CHAPTER XXVII

A CANON'S TORTURE

"Resignation, resignation!" repeated Don Inocencio.

"Resignation, resignation!" repeated his niece, drying her tears. "If my
dear son is doomed to be always a beggar, well, then, be it so. Lawsuits
are becoming scarce; the day will soon come when the practice of the law
will be the same as nothing. What is the use of all his talent? What is
the use of his tiring his brain with so much study? Ah! We are poor.
A day will come, Senor Don Inocencio, when my poor boy will not have a
pillow on which to lay his head."

"Woman!"

"Man! can you deny it? Tell me, then, what inheritance are you going
to leave him when you close your eyes on this world? A couple of rooms,
half a dozen big books, poverty, and nothing more. What times are before
us, uncle; what times! My poor boy is growing very delicate in his
health, and he won't be able to work--it makes him dizzy now to read a
book; he gets a headache and nausea whenever he works at night! He will
have to beg a paltry situation; I shall have to take in sewing, and who
knows, who knows but we may have to beg our bread!"

"Woman!"

"Oh, I know very well what I am talking about! Fine times before us!"
added the excellent woman, forcing still more the lachrymose note in
her diatribe. "My God! What is going to become of us? Ah, it is only a