“Nonsense!  You, with all your wisdom, cannot make your nephew do as you wish.  What could be simpler than what I propose?  Since there is no justice now to protect us, let us do a great act of justice ourselves.  Are there not men in your house who are ready for any thing?  Well, call them and say to them:  ‘Look, Caballuco, Paso Largo,’ or whoever it may be, ’to-night disguise yourself well, so that you may not be recognized; take with you a friend in whom you have confidence, and station yourself at the corner of the Calle de Santa Faz.  Wait a while, and when Don Jose Rey passes through the Calle de la Triperia on his way to the Casino,—­for he will certainly go to the Casino, understand me well,—­when he is passing you will spring out on him and give him a fright.’”

“Maria Remedios, don’t be a fool!” said Dona Perfecta with magisterial dignity.

“Nothing more than a fright, senora; attend well to what I say, a fright.  Why!  Do you suppose I would advise a crime?  Good God! the very idea fills me with horror, and I fancy I can see before my eyes blood and fire!  Nothing of the sort, senora.  A fright—­nothing but a fright, which will make that ruffian understand that we are well protected.  He goes alone to the Casino, senora, entirely alone; and there he meets his valiant friends, those of the sabre and the helmet.  Imagine that he gets the fright and that he has a few bones broken, in addition—­without any serious wounds, of course.  Well, in that case, either his courage will fail him and he will leave Orbajosa, or he will be obliged to keep his bed for a fortnight.  But they must be told to make the fright a good one.  No killing, of course; they must take care of that, but just a good beating.”

“Maria,” said Dona Perfecta haughtily, “you are incapable of a lofty thought, of a great and saving resolve.  What you advise me is an unworthy piece of cowardice.”

“Very well, I will be silent.  Poor me! what a fool I am!” exclaimed the Penitentiary’s niece with humility.  “I will keep my follies to console you after you have lost your daughter.”

“My daughter!  Lose my daughter!” exclaimed Dona Perfecta, with a sudden access of rage.  “Only to hear you puts me out of my senses.  No, they shall not take her from me!  If Rosario does not abhor that ruffian as I wish her to do, she shall abhor him.  For a mother’s authority must have some weight.  We will tear this passion, or rather this caprice, from her heart, as a tender plant is torn out of the ground before it has had time to cast roots.  No, this cannot be, Remedios.  Come what may, it shall not be!  Not even the most infamous means he could employ will avail that madman.  Rather than see her my nephew’s wife, I would accept any evil that might happen to her, even death!”