folds over her pliant haunches, all pointed out the young woman as a genuine specimen of the China.[1]
"Tio Luquillas," said the maiden.
"What is it?" replied the evangelist.
"I need your assistance."
"I don't doubt that, since you come to me," replied Tio; and, fancying he had divined the message she was going to send, he began complaisantly to fold a sheet of rose-tinted vellum paper, highly glazed, and embossed with cupids. But she made a gesture of impatience with her little brown hand.
"What," said she, "would a man, who is almost breathing his last, care for your rose-tinted billetdoux?"
"The devil!" said the scribe, in a passionless tone, while the girl wiped her streaming eyes with one of her long plaits: "is it a farewell epistle, then?"
A sob was the only reply; then, stooping to the scribe's ear, she forced herself to dictate a short letter, not without frequent pauses to take breath and to wipe away her tears. The contrast between the unsusceptible old man and the passionate girl appeared to me most striking. I was not the only observer; every one who passed the booth of Tio Luquillas could not help casting a glance of pity, not unmingled with curiosity, upon the young China. The evangelist was about to fold the letter, but had not yet written the address, when a passer-by, bolder and more curious than the rest, came unceremoniously to have some conversation with the old man. The new-comer's features were not unknown to me, and I remembered that he had, when standing next me at a bull-fight a
- ↑ A China is, in Mexico, what the manola is in Madrid, and the grisette in Paris.
