Cuba -- History -- Revolution, 1895-1898 -- Fiction
"You, if any one, should know, after all the years you have spent in
hunting for it," the merchant observed. "Dios mio! Almost before
Esteban was buried you began the search. People said you were going to
tear this house down."
"Well, I never found a trace. I had holes dug in the gardens, too."
"You see? No, senora, it is possible to hide anything except money. No
man can conceal that where another will not find it."
Isabel's face had grown hard and avaricious, even during this brief
talk; her eyes were glowing; plainly she was as far as ever from giving
up her long-cherished conviction.
"I don't ask anybody to believe the story," she said, resentfully. "All
the same, it is true. There are pieces of Spanish gold and silver
coins, in boxes bound with iron and fitted with hasps and staples;
packages of gems; pearls from the Caribbean as large as plums. Oh?
Sebastian told me all about it."
"Of course, of course! I shall not argue the matter."' Don Mario
dismissed the subject with a wave of his plump hand. "Now, Dona
Isabel--"
"As if it were not enough to lose that treasure," the widow continued,
stormily, "the Government must free all our slaves. Tse! Tse! And now
that there is no longer a profit in sugar, my plantations--"
"No profit in sugar? What are you saying?" queried the caller.
"Oh, you have a way of prospering! What touches your fingers turns to
gold. But you are not at the mercy of an administrador."
"Precisely! I am my own manager. If your crops do not pay, then Pancho
Cueto is cheating you. He is capable of it. Get rid of him. But I
didn't come here to talk about Esteban's hidden treasure, nor his
plantations, nor Pancho Cueto. I came here to talk about your
step-daughter, Rosa."
"So?" Dona Isabel looked up quickly.
"She interests me. She is more beautiful than the stars." Don Mario
rolled his eyes toward the high ceiling, which, like the sky, was
tinted a vivid cerulean blue. "She personifies every virtue; she
is--delectable." He pursed his wet lips, daintily picked a kiss from
between them with his thumb and finger, and snapped it into the air.
Inasmuch as Isabel had always hated the girl venomously, she did not
trust herself to comment upon her caller's enthusiasm.
"She is now eighteen," the fat suitor went on, ecstatically, "and so
altogether charming--But why waste time in pretty speeches? I have
decided to marry her."
De Castano plucked a heavily scented silk handkerchief from his pocket
and wiped a beading of moisture from his brow and upper lip. He had a
habit of perspiring when roused from his usual lethargy.
"Rosa has a will of her own," guardedly ventured the stepmother.
Don Mario broke out, testily: "Naturally; so have we all. Now let us
speak plainly. You know me. I am a person of importance. I am rich
enough to afford what I want, and I pay well. You understand? Well,
then, you are Rosa's guardian and you can bend her to your desires."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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