CHAPTER XXV
Presently he seated himself upon a pile of stones, beating his browfrom time to time, and without loosening his hold of the chicken, helaid his hand upon his heart, sighing deeply. I questioned him againabout his daughter, desiring to hear news of Augustine; and he said tome,--
"I was in that house in the Calle de A?on, where we moved in yesterday.Everybody told me that it was not safe there, and that we had muchbetter be in the middle of the town; but it does not suit me to gowhere everybody else comes, and the place that I prefer is the one thatthe rest abandon. This world is filled with thieves and rascals. It isbetter that I get away from them. We managed with a lower room of thathouse. My daughter is very much afraid of the cannon, and wished to goelsewhere. When the mines began to burst under the neighboring houses,she and Guedita rushed away, terrified. I stayed alone, thinking ofthe danger my things are in; and pretty soon some soldiers came withflaming torches ready to set fire to the house. Those wretched cowardswould not give me time to collect my things. Far from pitying mycondition, they ridiculed me. I hid the box with my receipts for fearthat those who think it is stuffed with money would carry it off; butit was impossible to stay inside long. I was surrounded with the brightflames, and choked with the smoke. In spite of everything, I insistedupon trying to save my box; but it was an impossible thing. I had torun. I could not take anything. Great God! I saved nothing but thispoor creature, forgotten by its owners in the hen-house. It cost me agood deal of trouble to catch it. I burned one hand almost all over.Oh, cursed be he who invented fire! Why should one lose one's fortuneto amuse these heroes! I had two houses in Saragossa besides the one Ilived in. One of them, the one in the Calle de la Sombra, is preservedto me still, although it is without tenants. The other, which wascalled Casa de los Duendes, back of the San Francisco is occupied bythe troops, and everything there has been torn to pieces for me. Ruin,nothing but ruin! Is it a right thing to burn houses merely to retardthe conquest by the French?"
"War makes it necessary to do these things," I answered him. "And thisheroic city desires to carry her defence to the last extreme."
"And what induces Saragossa to wish to carry her defence to the lastextreme? What good does it do to the dead? You may talk to them ofglory, of heroism,--of all those notions. Before I ever come back tolive in an heroic city, I would go to a desert. I concede that thereshould be a certain resistance, but not to such a barbarous extreme asthis. It is true the burned buildings are worth little, perhaps lessthan the great mass of charcoal which will result. Don't let them cometo me with their foolish talk. Those fat sharpers are already planningto make a good business out of the carbon."
This made me laugh. My readers must not think that I exaggerate, sincehe said all this to me very nearly as I repeat it; and those whohave the misfortune to know him would most readily have faith in myveracity. If Candiola had lived in Numantia, it would have been saidthat the Numantines were merchants of charcoal mixed with heroes.
"I am lost! I am ruined forever!" he went on, crossing his handsforlornly. "Those receipts were part of my fortune. How am I going toclaim the amounts without any documents to show, and when almost allmy debtors are dead, and lying rotting about the streets! I said, andI repeat it, those who have made me all this trouble are disobedientto God. It is a mortal sin; it is an unforgivable offence to letthemselves be killed when they owe money on such old accounts thattheir creditor will not be able to collect easily. Paying up is veryhard work; so some of these people say, 'Let us wall ourselves in andburn with the money.' But God is inexorable with this heroic rabble,and to chastise them He will resurrect them, so that they will yet haveto meet the constable and the notary. My God, resurrect them! HolyVirgin del Pilar, Santo Domingo del Val, resurrect them, I pray!"
"And your daughter?" I asked with interest. "Did she come out of thefire unharmed?"
"Do not speak of her to me as my daughter!" he replied sternly. "Godhas punished me for her faults. I know now who her infamous admirer is.Who can it possibly be, but that damned son of Don Jos? Montoria whostudied to be a priest! Mariquilla has confessed it to me. Yesterdayshe was dressing a wound he has on his arm, and this was done beforeme. Did you ever hear of anything so shameless?"
As he said this. Do?a Guedita, who was looking anxiously for hermaster, came up with a cup containing some sort of nourishment. He tookit hungrily; and then, by force of entreaty, we succeeded in gettinghim away from there, taking him to the Organo alley, where his daughterhad taken refuge, in a porch, with other shelterless ones. Aftergrowling at her a moment, Candiola went on into the house, followed byhis housekeeper.
"Where is Augustine?" I asked Mariquilla.
"He was here a moment ago; but some one came to tell him of the deathof his brother, and he has gone. I heard it said that the family is inthe Calle de las Rufas."
