about your present situation. If you are capable of fully understanding it all, you needn’t insist; and if not… any insistence I have would be hammering home . I don’t think you will appreciate such nagging. Besides, a man of your age… is hard to lead. If you want to do me a favor in turn and keep my name from spreading to other people, you will definitely stop coming here .” I don’t know if the coarse malice of the villages is more terrible than the subtle and ingenious malice of large towns. If you are sincere with me, you will confess that you have reason to agree with me on this. “That’s true, Antonia,” replied the young gentleman of Landrey nobly. “Even today, at the end of mass, there are sinful mouths… But, in the final analysis,” he added, allowing himself to be carried away by the powerful attraction that Antonia exerted over him, “what do we care? Who has the right to supervise us? Aren’t we free? ” “No one is free…” stammered Antonia, her voice trembling, “and you least of all. You must uphold your house and your name! Devote all your time and all the energy you can to that task. Coming here is a distraction like any other. It’s not good for you to be distracted… And finally, I don’t want you to come… and you must respect my wish.” “I will respect that, Antonia; I promise, you’ll see,” he replied in a tone that seemed cold, but was nothing but the veil of a deep and painful resentment. The last afternoon that Gaston spent in the garden of the villa ended sadly. Antonia tried hard to revive the conversation, but the young Master of Landrey had closed himself off in a disdainful silence. When he withdrew, he barely shook his advisor’s hand; he pressed Miguelito’s hand to his heart and kissed him passionately on the eyes. Chapter 12. Tactics and Strategy. Gaston kept his promise to go to dinner the next day with Lourido’s family ; They greeted her at first with a certain hostility, but the scene changed, even as soon as Señorito de Landrey, seated to Florita’s left, engaged the girl in a flirtatious skirmish, so marked that it surprised Concha and delighted the Mayor and the Mayoress. It was obvious: the young gentleman was courting the girl! And how well he insinuated himself, and how he knew how to hit his shots, and how expressively he expressed the impression produced by Flora’s beauty! She, out of pure conceit, did not touch the plates: and Concha, with her invincible good humor, let loose with this dry jibe: “What saint is today, Flora? As I see that you fast at the transfer…” However, the one addressed did not recover her appetite; such was her enchantment at the to receive the incendiary glances and constant attentions of Gaston, who, while serving her, while joking with her, adopted the languid attitudes of a gallant eager to conceal his inclinations and unable to do so. Suffocated beneath the thick layer of rice powder, Flora compared the municipal judge to that handsome and arrogant gentleman, whose manners breathed distinction and graceful ease, whose clothes transcended some faint, fine perfume, and who was also _the young master_, the owner of Landrey, the most eminent personage she had ever met along her path, a being unlike any other… The Mayor’s rat-like little eyes also sparkled. Wasn’t _that, that_ exactly what he had dared to dream of, a day when he would recount his already plentiful finances… but as one dreams of the most unexpected stroke of luck, which may come and yet, we swear, will never come? Florita, Madame de Landrey! What the devil! That’s what the father squeezed the lemon of the loan for; that’s what he drank the sweat of the laborers and the tears of the orphans and the widows for; that’s why he knows how to make an ounce double in a year’s time and yield thirty-two duros to the credit card! When the meal was over, Flora showed signs of wanting to drag Gaston down the path to piano perdition; but Master Landrey, like someone making an effort, begged Lourido to grant him a meeting to talk business. They locked themselves in the study, and Gaston, with confident abandon, informed Don Cipriano of what was happening to him. “If I find, Don Cipriano, that I owe you five thousand duros… or perhaps more… I would like to pay them immediately, God knows, but if I don’t put the lands and the castle up for auction, which you say would be a mistake… ” “A fool!” exclaimed the usurer, who thought he was saying a centipede. “Well, I believe it too…” declared Gastón naively. “But I repeat, unless I commit this foolish act… I don’t know how to manage. It turns out that, in Madrid, my affairs are even worse than here. It seems to me that my agent, Señor de Uñasín, a very honorable fellow, has been wrong… and that he has gotten me into a very big mess. And since you are so intelligent, I have come to consult you… Do you want to inquire into this file?” The file contained the account statements and receipts sent by Uñasín for his review and approval, which Mr. Landrey had received in one of his last mailings, accompanied by a very saccharine letter in which the vulture requested that they be returned to him as soon as possible, legalized and in good order, “in order to appease the creditors, who are poisonous.” Lourido, with feverish speed, took that bundle of papers and began to examine it page by page, passionately. “If you would only learn it slowly,” said Gaston indifferently , “the truth is… as all this business stuff bores me… I would prefer that you struggle there with these tomes… and I would return to the drawing-room… I’ve left your daughters speechless !