He felt like the bird writhing on the tree unable
to free itself from the hypnotic stare of the serpent
coiled near the trunk. Those sarcastic, mischievous
eyes had upset all his train of thought. He tried
to finish in some way or other, to end his speech as
soon as possible. Every minute was an added torment
to him; he imagined he could hear the mute gibes that
mouth must be uttering at his expense.
Again he looked at the clock; in fifteen minutes more
he would be through. And he spurted on at a mad
pace, with a hurried voice, forgetting the devices
he had thought of to prolong the peroration, dumping
them out all in a heap—anything to get through!
“The Concordate... sacred obligations toward
the clergy ... their services of old ... promises
of close friendship with the Pope ... the generous
father of Spain ... in short, we cannot reduce the
budget by a centimo and the committee stands,
by its proposals without accepting a single amendment.”
As he sat down, perspiring, excited, wiping his congested
face energetically, his bench companions gathered
around him congratulating him, shaking his hands.
He was every inch an orator! He should have gone
deeper into the matter and taken even more time!
He shouldn’t have been so modest!
And from the bench below came the grunt of the minister:
“Very good, very good. You said exactly
what I would have said.”
The old revolutionist arose to make a short rebuttal,
repeating the contentions of his original speech,
of which no denial had been attempted.
“I’m quite tired,” sighed Rafael,
in reply to the felicitations.
“You can go out if you wish,” said the
minister. “I think I’ll answer the
rebuttal myself. It’s a courtesy due to
so old a deputy.”
Rafael raised his eyes toward the diplomatic gallery.
It was empty. But he imagined he could still
make out the plumes of a woman’s hat in the
dark background.
He left his bench hastily and hurried to the corridor,
where a number of deputies were waiting with their
congratulations.
Not one of them had heard him, but they were all profuse
in their flattering remarks. They shook his hand
and detained him maddeningly. Once more he thought
he could descry at the end of the corridor, at the
foot of the gallery staircase, standing out against
the glass exit-door, those black, waving plumes.
He elbowed his way through the crowds, deaf to all
congratulations, brushing aside the hands that were
proferred to him.
Near the door he stumbled into two of his associates,
who were looking out with eyes radiant with admiration.
“What a woman? Eh?”
“She looks like a foreigner. Some diplomat’s
wife, I guess!”
As he came out of the building he saw her on the sidewalk,
about to step into a vehicle. An usher of the
Congress was holding the carriage door open, with
the demonstrative respect inspired by the goldbraid
shining on the driver’s hat. It was an
embassy coach!