"His brother is dead! Don Jos?'s eldest son!"
"So they said, and he started in haste and in great distress."
Without waiting to hear more, I also ran to the Calle de las Rufas todo everything I could to help in their trouble the generous family towhich I owed so much. Before arriving there, I met Don Roque, who, withtears in his eyes, came up to speak to me.
"Gabriel," he said, "God has laid his hand heavily to-day upon our goodfriend."
"Is it the eldest son who is dead, Manuel Montoria?"
"Yes, and that is not the only trouble of the family. Manuel wasmarried, as you know, and had a son four years of age. You see thatgroup of women? Well, the wife of Montoria's poor eldest son is therewith her boy in her arms. He is dying of the epidemic, and is alreadyin his agony. Is it not a horrible state of things? There is one ofthe first families of Saragossa reduced to this sad condition, withouta roof to cover them, in want of the most necessary things. Thatunfortunate young mother was in the street all night, exposed to theweather with her sick child in her arms, expecting every instant thathe would breathe his last. After all it is better to be here than inone of those pestilent cellars where no one can breathe. I am thankfulthat I and other friends have been able to help her a little; but whatcan one do when there is scarcely any bread to be had? The wine is allfinished, and a bit of beef is not to be found, though I gave her apiece of ours."
Morning began to come. I went up to the group of women and saw asorrowful sight. With the anguished effort to save life, the motherand the few women who kept her company were torturing the poor childwith remedies which everybody tries at such a time; but it needed onlyto see the victim of the fever to realize the impossibility of savingthat little being whom death had already grasped with his relentlesshand.
The voice of Don Jos? de Montoria obliged me to hasten forward morequickly; and in an outer corner in the Calle de las Rufas a secondgroup completed the dreadful picture of that unhappy family. Stretchedupon the ground was the body of Manuel, a young man of thirty years,no less amiable and generous in his life than his father and brother.A ball had pierced his head, and from the small external wound, at thespot whence the ball had emerged, a thread of blood still trickled,dropping down the temple, the cheek, and the neck, and falling downupon the skin beneath the shirt. Because of this, the body did not seemlike that of one dead.
When I arrived, nobody had been able to make his mother believe that hewas dead, and she held his head upon her knees, hoping to revive himwith tender words. Montoria, on his knees at the right side, held hisson's hand between his own hands and gazed at him, speechless, nottaking his eyes from him. As white as the dead, the father did not weep.
"Wife!" he exclaimed at last, "do not pray God for the impossible. Wehave lost our son."
"No, my son is not dead!" exclaimed the mother, in despair. "It is alie. Why deceive me? How could it be possible for God to take our sonfrom us? What have we done to deserve such a punishment? Manuel, myson, why dost thou not answer me? Why dost thou not move? Why dost thounot speak? In a moment we will carry thee into the house--but where isour house? My son grows cold on this bare ground. Se
e how chill are hishands and his face!"
"You must go away from here, wife," said Montoria, restraining theflood of his tears; "we will take care of Manuel."
"O my Lord God!" moaned the mother, "what ails my son that he doesnot speak, nor move, nor wake? He seems to be dead; but he is not, hecannot be dead! Holy Virgin del Pilar, is it not true that my son isnot dead?"
"Leocadia," repeated Montoria, wiping away the first tears that hadfallen from his eyes, "go away from here a little, go away, for God'ssake! Be resigned, for God has dealt us a heavy blow, and our son nolonger lives. He has died for his country."
"Why has my son died!" exclaimed the mother, straining the body to herin her arms, as if she would not let it go. "No, no, no! What is thecountry to me? Let my son be given back to me. Manuel, my boy, do notlet them separate you from me; those who would tear you from my armsmust kill me first."
"O Lord God, Holy Virgin del Pilar," said Don Jos? de Montoria, insolemn tones, "never have I knowingly and deliberately offended ye.For the sake of religion and the king I have given my goods and mysons. Why, instead of my first-born, why have you not taken my life ahundred times, miserable old man, good for nothing? Gentlemen, you whoare present, I am not ashamed to weep before you; my heart is utterlybroken, but Montoria is still the same. We will say to thee, Happy artthou a thousand times, my son, who hast died at the post of honor.Unhappy those of us who still live, having lost thee. But God wills itthus; and we bow our foreheads before the ruler of all things. Wife,God gave us peace, happiness, prosperity, and good sons; now it seemsthat He desires to strip us of all. Let our hearts be filled withhumility, and let us not curse our fate. Blessed be the hand that leadsus, and let us tranquilly hope for the blessing of a death like this."