… Before I go up to Landrey, I’ll go back and see what you’ve come up with …” And with the air of someone who has just shaken off a fly, he ran into the drawing-room, while Lourido rubbed his hands with joy… When Gaston reappeared in the office at dusk, Lourido greeted him with an explosion of exaggerated indignation and ironic satisfaction; and laughing and growling at the same time, he exclaimed: “That’s not a bad Filipino point, the Attorney General! Most honorable… yes, may God grant us good honesty!” I had already swallowed it up, because of things that happened to me with him; ” But I didn’t think you’d be so _vile_! You’ve got things all rigged, young master… rigged! Not a skein left to the cat… ” “So… I’m hopelessly ruined?” asked Gaston. “No way! Am I just sucking my thumb? If you’ll let me study this protocol for a few more hours… I’ll tell you how you’re going to start getting out of this quagmire. Things have to be turned around five times. At first, everything It seems like the universal world, and then it turns out to be a _cradle_ of small millet. “You see,” said Gaston with the same abandonment. ” It had already occurred to me that there might be taint here… only I didn’t know how to defend myself. And, the truth is: _today_ I would feel poor; I am terribly tired of the bachelor life, and I wish to settle down here, in this beautiful country, in that old house in Landrey, which you supported and I would like to fix up… A simple woman, a pretty and honest young woman, unaffected by the deceits and the madness of the court…” he added, as if absorbed and speaking to himself. “But to marry without having any bread!… No. What I will do, if I cannot save anything of my estate, will be to go somewhere with a destination that my friends in Madrid give me… ” “Jesus, young sir!” Leave it to me, guide yourself, and I assure you that we shall succeed… Tonight I’ll struggle with the papers, and tomorrow come here, and I’ll tell you… “I was thinking of coming anyway, because your daughters want us to go for a walk and go fishing for panchos…” responded Gaston with the careless cheerfulness proper of a boy of sixteen at most. When Gaston left, the Lourido family conferred—except for Concha, whom they sent to her room for being suspicious and recalcitrant. “The result of the conference was that the Mayoress, and above all, as was natural, Florita, had noticed in the owner of Landrey signs of the finest infatuation; which, together with the words that had escaped him in Lourido’s office, heated their minds and provided material for phantasmagoria of the future.” However, neither Flora nor her mother could see in those rosy prospects what Don Cipriano saw: the treasure buried in Landrey’s foundations, the search for and discovery of which would now be lawful and could be carried out without fear when done in the name of the master, but the master married to the steward’s daughter… Thus that mysterious wealth buried and hidden in the stone depths of Landrey acted on the minds of all who suspected its existence, and guided their decisions, according to the respective quality of their souls, impelling Antonia to advise detachment, and Lourido to embrace Gaston’s cause and fight from afar, opposing his penetration and Galician slyness to the tricks of Uñasín… Several days passed, during which Lourido did a great deal of paperwork and held several conferences with Gaston, learning details that were important to the pending matters. In this first campaign, Lourido demonstrated a perspicacity, an instinct for business, that astonished the young gentleman; in another environment, that village usurer would have been able to hold his own with the merchants who subjugate a commercial market and make millions sprout wherever they set foot; moreover, he possessed the innate aptitude of a cautious race, from a land where everyone knows the law and is capable of twisting the argument of the most subtle lawyer. While the steward was unraveling Gastón’s intricate business dealings, he, affecting an Olympian disdain for the matter at hand, took advantage of opportunities to escape to chat with the girls, that is, with Florita, whose love he had already declared; and each day they invented walks and escapades through the mountains and along the beach, fishing trips, or picnics in some grove, which made the municipal judge, once the favorite and now the scorned adorer of the pretty blonde, writhe with jealousy. In La Puebla, the only thing anyone could talk about was the young gentleman of Landrey’s love affair with his steward’s daughter, and a wedding was believed to be imminent, which surprised no one, given the fabulous wealth that local exaggerations attributed to Lourido. Only Telma, with that freedom of expression acquired by old-fashioned servants, occasionally threw clear and very bitter hints to her master. “What would the Lady Commander have said if she had seen her nephew cozying up to that filthy Lourido, who had entered the castle in rags, in his pants, and was now fat from sucking the juice out of his masters!” To these outbursts of the old maid, Gaston responded with laughter and jokes, and sometimes with open and strong embraces, for he had come, in that solitude, to develop a deep affection for Thelma, giving all his value to the unconditional devotion of a being whose life had been completely absorbed by the house of Landrey, asking of it no more than the ivy asks of the wall: to cling. Among the many new ideas that were making their way into Gaston’s mind, was that of the rights of every human creature; and Thelma, who had previously been for him something like an “object” he had grown accustomed to seeing, was becoming a “person.” He had always treated her with sweetness, and now he respected her… inwardly, with a pious respect; And the day he reached this Christian and moral height—respect for his maid—Gastón felt a secret joy, and climbing the tower of the Moorish Queen, he aimed his spyglass at Antonia’s garden and saw Miguelito playing with Othello there. The widow didn’t appear; she was probably out of sight, probably working. Meanwhile, Lourido was coming to master the matter entrusted to his tact and intelligence. Like an explorer entering a forest, cutting down with his axe everything that stands in his way, he