Part 41 (1/2)
”Justa's a pretty girl, isn't she?”
”Psch ... yes,” and El Conejo looked at Manuel with the reserved mien of a person concealing a mystery.
”You've known her since she was a kid, haven't you?”
”Yes. But I've known plenty of other girls, too.”
”Has she a sweetheart?”
”She must have. Every woman has a sweetheart unless she's mighty ugly.”
”And who is Justa's fellow?”
”Anyone; I shouldn't be surprised if it were the Bishop of Madrid-Alcala.”
El Conejo was a very intelligent looking person; he had a long face, a curved nose, a broad forehead, tiny, sparkling eyes and a reddish beard that tapered to a point, like a goat's.
A peculiar tic, a convulsive twitch of the nose, would agitate his face from time to time, and it was this that completed his resemblance to a rabbit. His merriment was just as likely to find issue in a nervous, metallic, sonorous outburst as in a m.u.f.fled, clownish guffaw. He would stare at people from top to bottom and from bottom to top in a manner all the more insolent for its jesting character, and to add to the mockery he would detain his gaze upon his interlocutor's b.u.t.tons, and his eyes would dance from the cravat to the trousers and from the boots to the hat. He took special care to dress in the most ridiculous fas.h.i.+on and he liked to adorn his cap with bright c.o.c.k feathers, strut about in riding boots and commit similar follies.
He was fond, too, of confusing folks with his lies, and so firmly did he state the tales of his own invention that it was hard to tell whether he was fooling or speaking in all seriousness.
”Haven't you heard what happened this afternoon to the Bishop of Madrid-Alcala over at Las Cambroneras?” he would say to some acquaintance.
”Why, no.”
”Sure. He was on a visit bringing alms to Garibaldi and Garibaldi gave the Bishop a cup of chocolate. The Bishop sat down, took a sip, when zip! ... n.o.body knows just what happened; he dropped dead.”
”Why, man! ...”
”It's the Republicans that are behind it all,” affirmed El Conejo in his most serious manner, and he would be off to another place to spread the news or perpetrate another hoax. He would join a group.
”Have you heard what happened to Weyler?”
”No. What was it?”
”Oh, nothing. On his return from camp some flies attacked his face and ate up a whole ear. He went across Segovia bridge bleeding terribly.”
This was how the buffoon managed to enjoy himself.
Mornings he would sling his sack over his shoulder and proceed to the centre of Madrid where he shouted his business through the thoroughfares, mingling his cries with the names of political leaders and famous men,--a habit that had won him more than once the honour of appearing before the police-chief's desk.
El Conejo was as perverse and malevolent as a demon; any maiden in the vicinity that was going around with a secret bundle might well tremble lest he surprise her. He knew everything, he scented it out; apparently, however, he took no mean advantage of his discoveries.
He was content to scare folks out of their wits.
”El Conejo must know,” was the regular response when anything was suspected.
”I don't know a thing; I've seen nothing,” he would answer, laughing. ”I don't know anything.” And that was all anybody could get out of him.
As Manuel got to know El Conejo better he felt for him, if not esteem, at least a certain respect because of his intelligence.