Do?a Leocadia, who had no life left except for weeping, was kissing thecold body of her son. Don Jos?, trying to subdue the manifestations ofhis own grief, rose and said in a firm voice,--
"Leocadia, you must rise now. It is necessary that our son should beburied."
"Buried!" exclaimed the mother. "Buried!" And she could say no more,for she fell forward, lifeless, clasping her son.
At the same moment we heard a heart-rending cry not far from there,and a woman came running in anguish towards us. It was the wife of theunfortunate Manuel, now widowed and childless. Several of us tried torestrain her, so that she might not witness the terrible scene, afterwhat she had just been through; but the unhappy lady struggled withus, begging us to let her see her husband. In the mean time Don Jos?,leaving us, went over to where the body of his grandson was lying,took him in his arms, and carried him and put him down near Manuel. Thewoman needed all of our care; and while Do?a Leocadia continued withoutconsciousness or motion, holding the corpse embraced in her arms, herdaughter-in-law, fevered with grief, was running about after imaginaryenemies, threatening to tear them to pieces. We tried to hold her, butshe escaped from us. At times she laughed with frightful laughter, andpresently she knelt before us, praying us to return the two bodies thatwe had taken away.
People passed,--soldiers, friars, peasants,--all seeing this withindifference, because every one had passed through similar scenes.Hearts were hardened, and souls seemed to have lost their mostbeautiful faculties, preserving nothing but a rude heroism. At lastthe poor woman yielded to fatigue, to the exhaustion of her own pain,lying passive in my arms as if she were dead. We looked about for somecordial or some kind of nourishment to revive her; but we had none,and the people who saw our need had work enough to attend to theirown. In the mean time, Don Jos? helped by his son Augustine, who alsocontrolled his bitter grief, loosened the body from the arms of Do?aLeocadia. The state of this unhappy lady was such that it seemedalmost as if we should have to mourn another death that day. PresentlyMontoria repeated,
"It is necessary that my son be buried!"
He looked about; we all looked about, and saw numbers of unburiedbodies. In the Calle de las Rufas there were many; and the Calle de laImprenta (now the Calle de Flandro) close by had been made into a sortof receiving house. It is not exaggeration, that which I saw and willtell you: Innumerable bodies were piled up in the narrow way, forming abroad wall from house to house. It was dreadful to see, and those whosaw it were condemned to have before their mind's eyes for all theirlives that funeral pyre made of the bodies of their fellow-beings. Itmay seem that I am inventing, but this thing happened: a man enteredthe Calle de la Imprenta and began to shout. At a window appearedanother man, who replied to him, saying, "Come up!"
Then the other, thinking to make a shorter cut than by the house doorand the staircase, climbed up over the heap of bodies, and reached thesecond story, one of whose windows served him for a door.
In many other streets, the same thing happened. Who could think ofgiving them sepulchre? For every pair of useful arms, and for everyspade, there were fifty dead. Three hundred to four hundred wereperishing daily with the epidemic. Every bloody battle had carriedoff a thousand more; and already Saragossa began to seem a great citydepopulated of living creatures.
Montoria, on seeing how things were, said:
"My son and my grandson will not have the privilege of sleeping beneaththe ground. Their souls are in heaven. What matters the rest? We mustleave them thus in this gateway of the Calle de las Rufas. Augustine,my son, it is best for you to go back to the lines. The officers areable to spare fewer than ever. I believe that they are in need of menat the Magdalena. I have now no son, man, but you. If you die, whatwould be left me? But duty is first; and, before seeing thee a coward,I prefer to see thee bleeding like thy poor brother with thy templepierced by the enemy's ball."
Then placing his hand upon the head of his son, who was kneelinguncovered beside the body of Manuel, he continued, lifting his eyes toheaven,--
"Lord, if thou hast willed to take my second son, also, take me to myfirst. When the siege is over, I desire to live no longer; my poorwife and I have had our share of happiness. We have received too manyblessings to speak against the hand which has wounded us. Hast thou notdone enough to prove us? Must my second son also perish? Come, se?ors,"he said presently, "let us disperse. Perhaps we are needed elsewhere."
"Se?or Don Jos?," said Don Roque, weeping, "will you not retire also,and let your friends fulfil this sad duty?"
"No; I am man for all that must be done, and God has given me a soulthat does not flinch and will not quail."