was opening a path through the obstacles piled up by Uñasín. Isolating the issues, he could now affirm that with the existing data and a great deal of energy, Uñasín would have no choice but to vomit up what he had tried to devour: Landrey’s house, battered but alive. It would be necessary to sacrifice more than a third, and the other two would be left afloat, encumbered with some credits and mortgages that would not be difficult to discharge… “The young gentleman would find someone to lend him money on better terms!” Lourido exclaimed fervently, hinting , in phrases that were meant to be reticent and veiled, but clearer than sieve cloth, what Gaston could expect once he was elevated to the rank of his son-in-law, and when freeing the Landrey estate would mean saving the patrimony of Don Cipriano’s descendants… Gaston approved of everything, although he learned it only minutely: never had a disciple asked more questions, nor listened more attentively to a master. As if suffering from the influence of the Mayor’s intelligence and the contagion of his activity, he had gradually taken to working with him first for an hour, then up to three, without neglecting, for all that, the expeditions and the chases on foot and on donkey, accompanying Florita. During office hours, he delved into matters of great importance to him, preparing himself for the indispensable and urgent trip to Madrid, where he was to consult with a renowned lawyer and go head-to-head with Uñasín. Don Cipriano trained him, dotted his i’s, and made him pay special attention to the thousand legal twists and turns that can be taken on the same issue. The young master of Landrey’s eyes fell upon him. He saw not only the exploitation of which he was a victim, but also the strong and cunning weave of the net in which he was entangled, and the way in which he was broken through the meshes and thrust his head out to breathe and his hands out to finally tear open the odious prison. The comical note was Lourido’s indignation at demonstrating Uñasín’s intelligence and skill. His exclamations could be translated as follows: “What a pity I didn’t think of that trick myself! What a fine blow for this Maragato to strike!” When Gaston believed he had mastered all necessary matters, he left Telma guarding the castle and left for Madrid, where he hoped to lose no time. Florita, since his departure, maintained absolute seclusion; she saved more than a bushel of flour, so she stopped powdering herself; she gave her beautiful blond hair a break, not tormenting it with curling irons; she loosened her corset three fingers; she gave herself the early tone of a noble widow, and even agreed to accompany her sister Concha, organizer of a splendid novena, with joy, to the church for the Patron Saint of La Puebla. There she had the pleasure of peeking at Antonia Rojas, who attended the novena every afternoon and who She appeared somewhat faded and less lively than usual. Chapter 13. The Golden Ring. Gaston was in Madrid for a little over a month, and on the afternoon of his return, seeing Thelma who had come out to wait for him, he embraced her with such affection that the old servant burst into tears. The young gentleman was very different: how formal, how composed, what a man! The day after his arrival, Gaston began giving orders to arrange the rooms of the castle and repair whatever was most urgently needed . The comfortable furniture, the clothes, the entire trousseau would arrive shortly by rail. Gaston was clearing his Madrid station and bringing in the furniture; he had also acquired many things, not luxurious, but necessary. Bricklayers and carpenters began to repair the ceilings and floors of the Pazo and the chapel, closed since time immemorial, in whose magnificent baroque altarpiece doves and swallows nested, and in whose pulpit a tribe of mice took refuge. A week passed, and since Gastón hadn’t come down to La Puebla, nor given any sign of being there for Don Cipriano’s family, Florita, who dressed up every day to no avail, suffered a nervous breakdown and fainted, and the Mayor, riding his mare, anxiously climbed the stony road. Gastón received him affably, was pleased that he had thought of coming, and treated him to wine and biscuits; then the two of them shut themselves up in the room that Señor de Landrey was beginning to use as an office, installing shelves with books and papers and a minister’s desk. The ambush lasted more than two hours, and at the end of them, Lourido emerged in a pitiful state: haggard, lifeless-eyed, droopy-eared, even trembling in his hands. Telma, who ran to order the mare to be brought to the door of the Pazo and held in place by the stirrup, noticed the Mayor turn his head two or three times and look back, clenching his fists, like someone who wants to devour something or someone with his sight and desire… Two days later—it was Sunday—Miguelito, who was entertaining himself by launching a splendid squadron of paper boats into the water in the fountain basin , heard hands placed over his eyes, and a voice saying: “Who am I? ” “Gastón, Gastón!” the child cried, breaking free and flying toward the house. “Mama! Gastón is here!” Antonia Rojas was not long in appearing: Gaston greeted her with effusive joy, and looked long, yet tenderly into her face, finding her wasted and thin, like a person who has suffered. “Have you been ill?” asked M. de Landrey anxiously, going to the place where they used to chat, the seats near the fountain. “I’m not ill,” replied Antonia weakly, whose voice, however, was broken, and the clarity of her beautiful eyes and the previously lively crimson of her fiery mouth were gone. “It’s a little weakness, or I don’t know what… In short, nothing.” “Come on, tell me about your affairs… You’re back from Madrid… I suppose you’ve arranged something… You haven’t wasted your time… ” “Antonia, Antonia!” responded Gaston, who seemed utterly insane. “Yes, I have… I