"Your friends are waiting for you at the Club. They saw you for a momentonly, this morning; they'll be wanting to hear all your stories aboutlife in Madrid."
Doña Bernarda fixed upon the young deputy a pair of deep, scrutinizing,severely maternal eyes that recalled to Rafael all the roguish anxietiesof his childhood.
"Are you going directly to the Club?..." she added. "Andrés will bestarting too, right away."
Rafael, in reply, wished a blunt "good-afternoon" to his mother and donAndrés, who were still at table sipping their coffee, and strode out ofthe dining-room.
Finding himself on the broad, red-marble staircase in the silence ofthat ancient mansion, of such princely magnificence, he experienced thesudden sense of comfort and wellbeing that a traveler feels on plunginginto a bath after a tedious journey.
Ever since he had arrived, with the noisy reception at the station, thehurrahs, the deafening music, handshakes here, crowding there, thepushing and elbowing of more than a thousand people who had throngedthe streets of Alcira to get a close look at him, this was the firstmoment he had found himself alone, his own master, able to do exactly ashe pleased, without needing to smile automatically in all directions andwelcome with demonstrations of affection persons whose faces he couldscarcely recall.
What a deep breath of relief he drew as he went down the desertedstaircase, which echoed his every footstep! How large and beautiful thepatio was! How broad and lustrous the leaves of the plantainsflourishing in their green boxes! There he had spent the best years ofhis childhood. The little boys who in those days used to be hidingbehind the wide portal, waiting for a chance to play with the son of thepowerful don Ramón Brull, were now the grown men, the sinewy orchardworkers, who had been parading from the station to his house, wavingtheir arms, and shouting vivas for their deputy—Alcira's "favoriteson."
This contrast between the past and present flattered Rafael's conceit,though, in the background of his thoughts, the suspicion lurked that hismother had been not a little instrumental in the preparation of hisnoisy reception, not to mention don Andrés, and numerous other friends,ever loyal to anyone connected with the greatness of the Brulls,caciques—political bosses—and leading citizens of the district.
To enjoy these recollections of childhood and the pleasure of findinghimself once more at home, after several months in Madrid, he stood forsome time motionless in the patio, looking up at the balconies of thefirst story, then at the attic windows—from which in mischievous yearsgone by he had many a time withdrawn his head at the sound of hismother's scolding voice—and lastly, at the veil of luminous blueabove—a patch of sky drenched in that Spanish sunlight which ripens theoranges to clusters of flaming gold.
He thought he could still see his father—the imposing, solemn donRamón—sauntering about the patio, his hands behind his back,answering in a few impressive words the questions flung at him by hisparty adherents, who followed him about with idolatrous eyes. If the oldman could only have come back to life that morning to see how his sonhad been acclaimed by the entire city!...
A barely perceptible sound like the buzzing of two flies broke the deepsilence of the mansion. The deputy looked toward the only balcony windowthat was open, though but slightly. His mother and don Andrés were stilltalking in the di