He lifted the body of Manuel, aided by one of the others, whileAugustine and I lifted his grandchild, to place both at the entrance ofthe Calle de las Rufas, where many other families had lain their dead.Montoria, as he put down the body, breathed a long sigh, and let hisarms fall as if the effort made had exhausted his energies, and said,--
"Truly, gentlemen, I am not now able to deny that I am tired.Yesterday, I felt young; to-day, I am very old."
Montoria had indeed aged visibly, and one night had taken ten yearsof his life. He sat down upon a stone, and, putting his elbows on hisknees, hid his face in his hands. He remained in this attitude for along time, and none of those present interfered with his grief. Do?aLeocadia, her daughter, and her daughter in-law, assisted by two oldservants of the family, were in the Coso. Don Roque, who went and camefrom one place to the other, said,--
"The se?ora remains very weak. They are praying earnestly now andweeping. They are sadly downcast, the poor ladies. Boys, it is verynecessary that we look about town, and see if a little something in theway of nourishment cannot be found."
Montoria rose then, wiped away the tears which coursed freely from hisburning eyes, saying,--
"There is no lack of food still in town, according to my belief. DonRoque, my friend, will you not go and find something to eat, let itcost what it may?"
"Yesterday I paid five duros for a hen in the market," said one of theold servants of the house.
"But to-day there are none," said Don Roque. "I was there only a momentago."
"Friends, look about and find something. I need nothing for myself."
He was saying this when we heard the agreeable cackle of a fowl.We all looked joyfully towards the entrance of the street, and wesaw Candiola, who carried in his left hand the chicken we know of,caressing its black plumage with his right. Before they asked him forit, he approached Montoria slowly, and said,--
"A doubloon for the chicken."
"What a starved thing it is!" exclaimed Don Roque. "The poor creatureis little more than bones."
I was not able to restrain my anger at seeing such shining evidence ofthe repugnant meanness and hard-heartedness of Candiola. So I went upto him, and snatched the chicken from his hands, saying violently,--
"This chicken is stolen! Come, you miserable miser, one would sellone's own cheaper! This was sold for five duros yesterday in themarket. Five duros you may have, you coward, you thief, not a fractionmore!"
Candiola began to howl for his chicken, and was on the point of gettinga good thrashing, when Don Jos? de Montoria intervened, saying,--
"Let him have what he wishes. Give Se?or Candiola the doubloon that hecharges for this fowl." He gave him the extortionate amount, whichCandiola was not slow to accept; and then our friend went on thus,--
"Se?or Candiola, let us speak together. Now, about that wherein Ioffended you. Yes--a few days ago--about that affair of the blows.There are times when one is not master of one's self, when the bloodmounts up to the head. It is true that you provoked me, and you chargedmore for the flour than the Captain-General had ordered. It is true,Don Jeronimo, my friend, that I shook you off, and you see--yet--onecould not help that and--I, I believe the--well, I suppose that my handflew away from me, and I did something."
"Se?or Montoria," said Candiola, "a day will come when we shall againhave authorities in Saragossa. Then we shall meet again face to face."
"Are you going to make it a matter of justices and notaries? That'sbad. That which is past--it was an access of anger, one of those thingswhich cannot be helped. My mind now is filled with the thought that Iam in trouble, very great trouble. One does not wish to offend one'sneighbor."
"It is not much to offend him, after robbing him," said Don Jeronimo,looking about at us all, and smiling contemptuously.
"It was not exactly robbing," said Don Jos?, patiently; "because Idid that which the Captain-General commanded. The offence of word anddeed was undeniable; and now when I saw you coming with the chicken,I determined at once to own up that I did wrong. My conscience urgedit upon me. Ah, Se?or Candiola, I am very unhappy! When one is happy,one does not know his faults. But it is true, Don Jeronimo, that asI saw you coming toward me just now, I felt desirous to ask yourpardon for those blows. I hold out the hand that offended. So it is. Idon't know what I am doing--yes, I do request you to forgive me, andlet us be friends. Se?or Don Jeronimo, let us be friends, let us bereconciled, and not make a permanent grudge out of an old resentment.Hatred poisons the soul, and the remembrance of not having done rightoppresses us with an insupportable weight."
"After an act of robbery, you think all can be arranged withhypocritical words," said Candiola, turning his back and skulking awayfrom the group, muttering, "Se?or Montoria should talk of refunding theprice of the flour. Begging forgiveness of me! I have lived to see allthere is to see."
He moved slowly away. Montoria, seeing that several of us were about topursue the insolent cur, said,--
"Let him go in peace. Let us have compassion on that unfortunate man."
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