have wasted all the time that elapsed between this day and the one on which you banished me from your house… I have wasted all the time I was not near you… but I must make amends, by heaven! And now you must allow me to remain at your side… for… for many years… Will you? ” Antonia’s pallor turned into a very lively blush; the silken curtain of her eyelids fell over her gray eyes, and only the agitation of her bosom answered M. de Landrey’s passionate question. Pulling herself together at last, she was able to utter, not without much confusion and embarrassment: “I don’t understand… What is it about? I don’t believe you will repay my friendship with an insult or a tasteless joke!” –What’s the point? If you previously sent me away to prevent our friendship from scandalizing these good people, there is a way that my presence here, instead of scandalizing, will edify! That everyone understand her, approve of her, and perhaps envy her!… Antonia, how long have you known what you are now hearing! The widow, with a powerful effort, calmed herself completely. Without needing to lay her hand on her heart, she had steadied its beating by one of those acts of will whose secret is possessed by natures that are both energetic and resigned at the same time. Her spirited and frank smile once again played upon her large, expansive mouth and upon her gray eyes, which calmly fixed themselves upon Gaston’s, ablaze with enthusiasm and youthful spirit. And revealing in her voice calmness and dignity, she answered slowly: “I have known for some time that you… have seen in me something more… or something less than a friend… and that is why I begged you not to visit me often, and, lately… that is to say, long before the journey… to suppress them altogether. ” Even if you hadn’t shown such pleasure in coming, I would have asked you the same, for a thousand reasons of prudence. But… since you, at my request, left here… many things have happened! “To you, Antonia?” Gaston questioned anxiously. “Not to me. I’ve gone on with my usual life. To you… ” “It’s true,” he declared, reassured. “My fortune has completely changed, and I owe it to you, Antonia of my heart! I thought I was poor, ruined, even burdened with debts greater than my assets… and thanks to your discreet advice, your wise lessons, I find myself the owner of a large part of that fortune I thought was lost, and what’s better, free from traps and difficulties, without depending on anyone for anything. This alone would be owing you an immense benefit… Well, the best is yet to come, the greatest kindness you have bestowed upon me!” I was a useless man, an idle bon vivant, who, if he lacked the instincts for vice, had acquired the habits of dissipation that lead imperceptibly to it. You have awakened me, enlightened me, and made me reflect on my own destiny. I have seen myself and been ashamed of myself. I have compared myself to you and blushed at loving you, worth so little. I have resolved to deserve you by changing my life and my habits. Today I could return to my old ways; with what I have saved from the shipwreck, I have enough to rejoin the ranks of elegant vagrancy. Instead of doing so, I have come to Landrey to restore my family’s old house, not out of vanity, but to succeed, with your help, in putting my mother’s advice into practice and be the sole trustee of my wealth… Antonia listened with a shining gaze, her lips parted as if to drink the manna of those delicious words: her expression was one of profound, unconquerable happiness. However, a thought that flashed through his eyes suddenly darkened them. With difficulty, steadying his voice, which was growing hoarse with emotion, he asked: “How did you save your estate? I wish to know. What means did you use to make Lourido as gentle as a glove?” Somewhat confused, Gaston prepared to intone his mea culpa. “Antonia, I will be entirely loyal to you… because I now consider you as my own conscience… When I asked your opinion and you so accurately outlined my course of conduct, I at first felt a little disappointed… yes, disappointed, it’s the truth… seeing a woman teaching me such a lesson… Perhaps this bad feeling wouldn’t last a minute, if you didn’t order me, immediately afterward, not to contribute anything here… This order, whose reasons I understand!” It hurt my pride: I believed that you ought to feel something for me, even if it were only a tender friendship… and so much integrity and so much coldness irritated me… In short, I left here annoyed and eager to make you suffer for your womanly vanity… to find out if you loved me at all… You see how much foolishness and evil instincts there are in me!… I decided to make you angry… and at the same time… to think me clever and a man of many charms! Aren’t you laughing? Well, I’m telling you this to make you laugh, not to make you sad… “I can’t laugh,” murmured Antonia. “You’ve given me enough punishment for that… To cut a long story short, I went into Lourido’s house morning and night, and while the father was beginning to unravel the tricks there, and was impressing upon me how easy it was to extricate myself from the trap into which I had fallen, the daughter… imagined… persuaded herself that… ” “That you were marrying her!” Antonia burst out, as if in spite of herself, and unable to restrain herself. “And the whole country thought so, and the marriage was taken for granted… ” “Antonia,” Gaston declared seriously, “my fault is not so great as you suppose!