“You have beheld the guardian angel of the old man—­and her to whom you owe all that is seemly and comfortable in my hospitality.  Somehow, senores, though the flame of love has been kindled early in my breast, I have never married.  And because of that perhaps the sparks of the sacred fire are not yet extinct here.”  He struck his broad chest.  “Still alive, still alive,” he said, with serio-comic emphasis.  “But I shall not marry now.  She is General Santierra’s adopted daughter and heiress.”

One of our fellow-guests, a young naval officer, described her afterwards as a “short, stout, old girl of forty or thereabouts.”  We had all noticed that her hair was turning grey, and that she had very fine black eyes.

“And,” General Santierra continued, “neither would she ever hear of marrying any one.  A real calamity!  Good, patient, devoted to the old man.  A simple soul.  But I would not advise any of you to ask for her hand, for if she took yours into hers it would be only to crush your bones.  Ah! she does not jest on that subject.  And she is the own daughter of her father, the strong man who perished through his own strength:  the strength of his body, of his simplicity—­of his love!”

AN IRONIC TALE

THE INFORMER

Mr. X came to me, preceded by a letter of introduction from a good friend of mine in Paris, specifically to see my collection of Chinese bronzes and porcelain.

“My friend in Paris is a collector, too.  He collects neither porcelain, nor bronzes, nor pictures, nor medals, nor stamps, nor anything that could be profitably dispersed under an auctioneer’s hammer.  He would reject, with genuine surprise, the name of a collector.  Nevertheless, that’s what he is by temperament.  He collects acquaintances.  It is delicate work.  He brings to it the patience, the passion, the determination of a true collector of curiosities.  His collection does not contain any royal personages.  I don’t think he considers them sufficiently rare and interesting; but, with that exception, he has met with and talked to everyone worth knowing on any conceivable ground.  He observes them, listens to them, penetrates them, measures them, and puts the memory away in the galleries of his mind.  He has schemed, plotted, and travelled all over Europe in order to add to his collection of distinguished personal acquaintances.

“As he is wealthy, well connected, and unprejudiced, his collection is pretty complete, including objects (or should I say subjects?) whose value is unappreciated by the vulgar, and often unknown to popular fame.  Of trevolte of modern times.  The world knows him as a revolutionary writer whose savage irony has laid bare the rottenness of the most respectable institutions.  He has scalped every venerated head, and has mangled at the stake of his wit every received opinion and every recognized principle of conduct and policy.