There were a number of venomous, ironic phrases, then
the dispute ceased and silence was restored.
Petra, thus kept awake, sank into her own thoughts;
again footfalls were heard in the corridor, this time
light and rapid. Then came the rasping of the
shutter-bolt of a balcony that was being opened cautiously.
“One of them has got up,” thought Petra.
“What can the fuss be now?”
In a few minutes the voice of the landlady was heard
shouting imperiously from her room:
“Irene! ... Irene!”
“Well?”
“Come in from the balcony.”
“And why do I got to come in?” replied
a harsh voice in rough, ill-pronounced accents.
“Because you must ... That’s why.”
“Why, what am I doing in the balcony?”
“That’s something you know better than
I.”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Well, I do.”
“I was taking the fresh air.”
“I guess you’re fresh enough.”
“You mean you are, senora.”
“Close the balcony. You imagine that this
house is something else.”
“I? What have I done?”
“I don’t have to tell you. For that
sort of thing there’s the house across the way,
across the way.”
“She means Isabel’s,” thought Petra.
The balcony was heard to shut suddenly; steps echoed
in the entry, followed by the slamming of a door.
For a long time the landlady continued her grumbling;
soon came the murmuring of a conversation carried
on in low tones. Then nothing more was heard save
the persistent shrilling of the neighbouring cricket,
who continued to scrape away at his disagreeable instrument
with the determination of a beginner on the violin.
Dona Casiana’s House—A
Morning Ceremony—Conspiracy—Wherein
Is
Discussed the Nutritive Value
of Bones—Petra and her
Family—Manuel;
his arrival in Madrid.
... And the cricket, now like an obstinate virtuoso,
persisted in his musical exercises, which were truly
somewhat monotonous, until the sky was brightened
by the placid smile of dawn. At the very first
rays of the sun the performer relented, doubtless
content with the perfection of his artistic efforts,
and a quail took up his solo, giving the three regulation
strokes. The watchman knocked with his pike at
the stores, one or two bakers passed with their bread,
a shop was opened, then another, then a vestibule;
a servant threw some refuse out on the sidewalk, a
newsboy’s calling was heard.
The author would be too bold if he tried to demonstrate
the mathematical necessity imposed upon Dona Casiana’s
house of being situated on Mesonero Romanos Street
rather than upon Olivo, for, undoubtedly, with the
same reason it might have been placed upon Desengano,
Tudescos or any other thoroughfare. But the duties
of the author, his obligation as an impartial and
veracious chronicler compel him to speak the truth,
and the truth is that the house was on Mesonero Romanos
Street rather than on Olivo.
