old gentleman of cadaverous aspect,--a very fastidious personage who
conscientiously wiped the glasses and plates with his napkin. By his
side this gentleman had a vial and a dropper, and before eating he
would drop his medicine into the wine. To the left of the landlady
rose the Biscayan, a tall, stout woman of bestial appearance, with a
huge nose, thick lips and flaming cheeks; next to this lady, as flat
as a toad, was Dona Violante, whom the boarders jestingly called now
Dona Violent and now Dona Violated.

Near Dona Violante were grouped her daughters; then a priest who
prattled incessantly, a journalist whom they called the Superman,--a
very fair youth, exceedingly thin and exceedingly serious,--the
salesmen and the bookkeeper.

Manuel served the soup and all the boarders took it, sipping it with a
disagreeable inhalation. Then, according to his mother's orders, the
youngster remained standing there. Now followed the beans which, if
not for their size then for their hardness might have figured in an
artillery park, and one of the boarders permitted himself some
pleasantry about the edibleness of so petreous a vegetable; a
pleasantry that glided over the impassive countenance of Dona Casiana
without leaving the slightest trace.

Manuel sat about observing the boarders. It was the day after the
conspiracy; Dona Violante and her daughters were incommunicative and
in ugly humour. Dona Violante's inflated face at every moment creased
into a frown, and her restless, turbid eyes betrayed deep
preoccupation. Celia, the elder of the daughters, annoyed by the
priest's jests, began to answer violently, cursing everything human
and divine with a desperate, picturesque, raging hatred, which caused