“We ought to burn them all!” the thrower of mud exclaimed.

“Except the young Jewesses. They are pretty lively in bed.”

“Yes, they say that even Don Juan is in love with one.”

“She will be the thousand and third queen of his heart.”

“Do you think you will sleep with as many wenches, Miguel?”

“It is a trifle too many. Besides, I should not care to betray my friend’s wives and sisters with the light-heartedness of Don Juan.”

“Particularly not when the brother is my best friend,” another remarked. “Fernando cannot get over it.”

“Twins have a strange bond between them. Even physically, they say the sufferings of the one affect the other.”

“And Fernando and his sister look so much alike you could hardly tell them apart—except in bed.”

“What has become of her?”

“She has entered a convent.”

“Don Juan will get into trouble some day—mark my words.”

“He is the best swordsman in Spain.”

“His back, however, is not immune from a good knife thrust.”

I watched the hearse until it was out of sight, and the last member of the cortège disappeared.

“Kotikokura, my heart is heavy. There are roots within me which have not been plucked out. These poor people whose sorrow is ridiculed and mocked are my people.”

Kotikokura looked at me surprised.

“Ca-ta-pha had a low beginning, Kotikokura. You cannot tell the shape of the roots by the perfume of the flower.”

“Ca-ta-pha—god,” he said emphatically.

I laughed. “You are not prejudiced against the Jew, are you? Why do all the races of the world hate him? What curse is there upon him? Wherever he goes, he brings wealth and culture and art, and receives in return an irreconcilable hatred.”

Kotikokura looked perplexed.

“These people talk about a man who has possessed over a thousand women, Kotikokura. I am almost envious. It is too much for a mortal…”

“Ca-ta-pha…women…” He made a gesture to indicate that my harem was far more numerous.

“But Ca-ta-pha is god, and this fellow—what is his name—Don Juan—is only a man.”

The youths fixed their capes, struck their heels together and left.

“What strange dissatisfaction must lurk in the heart of a man who possesses a thousand women in so short a career! Ca-ta-pha experiments. He has time. But Don Juan– —”

A woman approached us. She was dressed in mourning, but her face showed no indication of sorrow.

“The gentlemen are strangers, are they not?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Strangers are lonesome…”

“Generally.”

“What is more consoling to lonesome gentlemen than…a woman,—young, beautiful…and loving?”

I looked at her.

“No, no, señor, I am not speaking of myself. I am Doña Cristina del Torno y Rodriguez, a poor widow,” she sighed. “I have no claim either to beauty or youth, but– —”She approached my ear, rising a little on her toes. “I know where you can find both beauty and youth.”

Kotikokura grinned.

“Not overexpensive either, señor, and not too far from here. Come, rejoice your body and soul, señores! You will not regret it. My Palace of Love is the finest in the city. Even Don Juan honors me with his visits.”

“Don Juan?” I asked. “In spite of his thousand sweethearts…?”

“He is insatiable, señor. He is the handsomest caballero in the world, and so generous.”

“Do you expect him in the near future?”

She knit her brows. “Why, yes… I expect him this very evening. I have– —” She placed a forefinger to her lips, “a virgin for him from the country—a real virgin. What does the excellent señor prefer…?”

“Very well, take us over.”

Taking our arms, she walked between us, proudly, chattering the virtues of her girls and the glory of Don Juan who once, while her husband was still alive, had honored her with his affection.

“Was he unusual as a lover?” I asked.

“He was cold and cruel, and that pleases me. I like men to dominate me, even as the lion tamer masters his beasts.”

She looked at Kotikokura and squeezed his arm. He grinned.

The red shutters of the windows were slightly ajar, and two women’s faces pressed against them. When they saw us approach, they bent their heads out and waved to us with their fans.

The door was opened for us by an old man who bowed innumerable times.

“My father, gentlemen.”

I knew she lied.

“He was formerly a professor of mathematics at the university. He has become stone deaf, and besides suffers terribly from forgetfulness.” She sighed. “La vida es sueño.”

The walls of the waiting room into which we were ushered were painted with imitations of the Pompeian Catacombs. The furniture was of a neo-Moorish type,—heavy, bulky things, over-carved, over-ornamented. A servant helped us with our capes and hats; another brought us wine. Doña Cristina disappeared for a few minutes and returned dressed in a kimono of red silk, embroidered with large yellow flowers. Around her neck, she wore a rosary of immense beads.

She balanced her hips coquettishly, looking intently at Kotikokura whose eyes darted from one corner to the other, like young stallions.

She took our arms and led us into the salon. A stifling but not unpleasant smell of perfumes mingled with human flesh pervaded the place. The women greeted us with giggling and words of double meaning.

“Silence, geese! Do you not see that these are foreign noblemen?”

The women remained quiet. They reclined on couches and on the floor, their skirts raised to their knees and further, and their bodices half open, as if they had been suddenly disturbed in the process of dressing.

“Wine!” one called out.

“Sweets!” another one.

“Wine, sweets, wine, sweets!” they all shouted in unison.

“Silence! Their lordships have not yet deigned to indicate their choice…”

“Look, look,—your lordships!”

Doña Cristina pressed lightly Kotikokura’s arm and sighed.

“Let there be wine and sweets!” I ordered.

The women clapped their hands, and shouted: “Long live los señores!”

One, blue-eyed and raven-haired, threw her arms about my neck. “My love, my Don Juan.”

Doña Cristina pinched Kotikokura’s leg. His face was flushed. His hands trembled a little. I whispered into her ear. “My friend is inexperienced. He is younger than he looks.”

She raised her arms. “Santa Maria! Santa Maria! Jesus!” She pressed him to her voluminous chest. “My love, my bear, my lion!”

The girls laughed and applauded. They drank to our health and our strength, and munched noisily the sweets and the nuts. The former professor of mathematics looked in. His head, bald to the neck, glistened like yellow ivory.

“Doña Cristina! Doña Cristina!”

“What do you want?” she asked irritably.

“Don Juan! Don Juan!” he stammered.

Doña Cristina shouted to the rest, “Don Juan, Don Juan!”

They echoed: “Don Juan! Don Juan!”

She dashed out and reentered, preceded by a man still young, but already scarred by two parallel wrinkles on either cheek, and as he raised his hat upon which waved a large, white plume, his forehead and temples showed signs of baldness. He placed his left hand, covered with rings, upon his hip and looked about haughtily. Upon his chest glittered a small cross studded with precious stones, and the tips of his pointed, gilded shoes reflected the last rays of the sun.

“Foreign noblemen,” Doña Cristina whispered into his ear, trembling a little. Don Juan bowed. I returned the salutation.

“Don Juan,” Doña Cristina said in a low tone of voice, “I have the virgin. She is as pretty as a flower…plump, red-cheeked, corresponding exactly to your specifications.”

“Are you sure she is– —?”

“I swear by the Holy Virgin Herself.”

Don Juan turned to me. “It is an appalling state of affairs, señor. Girls of thirteen and fourteen are no longer virgins. I often think they are not even born untouched.”