a back room on the ground floor, engaged in manufacturing pictures out of gummed hair—­an art in which he was a proficient.  He had even achieved a portrait of Pilar in blonde, brown, and red hair.  It looked like the queen in a pack of cards, but Don Pablo was very proud of the masterpiece, and never forgave Pilar for not hanging it in one of the salons, but in quite another place.  It was this accomplishment of his which led Auguste to declare firmly and with conviction that he was nothing more nor less than a common hairdresser.  The relations between the two were altogether very strained.  Auguste was annoyed by the Spaniard’s high-and-mighty airs, and his French instincts of equality revolted against Don Pablo’s pretensions to be better than the rest of the servants.  They had their meals in common, but Don Pablo occupied the seat of honor and demanded to be waited upon, while Auguste, Anne and Isabel had to be content to wait upon themselves.  As ill-luck would have it, Auguste had once got a sight of Don Pablo’s uniform and great order; whereupon he instantly cut out a monstrous tin star out of the lid of a sardine box and wore it at meals.  Don Pablo was so furious that he spoke seriously of challenging Auguste to a duel to the death, and it required a stern order from the countess to make him give up his bloodthirsty design and Auguste his practical joke.

The sharp-tongued Anne and noisy old Isabel were on a similar warlike footing.  The maid was jealous of the cook because she had long, secret confabulations with the countess, who let her do exactly as she pleased, and even forgave her her pronounced liking for her excellent Val de Penas, of which she—­Isabel—­drank at least a barrel a year to her own account.  One day Wilhelm, coming unexpectedly into the boudoir, surprised Pilar and the red-nosed cook together, the latter engaged in telling her mistress’ fortune by the cards.  This was the secret of Isabel’s influence.  She hurriedly took herself off with her cards, but Wilhelm shook his head:  “I should not have believed it of my clever Pilar.”

“What would you have?” she returned, half-laughing, half-ashamed; “we all of us have some little remnant of superstition in some dark corner of our minds.  And after all, it is very odd that ever since our return she is continually turning up the knave of hearts.”  And as Wilhelm was obviously still unenlightened, she explained, “Barbarian, don’t you know that that always means a sweetheart?”

Pilar arranged their life as if they were on their honeymoon.  Every midday and evening meal was a banquet with flowers, choice dishes, and champagne, till Wilhelm forbade it; every day a drive in an elegant coupe; every evening to some theater in a half-concealed stage box, in which Pilar hid herself in the dim background.  Wilhelm did not care for the theater, but Pilar insisted that he should become acquainted with the French stage.  She showed him about Paris as if he were a schoolboy