… Now I know that I did not act with complete chivalry, and that not all means are well employed; undoubtedly, if Lourido did not imagine that I was wooing his daughter, he would not take the extraordinary interest he took in arranging my affairs… ” “Be certain of it.” You had the sad skill to deceive that scoundrel, and also his daughter, a woman… There’s some advice I hadn’t given you. “You are severe and cruel! Antonia, you can take me on my word of honor; I have never said a word to Flora about love or marriage. Flattery, jokes, compliments, nonsense, accompanying her, yes; anything else, certainly not. That family, from the moment they saw me and learned of my ruin, which for them was still prosperity, dreamed of me marrying Flora, and their stubbornness is understandable; they turned it all into substance.” “Acknowledging that I was indebted to Don Cipriano for the teachings he gave me and the fine work he did to break down the Uñasín cobweb, I have signed his accounts in a fallow land, which on a smaller scale were worthy of the other one’s—a blunder!” and as soon as I signed them, since I have sold properties and have money on hand, I paid you back the six thousand you are taking from _bobilis_… Besides , I intend to send Concha a locket and Flora a pretty bracelet… not the betrothal bracelet, because that one… that one, I have here! And I ask you to be good and accept it at once as proof that you forgive me! With a graceful movement, Antonia rejected the thin gold band in which a large pearl was set, and answered, trying to hide her keen feelings: “Gastón, there is no thoughtless decision that is not later mourned… Give me time to reflect, and to reflect alone, consulting myself… Your mischief with Flora deserves some punishment… I am imposing eight days of banishment on you. Come back next Sunday… ” “How outrageous!” cried Gastón. “Eight days!” Antonia, I will not be patient… Why do you subject me to such a quarantine, if you were moved when you saw me enter the garden? You were moved! I saw it! And nothing; since you are so iron-headed, it will be of no use for me to beg for mercy… “It would be of no use,” Antonia replied sweetly. “You must know my defects well, and convince yourself of my stubbornness. That way you will not be deceived. ” “But I am going to be very bored,” Gaston declared. “Sensible and hard-working people are never bored,” she said, smiling. “Well, at least,” Gaston implored, seeing the child approaching, twisting a rope which he cracked like a whip, “do me a great favor… Send Miguelito to me tomorrow to spend the day with me… I promise you that I will not pamper him or lift him up by his hooves… I will give him healthy food… I will take great care that he does not break his head on the rubble… Do you promise to send him to me? ” “Good, Miguelito will go… Don’t drive him crazy…” his mother exclaimed festively. Chapter 14. Miguelito. Already crazy, but happy, the child arrived at Landrey around eleven o’clock, accompanied by Colasa, who was also in charge of collecting him before nightfall, and to whom Gaston extended his invitation, asking Telma to entertain her properly. At noon, lunch was served, and Miguelito, stimulated by the walk and the novelty, found everything angelic; it was necessary for Gastón to restrain him, so that that the feast would not end in colic. After eating, they toured the rooms of the Manor and the ruins of the castle, not forgetting the ancient tower where they had first met, and where Gaston, in a fit of tenderness, had kissed the child and carried him in his arms. But since summer evenings are long, and Gaston didn’t want his guest to be bored for a minute, he asked him: “What do you want to do now? Do you want to go for a walk? Do you want to go back home, to look at the pictures in the album? ” “I wanted,” Miguel declared mysteriously, “to look for the weasel’s nest. I know where it is, and Mama won’t let me go back there because the stones are very slippery. ” “Is it by the river? ” “Right in the river… You’re not afraid, are you? ” “No, my love… And you, going with me, won’t be either?” “I’d be happy! Without you, I wouldn’t be… imagine the two of us!” “Look, let’s take sticks… the stones are slippery,” repeated Miguel, who in reality felt a kind of attractive terror at the thought of the slippery slope. They prepared for the expedition, and Gaston put some biscuits and a glass in his pocket , so they could have a snack and refresh themselves on the riverbank. They set off with good spirits, but neither of them knew the way, and they engaged the first village boy they met to serve as a guide to take them to the place called, according to Miguel’s information, _o Paso da cova_—the Pass of the Cave. The boy, who was grazing some tame cows, offered to point them in the direction of the river, turning back later, so as not to be separated from the cattle. He did indeed direct them, and Gaston understood that he needed nothing more, since the descent to the river presented no serious difficulty, and once on the bank, everything was reduced to going straight ahead, until reaching the famous slippery slope. The descent to the river wasn’t difficult, in the sense that one could see where to go; but the steepness and ruggedness of the mountain made the path almost impassable: it was tantamount to falling headlong, and the dry branches of the pines, known locally as “espinallo,” increased the risk, making the narrow path slippery, good only for goats, if there were any there, which there aren’t. Miguelito laughed heartily, clinging to Gastón, who carefully supported him; and the laughter turned into convulsions when Señorito de Landrey, in one of the most dangerous places, fell backward, sitting down, and got up covered in “espinallo,” shaking himself and exaggerating his complaint, so that the boy would exaggerate his joy… When they reached the riverbank, the undertaking was no less arduous. On the contrary, there was no passable path there, neither narrow nor wide, neither bad nor good, and it was necessary to climb over sharp rocks or to make one’s way with difficulty through holm oaks and gorse bushes that stung one’s legs. In some places, the steepness of the bank and the narrowness of the place where one could only put one’s foot down with great difficulty caused real danger, and Gaston, fearing some disaster, took Miguelito in his arms and forced him, despite