Jacobo Utrilla, with that marvellous perspicacity with which he was endowed in these delicate matters pertaining to honor, made up his mind that the world would never forgive him unless he put an end to his existence on this occasion. And as a man who valued his dignity above all things, he resolved to sacrifice on this altar his own life, so sweet to all created things.
Melancholy night that which preceded this tragic event! Utrilla was perfectly well aware of what he had to do in such a situation as this; without any trouble at all, he could have written a _Handbook of Suicide_. Thus he spent the time till dawn in writing letters and drinking black coffee.
One of them was to his father, asking his pardon, but, at the same time, making him to see by weighty reasons that if he had acted in any other way, he would have dishonored the n.o.ble name that he bore; another, to Julia, very dignified, very courteous, very generous; the only favor that he asked was that sometimes she should place a flower on his tomb; the last was, in fact, to the judge of the police, giving him to understand "that no one was to blame for his death," etc.
Having scrupulously fulfilled those lofty duties, he washed his face and hands, and dressed with all care, and asked for chocolate. Dona Adelaida, who always arose at peep of day, gave it to him, though she was not a little surprised to see him so early in the morning dressed in such elegant style.
"Jacobito, why have you dressed all in black? Are you going to a funeral?"
"Yes, senora.... To the funeral of a friend of yours," he replied with admirable self-control.
"Who is it?"
"You will know in good time."
While he took his chocolate, he was genial and jolly, as never before, making the good senora roar with his anecdotes. Utrilla was not naturally facetious, nor was he apt to be good-natured when he got up early; but he felt that, in these exceptional circ.u.mstances, it was very necessary to vary his habits; for he was a practical man, and had no rival as a connoisseur in such matters.
"Come, now, I am going from here to the Campo Santo," said he, putting on his hat and taking his cane.
"But is the service in the cemetery, Jacobito?"
"No; there is a ma.s.s in the chapel.... You would not like me to remain there, would you?"
"Where?"
"In the cemetery."
"_Ave Maria!_ What jokes you do make, Jacobito!"
He gave a laugh that partook of an hysterical character. He took his gloves from his pocket; but before putting them on, he drew off a finger ring and handed it to the housekeeper, saying:--
"This ring you will please send to Don Miguel Rivera"s house, and ask them to give it to him when he returns."
"Is it a present?"
"Yes; in return for the many favors that he has done for me."
Immediately this great-souled and punctilious young man sallied forth from the house with firm step, bent upon accomplishing his duty. Neither the beauty of the day, which was more than usually bright and glorious, nor the sight of the pleasures to which life invited him, nor the tender recollection of his father, caused him to pause in his serene and majestic march. As he pa.s.sed near the Cibeles fountain, a hand-organ was playing a waltz-polka which reminded him of a certain experience that he had had in the saloon of Capellanes. He felt a little melancholy; but his heroic soul immediately recovered from this impulse of weakness.
He reached the Retiro: he was alone. He walked along with deliberate step in search of a hidden and mysterious spot. When he had found such, he sat down on a stone bench, took off his hat, and laid it carefully by his side; then he opened his frock coat and threw one leg over the other, taking care to pull down his trousers so as not to expose his stocking. Then thrusting one hand into his pocket and a.s.suring himself that his letters were in their place, he drew out a small nickel-plated revolver.
At that moment a powerful temptation a.s.sailed the young lad"s constant soul. It occurred to him that perhaps there was no reason for him to commit suicide; that it would be better to let things run their course; that the world had many revolutions to make, and he was too young to deprive himself of existence. If Julita had run away, that was her own affair: to kill himself was a serious, a very serious matter!
Still his bravery, which had never yet played him false, was able to conquer this horrible temptation. "No," he said to himself, "I cannot live honorably any longer. All those who were acquainted with these relations of mine would have the right to laugh at me. And Jacobo was not born that any one should laugh at him!"
He leaned back, placed his left elbow on the back of the bench, with his head poetically resting on his hand. With his right hand he aimed his revolver at his temple and fired.
Either because his hand trembled a little (a suspicion which would not amount to anything if it were not regarding this invincible youth of indomitable courage), or because the pistol did not shoot quite accurately, at all events Utrilla fell, badly wounded, but not killed.
He was taken to the hospital,[61] and thence home. His condition was very serious.
When Miguel arrived from Lisbon three days after this tragic event, he immediately went to see him. He was deeply and painfully impressed. The bullet had cut the optic nerve, and the unhappy boy was hopelessly blind. The consultation of doctors had not given a favorable verdict. As the ball was still in the head, very near the brain, they judged that it was impossible for him to live very long. Any movement might bring with it instant death.
But the strange and terrible part of the affair was, that the hapless lad, already blind, lying in his bed suffering tremendous and unceasing anguish, did not want to die. With lamentable cries, which tore the heart and brought tears from all who were present, he begged his father and brothers to _make_ him live--to live under any circ.u.mstances, even though he should be blind.
It was impossible. In the course of twelve days that intrepid and unfortunate young man had pa.s.sed away. Miguel was with him till the very last.
XXVIII.
By the advice of all, it was determined that _la brigadiera_ and her daughter should leave Madrid and go to live at the Astillero of Santander. It was the only place, as they already had a house rented, that offered them immediately a secret refuge where to hide their shame.
After they had taken their departure, Miguel remained more calm.
Nevertheless, a deep sadness had taken possession of his heart, which neither his wife"s love nor the infantile graces of his baby were sufficient to dissipate. And the reason was that, beyond the grief caused by his sister"s disgrace, he lived tormented by the thought of his impending ruin. He could not hide the fact that Eguiburu was crouching like a tiger, ready to leap upon him and tear him to pieces.
He saw Mendoza very rarely; he noticed that he avoided meeting him, and when this was unavoidable, their conversation was short and embarra.s.sed on both sides.
One day he went home at night-all, pale enough. Maximina, who, as always, came to meet him, with the baby in her arms, did not notice it because it was so dark. He kissed his child affectionately again and again, and then went into his study. His wife stood at the door, motionless, gazing sadly at him.
"A light," said he, in imperious tones.
Maximina ran to the dining-room, left the baby in Juana"s hands, and she herself brought the lighted candles. Miguel paid no attention to her, and began to write. When after a few moments he lifted his head, he saw her leaning against the mantel-piece, looking at him, her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears.
"Why are you here? What is the matter?"
The little wife slowly approached him, and laying one hand on his shoulder, said, with a melancholy attempt at a smile:--
"Have I done anything wrong, Miguel?"
"Why so?"
"Always when you come in you give me a kiss, but to-day you don"t pay any attention at all to me!... You have kissed the baby more than...."
Miguel leaped to his feet and strained his wife to his heart.
"No, my Maximina; if I kissed the boy, it was solely because I came in thinking about him and anxious about his fate."
Then, without being able to speak another word, he threw himself into a chair and sobbed.
Maximina stood as though she had seen the house fall down before her eyes. When the first instant of amazement was past, she ran to him and kissed him.
"Miguel, Miguel, light of my life, what is the matter?"
"Misfortune hangs over us, Maximina," he replied, with his face in his hands. "I have stupidly ruined you--you and my son!"
"Don"t cry, Miguel, don"t cry!" exclaimed the little wife, pressing her lips to her husband"s face. "I had nothing; how could you ruin me?"