Chapter 2

The tram carried on and, strange to relate, I in turn continued to think about the unknown countess, of her cruel and suspicious consort and above all of the sinister man who, according to the doctor's emphatic expression, was on the point of causing a disaster in the house. Consider, reader, the nature of human thought: when Cascajares started to relate those events to me, I was annoyed at his importunity and heaviness, but my mind wasted little time in taking hold of that same subject, turning it upside down and right side up, a psychological process which did not cease to be stimulated by the regular motion of the tram and the dull and monotonous noise of its wheels polishing the iron of the rails.

But in the end I stopped thinking about what was of such little interest to me and, scanning with my eyes the inside of the tram, I examined one by one my travelling companions. What distinctive faces and what expressions! Some appeared not to be bothered in the least about those who were next to them. Some were happy, some were sad, this one was yawning, that one was laughing, and in spite of the journey's shortness, there was not a single one who did not want it to be over quickly, for among the thousand and one annoyances of our existence, none exceeds the one that consists in being a dozen people gazing at one another's faces without saying a word and mutually musing over their wrinkles, their moles or some anomaly noticed in a face or in clothing.

It is strange this short acquaintance with people that we have not seen before and will in all likelihood not see again. We already meet someone on entering and others arrive while we're still there. Passengers get off leaving us alone and finally we too alight. It's a mirror of human life itself in which birth and death are like the entrances and exits I've just mentioned for new generations of passengers come to populate the little world that lives inside the tram. They get on, they get off; they are born and they die. How many have passed through here before we have! How many more will succeed us! And for the resemblance to be even more complete there is also a small world of passions in miniature inside that big box.

Many go there that we feel instinctively to be excellent people and their appearance pleases us and we are even upset to see them go. Others, on the contrary, annoy us as soon as we look at them. We examine with a certain rancour their phrenological characteristics and feel a real pleasure when we see them go. And meanwhile the vehicle, an imitation of life, keeps going, always receiving and letting go, uniform, indefatigable, majestic, oblivious to what is happening inside it, without being moved very much by the barely stifled passions of dumb show. The tram is running, always running over the two interminable iron tracks, wide and slippery as centuries. I was thinking about this while the tram was going up the calle de Alcalá until the noise of my bundle of books falling on the floor pulled me back from the gulf of so many mixed up ruminations. I picked it up immediately and my eyes focused on the sheet of newspaper that was serving as a wrapper to the volumes and mechanically took in half a line of what was printed there. All of a sudden my curiosity was well and truly aroused. I had read something that interested me and certain names scattered through that scrap of a newspaper serial affected both my vision and my memory. I looked for the beginning and did not find it: the paper was torn and I could only read, with curiosity at first and afterwards more and more eagerly, what follows:

The countess felt indescribably agitated. The presence of Mudarra, the insolent butler, who had forgotten his humble beginnings to dare to cast his gaze on such a noble personage, was a continual source of anxiety to her. The scoundrel never stopped spying on her, watching her as a prison guard watches a prisoner. He already showed no deference to her and nor were the sensitivity and delicacy of such an excellent lady an obstacle to his entrapment of her. Mudarra made an untimely entrance into the private quarters of the countess, who, pale and agitated, feeling at one and the same time both shame and terror, did not have the strength to dismiss him.

"Don't be frightened, Your Ladyship," he said with a forced and sinister smile, which made the lady even more alarmed. "I haven't come to do you any harm."

"Oh my God! When will this agony be over?" the lady exclaimed, dropping her arms in discouragement. "Leave. I cannot accede to your desires. What infamy! To make use in this way of my weakness and the indifference of my husband, the source of so many of my misfortunes!"

"Why so surly, countess?" the fierce butler added. "If I did not have in my hands the secret that could lead to your perdition, if I could not apprise the count of certain particulars with reference to that young nobleman. But I will not use these terrible weapons against you. One day you will understand me and know how selfless is the great love that you have been able to inspire in me."

As he said this Mudarra moved a few steps nearer to the countess who distanced herself with horror and repugnance from that monster. Mudarra was a man of around fifty, dark-skinned, thickset and knock-kneed, with rough, untidy hair and a big mouth full of teeth. His eyes, half hidden behind the luxuriant growth of wide, black and very thick eyebrows, expressed at moments like these the most bestial concupiscence.

"Ah porcupine!" he angrily exclaimed on seeing the lady's natural reticence. "How unfortunate I am not to be a dapper young chap! Such prudery knowing full well I can tell the count and have no doubt that he'll believe me, Your Ladyship: the count has so much trust in me that he takes what I say as gospel and he'll be full of jealousy if I show him the paper."

"Scoundrel!" shouted the countess with a noble display of righteous indignation. "I am innocent and my husband will not give credence to such vile slanders. And even if I were guilty I would prefer a thousand times over for my husband and the whole world to despise me than to buy peace of mind at that price. Leave here at once."

"I too have a temper, countess," said the butler swallowing his rage. "I too can lose it and get angry and since Your Ladyship is making a big thing of this, let's make a big thing of it. I already know what I have to do and I've been until now far too affable. One last time I put it to Your Ladyship that we should be friends and don't make me do something you'll regret, and so my lady."

On saying this Mudarra contracted the parchment-like skin and the rigid tendons of his face making a grimace like a smile and took a few more steps as if to sit down on the sofa next to the countess. The latter jumped up shouting: "No! Leave! Scoundrel! And not to have anyone here to defend me. Leave!"

The butler then was like a wild animal that lets go of the prey it was holding a moment before in its claws. He breathed heavily, made a threatening gesture and slowly left with soft footfalls. The countess, trembling and out of breath, having taken refuge in a corner of the room, heard the footfalls which faded away on the carpet of the room next door and finally breathed when she judged him to be far away. She closed the doors and tried to sleep, but sleep eluded her, her eyes still full of terror at the image of the monster.
CHAPTER XI The Plot

Mudarra, on leaving the countess's room, went in the direction of his own and, dominated by a strong feeling of nervous anxiety, started to search for letters and papers muttering to himself: "I can't stand it anymore. You'll pay me back for all of this." Then he sat down, took up his pen, and, putting in front of him one of those letters and examining it closely, he began to write another, trying to copy the writing. He moved his eyes feverishly from the model to the copy and finally, after a great deal of work, he wrote with writing totally identical to that of the model, the following letter, the sentiments in which were of his own making: I promised to meet with you and I'm hastening to carry out that promise.

The newspaper in which this serial appeared was torn and I could read no further.