his resistance, to let himself be led out of the quagmire. The boy protested, swearing that he and his mother had passed that way, both on foot, and “divinely.” They arrived at a place so suitable for breaking one’s vertebrae that Gaston felt compelled to retrace his steps and send the expedition and the Paso da Cova packing, where, after all, there would be nothing but some slippery slabs as if coated with soap. But the boy was such a determined defender of the glorious conclusion of the feat, and Gaston already felt so much like a father, that there was no remedy but to save, half on all fours, the sinful place, from which they emerged with their hands scraped and bleeding. Seeing themselves out of trouble, Gaston, breathing, looked around, and made a movement of surprise, feeling something like an involuntary and dark shudder of his whole being. They found themselves in a place where, the river bed suddenly widens , it decreases in depth and is fordable, a rare case in the rivers of Galicia. The clear, calm water reveals the sandy bed, and gently bathes a stretch of natural meadow, lying on both sides of the escarpment of the mountain. On the other side, Gaston saw the beginning of a path, not as steep and rugged as the one they had followed to descend, but quite easy and passable, which disappeared into the pine forests of the mountain. But what most impressed M. de Landrey was the fact that, behind him, on a very steep slope, almost sheer, stood a tower he recognized: that of the Moorish Queen. They were below the ancient tower, so plumb with it that a stone thrown from the windows could have fallen on their heads; and yet, on that side, the tower was absolutely inaccessible: attempting to climb the sheer cliff would be like trying to grasp a smooth steel wall. Those besieging Landrey couldn’t even attempt to assault the tower where it falls into the river. Why did this idea stand out in Gaston’s mind with extreme lucidity? Why did he welcome her as one welcomes a guest we eagerly await? At first he himself didn’t even know. A strange bewilderment, a sort of dizziness of the mind, dominated him; and as if in a dream, through the buzzing of the blood rushing to his temples, he heard the child’s voice. “This is it,” he would say. “How pretty, isn’t it? But there’s no slippery slope, you know? Because today the river is running higher and it’s covering the slabs… which are terribly smooth… Mama said when we were here that God didn’t put those slabs there, but that people had put them there so they could be crossed on dry land, and that they must be a thousand years old, so worn out are they… Come on, I’ll show you the Paso da Cova and the weasel’s nest…” They were no longer the temples; It was Gaston’s heart, it was Gaston’s entire body that was agitated as if saturated with quicksilver… The initial idea had been called by the others, which came with the rapidity proper to their immateriality; and grouping together like a sheaf of light rays, produced the vivid clarity that at that instant dazzled and maddened the young master of Landrey… The words of Don Martín’s manuscript rolled through his brain like choppy waves: “If, guided by the North, you follow the path of the ancients in danger of death… ” There, there was “the path of the ancients;” from there the defenders of Landrey could not only go down to the stream to stock up on water, but also escape, vanish like smoke when threatened by the besiegers, crossing the river by the hand-placed slabs, and losing themselves in the path on the other side of the mountain covered with oaks and pines… The mine, the mine! The treasure! “Come, I’ll show you where I saw the weasel hiding,” repeated the boy, pulling Gaston by the hand, who, entranced, allowed himself to be dragged. Miguelito oriented himself with that topographical acuity that distinguishes children , whose fresh memory does not miss a single detail, and began to turn the heather and oak shoots that covered the base of the escarpment, discovering a place where only his sharp eye could make out the mouth of a cave—a narrow hole, blocked by falls of earth and stones, between which sprouted thick, luxuriant vegetation, perfectly concealing the entrance and making it doubtful that the opening was anything other than the burrows of the badgers and martens that are abundant in that country. But Gaston did not hesitate; It was the mouth of the military mine at Landrey Castle, and emotion drenched his temples in icy sweat and made his legs tremble… He remained silent: it was not possible to entrust such a secret to Miguelito. When, at nightfall, the two of them having returned to Landrey, he handed him over to Colasa , who, seeing him dead from sleep and exhaustion, was planning to carry him on his back to Sadorio, Gaston, as he said goodbye to the boy, gave him a long, long, vehement embrace, and murmured through his teeth as he shook him: “My child, may God bless you!” That night Gaston did not sleep; literally, he did not sleep for five minutes; and yet, a kind of fever caused him strange hallucinations. Closing his eyes, he pictured the Commander in her habits and Don Martín, in his jacket and short breeches, who, armed with torches, illuminated him through the twists and turns of the fearful underground… At dawn, he was already asking Telma for a light breakfast, a supply of cold cuts, and the masons’ tools, which they usually left in a esparto basket so as not to carry them back and forth every day. He also stocked up on a hoe, a spade, and a scythe for cutting the undergrowth. He charged Telma with stealth and to give the masons money in payment for their tools, which they would have lost. With a brisk step, he went down as he had the day before, without the roughness and craggy aspects of the path seeming so great this time; or to tell the whole truth, without his insanity giving him any reason to notice them. He descended as stone