who had also died violently. I think Juana felt that her taking the veil might in some way atone for all these crimes..."
"I see." He resumed his glasses and glanced at the finish of the letter. "There is little more—except a great many professions of gratitude and so forth, which we may take for granted."
He handed me the paper, which was headed by a great conventual seal, and I read the lines again for myself.
Then I said, "Would you wish me to go upon this errand, Grandfather?"
"My boy, I leave that decision entirely to you."
Yet he had brought me home at racing speed.
I asked, "Do you know anything about these people, sir? Manuel de la Trava, and his wife?"
The Conde pursed his lip again.
"He is of good family—noble blood of Aragon. He wrote some intelligent pamphlets on the backwardness of our educational and medical services. I daresay those were enough to get him jailed. He is, I believe, a friend of that Jose de Larra who writes in Madrid under the name of Figaro."
"Of course I have heard of him."
"Somebody told me that Manuel de la Trava had gone mad in prison. A not infrequent occurrence at Montjuich," added my grandfather gloomily. "They say it is a hell on earth. As to his wife, I know nothing, except that she was very rich and reputed to be a great beauty. Her family were not so wellborn as her husband's.
New
money, from coal mines."
I smiled a little, inside myself. Grandfather, despite his views on progress and reform, would always look more kindly on somebody who came from an ancient line. His attitude toward me had changed decidedly for the better when he found that I was not born out of wedlock, son of a penniless English army captain, but was, on the contrary, the legitimate grandson of an English duke. I could not hold this against him. For one thing, he loved and respected the peasants just as much as he did people of aristocratic descent.
"The peasants, you see, are well descended too," he had told me seriously. "Their forefathers have always been here, in Villaverde, since long before the Romans. Since Adam. They and I understand one another very well. It is only those jumped-up nobodies in the middle—people whose ancestors come from God knows where, foundry owners and shopkeepers, people who don't know their place—that I cannot abide."
All these things were passing through my head as I said, "Well—I should like to go on this errand, if you approve, Grandfather. I do not at all see how I can be helpful in getting these poor children away from their crazy father, but there is no sense in trying to make plans until I have seen what the circumstances are. And I must confess I shall be glad—very glad—of the chance to see Señorita Esparza once more."
"You must be prepared, don't forget, to find great changes in her. Young ladies at that time of life grow up much faster than their male counterparts." His wise, ironic eye dwelled on me, I thought, with sympathy.
"Yes, I suppose so ... And she is a nun, after all."
My heart sank again at the thought. To distract myself, I asked, "When did you receive this letter, Grandfather?"
He counted on his fingers. "Seven days ago now; I delayed answering until I had discovered your feelings on the matter. Now, since you wish to go, I will dictate a letter which you may write for me if you will—my fingers are so wretchedly stiff these days that they can hardly grasp a quill; then you may carry it with you to Bilbao, to this Reverend Mother at the Convento de la Encarnacion."
"How long will it take us to get to Bilbao?"
I had never been to Bilbao, which is a seaport on the Biscay coast, not far from the border of Spain and France.
"It is farther than Salamanca—I suppose five or six days' traveling. You could go part of the way by sea—take ship from Aviles or Gijon."
A week from now, I was thinking, perhaps a week from this very day I may see her.
I still kept a remembrance she had left with me: a little snuffbox containing four tiny
"I see." He resumed his glasses and glanced at the finish of the letter. "There is little more—except a great many professions of gratitude and so forth, which we may take for granted."
He handed me the paper, which was headed by a great conventual seal, and I read the lines again for myself.
Then I said, "Would you wish me to go upon this errand, Grandfather?"
"My boy, I leave that decision entirely to you."
Yet he had brought me home at racing speed.
I asked, "Do you know anything about these people, sir? Manuel de la Trava, and his wife?"
The Conde pursed his lip again.
"He is of good family—noble blood of Aragon. He wrote some intelligent pamphlets on the backwardness of our educational and medical services. I daresay those were enough to get him jailed. He is, I believe, a friend of that Jose de Larra who writes in Madrid under the name of Figaro."
"Of course I have heard of him."
"Somebody told me that Manuel de la Trava had gone mad in prison. A not infrequent occurrence at Montjuich," added my grandfather gloomily. "They say it is a hell on earth. As to his wife, I know nothing, except that she was very rich and reputed to be a great beauty. Her family were not so wellborn as her husband's.
New
money, from coal mines."
I smiled a little, inside myself. Grandfather, despite his views on progress and reform, would always look more kindly on somebody who came from an ancient line. His attitude toward me had changed decidedly for the better when he found that I was not born out of wedlock, son of a penniless English army captain, but was, on the contrary, the legitimate grandson of an English duke. I could not hold this against him. For one thing, he loved and respected the peasants just as much as he did people of aristocratic descent.
"The peasants, you see, are well descended too," he had told me seriously. "Their forefathers have always been here, in Villaverde, since long before the Romans. Since Adam. They and I understand one another very well. It is only those jumped-up nobodies in the middle—people whose ancestors come from God knows where, foundry owners and shopkeepers, people who don't know their place—that I cannot abide."
All these things were passing through my head as I said, "Well—I should like to go on this errand, if you approve, Grandfather. I do not at all see how I can be helpful in getting these poor children away from their crazy father, but there is no sense in trying to make plans until I have seen what the circumstances are. And I must confess I shall be glad—very glad—of the chance to see Señorita Esparza once more."
"You must be prepared, don't forget, to find great changes in her. Young ladies at that time of life grow up much faster than their male counterparts." His wise, ironic eye dwelled on me, I thought, with sympathy.
"Yes, I suppose so ... And she is a nun, after all."
My heart sank again at the thought. To distract myself, I asked, "When did you receive this letter, Grandfather?"
He counted on his fingers. "Seven days ago now; I delayed answering until I had discovered your feelings on the matter. Now, since you wish to go, I will dictate a letter which you may write for me if you will—my fingers are so wretchedly stiff these days that they can hardly grasp a quill; then you may carry it with you to Bilbao, to this Reverend Mother at the Convento de la Encarnacion."
"How long will it take us to get to Bilbao?"
I had never been to Bilbao, which is a seaport on the Biscay coast, not far from the border of Spain and France.
"It is farther than Salamanca—I suppose five or six days' traveling. You could go part of the way by sea—take ship from Aviles or Gijon."
A week from now, I was thinking, perhaps a week from this very day I may see her.
I still kept a remembrance she had left with me: a little snuffbox containing four tiny
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