“I’m an old fool; but I can’t help
it,” Don Alonso murmured in explanation of his
weakness.
“And did you stay in New Orleans?” asked
Roberto.
“Perez and I signed a contract there,”
replied Don Alonso, “with a big circus syndicate
of New York that had about twenty or thirty companies
touring all America. All of us gymnasts, ballet-dancers,
ecuyeres, acrobats, pantominists, clowns, contortionists,
and strong men travelled in a special train....
The majority were Italians and Frenchmen.”
“Were there good-looking women, eh?” asked
Manuel.
“Uf! ... Like this ...” replied Don
Alonso, bringing his fingers all together. “Women
with such muscles! ... There was no other life
anything like it,” he added, reverting to his
melancholy theme. “You had all the money
and women and clothes you wanted.... And above
all, glory, applause....”
And the gymnast went into a trance of enthusiasm,
staring rigidly at a fixed point.
Roberto and Manuel gazed at him in curiosity.
“And Rosita,—didn’t you ever
see her again?” asked Roberto.
“No. They told me that she had got a divorce
from Napoleon so that she could marry again, in Boston,
some millionaire from the West. Ah, women....
Who can trust them? ... But gentlemen, it’s
already eleven. Pardon me; I’ll have to
be going. Thanks ever so much!” murmured
Don Alonso, seizing Roberto and Manuel by the hands
and pressing them effusively. “We’ll
meet again, won’t we?”
“Oh, yes, we’ll see each other,”
replied Roberto.
Don Alonso picked up his phonograph and wound in and
out among the tables, repeating his phrase: “Novelty!
Something new!” Then, after having saluted Roberto
and Manuel once more, he disappeared.
“Nothing. I can’t discover a thing,”
grumbled Roberto. “Good-bye. See you
again.”
Manuel was left alone, and musing upon Don Alonso’s
tales and upon the mystery surrounding Roberto, he
returned to the Corralon and went to bed.
The Kermesse on Pasion Street—“The
Dude”—A Cafe Chantant.
Leandro eagerly awaited the kermesse that was to take
place on Pasion street. In former years he had
accompanied Milagros to the nocturnal fair of San
Antonio and to those of the Prado; he had danced with
her, treated her to buns, presented her with a pot
of sweet basil; but this summer the proof-reader’s
family seemed very much determined upon keeping Milagros
away from Leandro. He had learned that his sweetheart
and her mother were thinking of going to the kermesse,
so he procured a pair of tickets and told Manuel that
they two would attend.
So it happened. They went, on a terribly hot
August night; a dense, turbid vapour filled all the
streets in the vicinity of the Rastro, which were
decorated and illuminated with Venetian lanterns.