descends, under its own momentum and without perceiving the obstacles that might stop it. In half an hour he covered the distance that had cost him and Miguelito the day before, taking a thousand precautions, almost one. When he found himself before the mouth of the cave, he stopped and reflected. Where could the mine lead? No doubt to the foundations of the tower, where Gaston, “guided by the North,” hoped to find the treasure. But Gaston remembered that beneath the tower he had made a useless search, discovering a kind of subterranean dungeon, where neither the walls nor any trace of a communication, door, stairway, or any ring could be seen. Could the mine be lost in the heart of the mountain? Could it even be a mine? With a kind of rage, with strength a hundredfold increased by his burning curiosity, Gaston set to work. He began by cutting and clearing the undergrowth, uncovering the opening of the cave; and then, with the help of the shovel, he cleared it of the earth piled up before him. From time to time he looked around, in case anyone was watching him. The place was completely deserted. M. de Landrey was afraid of finding stones that his strength would not be able to remove, and he saw with joy that it was hardened earth, mixed with the grit of the river bed, the only thing that made it difficult for a man to enter the cave. This conviction encouraged him, and he soon managed to clear the entrance and discover a passage that, instead of descending, ascended at an angle. Lighting his lantern and clutching the pickaxe, Gaston climbed the passage; his knees stumbled on the unevenness of the mine—he could no longer doubt that it was what it was—and a vermin brushed past his legs in a mad dash, without him being able to distinguish whether the creature was a badger or merely a fat rat. He then noticed that the mine was widening and its slope was becoming gentler and gentler , and he only advanced by examining the walls, which offered nothing special: they seemed to be made of mud, and a light dampness permeated them. There was no trace of the fungal growth that some caves possess, and as Gaston advanced, the atmosphere became drier. Gaston had walked for about fifteen minutes when suddenly the cave ceased: a clay wall ended it. If that wall had collapsed on him, he would not have felt a stronger or more overwhelming impression. He froze, his mouth open, his eyes dilated. Finally, trying to recover, he ran the lantern along the wall from top to bottom. His heart leaped impetuously; the mud, cracked in places, covered a stone wall. He laid the lantern on the ground and attacked the wall with the pickaxe, displaying the vigor worthy of a professional demolitionist. The wall was solid, but not like ashlar, nor even of very thick stones. After a few attacks, it began to crumble, and putting his lantern through the gap, Gaston saw a sort of round room, very similar to the one he knew, and this made him tremble. Was he tearing down a wall to find himself, deceived and desperate, at the foot of the Moorish Queen’s tower, in the place where he already knew there was no trace of treasure? The thought made him faint, and he sat down on the rubble. Then he remembered he had cold meat and a flask of generous wine in his pocket; he restored his strength with a bite and a drink, and without further ado, he charged the wall again. The rubble fell; the opening was capable of leaving Gaston’s body at rest, and he hauled himself through it with effort. Jumping, lantern in hand, into a circular dungeon, all covered in stone, with no stairs or access anywhere… It wasn’t the one he’d previously known! It was another, definitely located beneath the tower’s foundations! On the ceiling, an enormous bolted ring set into a slab; on the floor, nothing, just the earth; and on the wall—good heavens!—a sort of niche covered with lime… The hiding place. Chapter 15. The treasure. Before attacking the niche with the pickaxe, Gaston grabbed the flask and took another copious gulp. He thought there were embers in his throat and chest, and he felt faint. The intoxication of a sensed triumph overwhelmed him; it wasn’t greed, it wasn’t the thirst for riches that caused him such vertigo; it was the romantic mystery and the dramatic story of the treasure, whose value perhaps didn’t equal what his imagination fantasized. The pickaxe finally resounded, crashing against the wall. Its dull blows tore away the blackened plaster, the hard mortar that held the stones together. With each crumbling fragment , Gaston’s longing grew. A gap opened, and within it, something confused… shapeless shapes; when light entered, it was revealed that they were not sandalwood caskets with polished steel fittings, nor cedar chests inlaid with mother-of-pearl, as was typical of the Moorish Queen’s jewels, but rather well-potatoed glazed clay pots, of the kind that sell for two reales in the country… If there were riches there, they were not buried by some Muslim beauty, who had received them as a gift or token of love from some Granadan emir; Don Martín de Landrey, of ill-fated memory, in choosing such a spot to hide his money and prevent it from falling into hated hands, had doubtless yielded to the suggestion of legend, and perhaps, while searching the underground passages in search of the pearls of Golconda and the gold of the Darro belonging to the sultana, he conceived the idea of ​​safeguarding there for a short time the wealth destined for his beloved and favorite daughter—for the pious Antigone who consoled his moral blindness. With convulsive blows, Gaston widened the hole; a large piece suddenly fell out , and the enormous pots seemed to be uncovered. There were as many as six of them, and they weighed more than lead. Filled to the brim, four of them were dripping with ounces, those beautiful little pots of Charles III and Charles IV, which are now considered a rarity in modern times. Two of them contained artistic