to death. I didn't expect to come; I
forgot all about it, upon my word. But as I was coming out of the
President's house I thought of you. I was sure I would find you here.
And so I have come to have you drive away my ill humor."

Through the veil, Renovales saw her eyes that flashed hostilely and her
dainty lips angrily tightened.

She spoke quickly, eager to vent the wrath that was swelling her heart,
without paying any attention to what was around her, as if she were in
her own drawing room where everything was familiar.

She had been to see the Prime-Minister to recommend her "affair" to his
attention; a desire of the count's on the fulfillment of which his
happiness depended. Poor Paco (her husband) dreamed of the Golden
Fleece. That was the only thing that was lacking to crown the tower of
crosses, keys and ribbons that he was raising about his person, from his
belly to his neck, till not an inch of his body was without this
glorious covering. The Golden Fleece and then death! Why should they not
do this favor for Paco, such a good man, who would not hurt a fly? What
would it cost them to grant him this toy and make him happy?

"There aren't any friends any longer, Mariano," said the countess
bitterly. "The Prime-Minister is a fool who forgets his old friendships
now that he is head of the government. I who have seen him sighing
around me like a comic opera tenor, making love to me (yes, I tell the
truth to you) and ready to commit suicide because I scorned his
vulgarity and foolishness! This afternoon, the same old story; lots of
holding my hand, lots of making eyes, 'dear Concha,' 'sweet Concha' and
other sugary expressions, just such as he sings in Congress like an old
canary. Sum total, the Fleece is impossible, he is very sorry, but at
Court they are unwilling."

And the countess, as if she saw for the first time where she was, turned
her eyes angrily toward the dark hills of the Casa de Campo, where shots
could still be heard.

"And they wonder that people think this way or that! I am an anarchist,
do you hear, Mariano? Every day I feel more revolutionary. Don't laugh,
for it is no jest. Poor Paco, who is a lamb of God, is horrified to
hear me. 'Woman, think what we are! We must be on good terms with the
royal house.' But I rise in rebellion; I know them; a crowd of
reprobates. Why shouldn't my Paco have the Fleece, if the poor man needs
it. I tell you, master, this cowardly, meek country makes me ragi