The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Vicente Blasco Ibanez

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СКАЧАТЬ women from the paths of virtue, and committed all kinds of follies. Then Desnoyers had been greatly surprised to see entering the kitchen with the air of a tragedy queen, a noble mother of the drama, his Aunt Elena, the one who had married a German and was living in Berlin surrounded with innumerable children.

      “She has been in Paris a month. She is going to make a little visit to our castle. And it appears that her eldest son—my cousin, ‘The Sage,’ whom I have not seen for years—is also coming here.”

      The home interview had several times been interrupted by fear. “Your father is at home, be careful,” his mother had said to him each time that he had spoken above a whisper. And his Aunt Elena had stationed herself at the door with a dramatic air, like a stage heroine resolved to plunge a dagger into the tyrant who should dare to cross the threshold. The entire family was accustomed to submit to the rigid authority of Don Marcelo Desnoyers. “Oh, that old man!” exclaimed Julio, referring to his father. “He may live many years yet, but how he weighs upon us all!”

      His mother, who had never wearied of looking at him, finally had to bring the interview to an end, frightened by certain approaching sounds. “Go, he might surprise us, and he would be furious.” So Julio had fled the paternal home, caressed by the tears of the two ladies and the admiring glances of Chichi, by turns ashamed and proud of a brother who had caused such enthusiasm and scandal among her friends.

      Marguerite also spoke of Senor Desnoyers. A terrible tyrant of the old school with whom they could never come to an understanding.

      The two remained silent, looking fixedly at each other. Now that they had said the things of greatest urgency, present interests became more absorbing. More immediate things, unspoken, seemed to well up in their timid and vacillating eyes, before escaping in the form of words. They did not dare to talk like lovers here. Every minute the cloud of witnesses seemed increasing around them. The woman with the dogs and the red wig was passing with greater frequency, shortening her turns through the square in order to greet them with a smile of complicity. The reader of the daily paper was now exchanging views with a friend on a neighboring bench regarding the possibilities of war. The garden had become a thoroughfare. The modistes upon going out from their establishments, and the ladies returning from shopping, were crossing through the square in order to shorten their walk. The little avenue was a popular short-cut. All the pedestrians were casting curious glances at the elegant lady and her companion seated in the shadow of the shrubbery with the timid yet would-be natural look of those who desire to hide themselves, yet at the same time feign a casual air.

      “How exasperating!” sighed Marguerite. “They are going to find us out!”

      A girl looked at her so searchingly that she thought she recognized in her an employee of a celebrated modiste. Besides, some of her personal friends who had met her in the crowded shops but an hour ago might be returning home by way of the garden.

      “Let us go,” she said rising hurriedly. “If they should spy us here together, just think what they might say! … and just when they are becoming a little forgetful!”

      Desnoyers protested crossly. Go away? … Paris had become a shrunken place for them nowadays because Marguerite refused to go to a single place where there was a possibility of their being surprised. In another square, in a restaurant, wherever they might go—they would run the same risk of being recognized. She would only consider meetings in public places, and yet at the same time, dreaded the curiosity of the people. If Marguerite would like to go to his studio of such sweet memories! …

      “To your home? No! no indeed!” she replied emphatically “I cannot forget the last time I was there.”

      But Julio insisted, foreseeing a break in that firm negative. Where could they be more comfortable? Besides, weren’t they going to marry as soon as possible? …

      “I tell you no,” she repeated. “Who knows but my husband may be watching me! What a complication for my divorce if he should surprise us in your house!”

      Now it was he who eulogized the husband, insisting that such watchfulness was incompatible with his character. The engineer had accepted the facts, considering them irreparable and was now thinking only of reconstructing his life.

      “No, it is better for us to separate,” she continued. “Tomorrow we shall see each other again. You will hunt a more favorable place. Think it over, and you will find a solution for it all.”

      But he wished an immediate solution. They had abandoned their seats, going slowly toward the rue des Mathurins. Julio was speaking with a trembling and persuasive eloquence. To-morrow? No, now. They had only to call a taxicab. It would be only a matter of a few minutes, and then the isolation, the mystery, the return to a sweet past—to that intimacy in the studio where they had passed their happiest hours. They would believe that no time had elapsed since their first meetings.

      “No,” she faltered with a weakening accent, seeking a last resistance. “Besides, your secretary might be there, that Spaniard who lives with you. How ashamed I would be to meet him again!”

      Julio laughed. … Argensola! How could that comrade who knew all about their past be an obstacle? If they should happen to meet him in the house, he would be sure to leave immediately. More than once, he had had to go out so as not to be in the way. His discretion was such that he had foreseen events. Probably he had already left, conjecturing that a near visit would be the most logical thing. His chum would simply go wandering through the streets in search of news.

      Marguerite was silent, as though yielding on seeing her pretexts exhausted. Desnoyers was silent, too, construing her stillness as assent. They had left the garden and she was looking around uneasily, terrified to find herself in the open street beside her lover, and seeking a hiding-place. Suddenly she saw before her the little red door of an automobile, opened by the hand of her adorer.

      “Get in,” ordered Julio.

      And she climbed in hastily, anxious to hide herself as soon as possible. The vehicle started at great speed. Marguerite immediately pulled down the shade of the window on her side, but, before she had finished and could turn her head, she felt a hungry mouth kissing the nape of her neck.

      “No, not here,” she said in a pleading tone. “Let us be sensible!”

      And while he, rebellious at these exhortations, persisted in his advances, the voice of Marguerite again sounded above the noise of the rattling machinery of the automobile as it bounded over the pavement.

      “Do you really believe that there will be no war? Do you believe that we will be able to marry? … Tell me again. I want you to encourage me … I need to hear it from your lips.”

      CHAPTER II

       MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR

       Table of Contents

      In 1870 Marcelo Desnoyers was nineteen years old. He was born in the suburbs of Paris, an only child; his father, interested in little building speculations, maintained his family in modest comfort. The mason wished to make an architect of his son, and Marcelo was in the midst of his preparatory studies when his father suddenly died, leaving his affairs greatly involved. In a few months, he and his mother descended the slopes of ruin, and were obliged to give up their snug, middle-class quarters and live like laborers.

      When the fourteen-year-old boy had to choose a trade, he learned wood carving. This craft was an art related to the СКАЧАТЬ