jewels of diamonds and brilliants set in silver—necklaces, trinkets, lockets, brooches, earrings, buckles, tiaras, combs, bouquets, and even a bird made of that mixed precious stones called “saladilla” by jewelers, in which pale rubies, topazes, clear emeralds, and a shower of “beautiful roses,” or tiny diamonds like sparks of light, are combined. The coarse earthenware casing of one of the pots enclosed—like the human body, crumbly, the immortal soul—a collection of rich strings of pearls, and two fans in the most exquisite Marie Antoinette style, with gold rods inlaid with cameos. At first, Gaston’s head began to spin; he feared that the pots would crumble to dust and the fantastic richness evaporate. He put his hands to his temples; he breathed; And just as he was beginning to regain his composure, he noticed that the lantern’s candle was going out; a moment longer and he would be in darkness. He only had time to pick up a pot, the one containing pearls and fans, and hurry out of the dungeon and the cave. Finding himself in the open air, in the sunlight, on the riverbank, he began to convince himself that he was not dreaming. There lay part of his discovery… Out of prudence, he blocked the hole again, arranging the earth and branches so that no difference could be seen; and, clinging to his pot, he carried Landrey up with wings on his feet. Thelma thought the young gentleman was delirious—and he was somewhat delirious, indeed—when he asked for another candle and a canvas sack. By nightfall, Gaston, in four trips, had brought up the contents of the pots, sealing them in a sturdy chest. but his strength was failing, and a fever that he believed was caused by violent fatigue She confined him to bed. Telma, filled with anxiety, sat at his bedside; she served him infusions and watched over his sleep, which was troubled by anguished dreams, in which he uttered truncated words and whole sentences that sounded like those of a criminal. It was as if he were talking about riches, about prison, about the underground! The morning light brought Gaston some relief, but he felt so shaky that it was impossible for him to get up; and in the afternoon the pressure returned, accompanied by sweating and the same distressing delirium. The sick man’s condition did not change the next day ; and Telma, familiar with the ailments suffered in the country, realized that it was a case of everyday fever, the kind usually caused by spending long periods on the riverbank, especially in the afternoon and with a sweaty body. She announced her resolution to go down to Puebla and fetch the doctor, an expert in prescribing quinine for this kind of ailment. “Don’t call the doctor,” Gastón ordered in a weakened voice. “Go to Sadorio and tell Mrs. Sarmiento… Doña Antonia Rojas… that I’m not well… and I beg her to come and take care of me. ” “Young master!” objected Telma, frightened and believing that her master was still delirious. “Obey, Telma… I’m in my right mind… Let him come… So let him come, I’ll get better… You’ll see… Go on, Telma… Go on, dear grandmother.” This affectionate name had the power of fitting Telma like a glove. Without replying, he carried the strange message to the villa. And how great was his admiration when he saw that Antonia, as soon as she heard him, put on her sailor hat, took Miguelito by the hand, and began to walk swifter than a doe! When Antonia entered the sick room alone, Señorito de Landrey sat up in bed; He extended his burned hand to meet another cool, trembling hand, and looking at his friend, his future wife, he took the strings of pearls from under the pillow and wound them around the lady’s wrist. She looked at the jewel in surprise, her brow already furrowing in disapproval of the gift, which she believed to be an untimely prodigality on Gaston’s part. But the sick man, in a low voice, said a few words to her that made her recoil in astonishment. “There it is, in that chest,” Gaston repeated. “I want you to take everything, everything, home with you at once. It belongs to Miguelito, who, inspired by some angel, discovered it. You will understand that if I called you, it was for this reason; my illness is of no concern, and you will return to Sadorio right now. I don’t want the slanderers to be able to gloss over your presence here.” The only thing I’m reserving for myself is the family jewels … I want you to possess them and sanctify them. “Gastón,” Antonia said sweetly, “I’ll go, but promise me that the doctor will come and that you will attend to his health as if I were here. Let’s not talk about the treasure; you know I’m firm in my resolutions, and neither Miguel nor I would ever accept it; it belongs to the House of Landrey. Let’s respect the wishes of those who have passed away. Don’t forget… what Donna Catalina never forgot; Don Martín’s soul begs for support… I’ll take it upon myself to remind you of that poor, troubled soul. ” “Will you come tomorrow? ” “And the day after, and every day, as long as you don’t get better… ” “I’m much better now,” Gastón declared, revived, still holding the hand that was trying to free itself. –Well, sanity… and to rest, and to take what the doctor prescribes… and to get well soon… And to remember who sent these riches… It’s our Master… yes, Gaston; we are his administrators… I didn’t know that, but misfortune has taught me. –And love to me,–the young master of Landrey responded passionately.–You can go to Rome from anywhere… And now… let the boy come in; I love him as much as… as his mother! At the end of Gaston’s Treasure, we are left with the reflection on human passions and the nature of desires, always present in stories that traverse time. The Countess of Emilia Pardo Bazán, with her keen social vision, leaves us a story that remains in readers’ memories, reminding us of the complexity of relationships and the constant pursuit of the impossible. Thank you for joining us on this literary adventure.