“You know I do not drink,” said Gabriel.  “I have never cared for alcohol; wine sometimes, and very little of that.  But where are you all going to, dressed out as for a feast day?”

The Tato answered hurriedly.  Silver Stick locked up the Claverias at nine, and they wished to spend the night out of bounds.  They had been some time at a cafe in the Zocodover, feasting like lords.  They had had all sorts of adventures, that was a night quite out of the ordinary way, more especially as all the town was in commotion about the Archbishop.

“How is he going on?” inquired Gabriel.

“I believe he died half-an-hour ago,” said the bell-ringer.  “When I went up to my house for the keys, a doctor was coming out of the palace and he told one of the canons.  But let us sit down.”

They all sat down, in their embroidered caps, on the steps of the high altar railing.  Mariano put his bunch of keys on the ground, a mass of iron as big as a club.  There were keys of every age, some of iron, very large, rough and rusty, showing the old hammer marks and with coats of arms near the bows; others, more modern were clean and bright as silver, but they were all very large and heavy, with powerful indented teeth, proportionate to the size of the edifice.

The three friends seemed extraordinarily happy, with a nervous gaiety which made them catch hold of each other and laugh.  They cast sidelong looks at the Virgin and then looked at each other, with a mysterious gesture that Gabriel was quite unable to understand.

“You have all drunk a good deal, is it not so?” said Luna.  “You do wrong, for you know that drink is the degradation of the poor.”

“A day is a day, uncle,” said the Perrero; “it delights us that the great ones are dying.  You see, I esteem His Eminence highly, but let him go to the devil!  The only satisfaction a poor man has is to see that the end comes also to the rich.”

“Drink,” said the bell-ringer, offering him the bottle.  “It is a pleasure to find ourselves here, well and happy, while to-morrow His Eminence will find himself between four boards; we shall have to ring the little bell all day!”

The Tato drank, passing the bottle to the shoemaker, who held it a long time glued to his gullet.  Of the three he seemed the most tipsy; his eyes were bloodshot, he stared stonily on every side and remained silent, he only gave a forced laugh when anyone spoke to him, as if his thoughts were very, very far off.

On the other hand, the bell-ringer was far more loquacious than usual.  He spoke of the cardinal’s fortune, at the wealth that would fall to Dona Visitacion, of the joy many of the Chapter must feel that night.  He interrupted himself to take a pull at the brandy bottle, passing it afterwards to his companions.  The smell of the alcohol spread through that atmosphere impregnated with incense and the smoke of wax tapers.

More than an hour passed in this way.  Mariano had stopped the conversation several times as if he had something serious to say and was vacillating, wanting courage.