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 raging mad.
We ought to have what France had in '93. If I were alone, without all
these trifles of name and position, I would do to-day something that
would stir people. I'd throw a bomb, no, not a bomb; I'd get a revolver
and----"
"Fire!" shouted the painter, bursting into a laugh.
Concha drew back indignantly.
"Don't joke, master. I'll go away. I'll slap you. This is more serious
than you think. This afternoon is no time for jokes."
But her fickle nature contradicted the seriousness that she pretended to
give her words, for she smiled slightly, as if pleased at some memory.
"It wasn't wholly a failure," she said after a long pause. "My hands
aren't empty. The prime-minister didn't want to make me his enemy and so
he offered me a compensation, since the 'Lamb' affair was impossible.
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