Froth: A Novel

AT three in the afternoon the sun was pouring its rays on the Calle de Serrano, bathing it in bright orange light which hurt the eyes of those who went down the left-hand side where the houses stood closest. But as the cold was intense the pedestrian was not eager to cross to the other pavement in search of shade, preferring to face the sunbeams which, though blinding, were at any rate warming. At this hour, tripping slowly and daintily along, her muff of handsome otter-skin held up to shade her eyes, an elegantly dressed woman was making her way down the street, leaving behind her a wake of perfume which the shopmen standing at their doors sniffed up with enjoyment, as they gazed in rapture at the being who exhaled such a delightful fragrance.

For the Calle de Serrano, albeit the widest and handsomest in Madrid, has an essentially provincial stamp; little traffic, shops devoid of display, and dedicated for the most part to the sale of the necessaries of life, children playing in front of the houses, door-keepers seated in committee and discussing matters at the top of their voices with the unemployed butchers' boys, fishmongers, and grocers. Hence a well-dressed woman could not pass unremarked, as she might in the more central parts of the town. The glances of the passers-by, as well as of the loungers, rested on her with pleasure; the women commented on the quality of the clothes she wore, and horrible jests were uttered by the dreadful apprentices, provoking their companions to outbursts of brutal glee. One of the most ruffianly and greasy looking threw out as she passed one of those coarse remarks which would bring the colour to the smooth cheek of an English Miss, and make her call the policeman, and almost exact an apology. But our valiant Spanish lady, her soul above prudery, did not even wince, but went on her triumphant way with the dainty and hesitating step of a woman who rarely sets foot in the dust of the highway.

For that hers was a triumphant progress there could be no doubt; no one could look at her without admiration, not so much of her luxurious attire, as of the severe beauty of her face and the distinction of her figure. She was five-and-thirty at least. There was something extremely original in the type of her features. Her complexion was clear and dark, her eyes, blue, her hair coppery red. Such a strange mingling of different races is rarely seen in a face: if it showed a stronger dash of one than another, it was of the Italian. It was one of those faces which suggest an English lady burnt under a Neapolitan sun. In some of Raphael's pictures we see heads which may give some notion of our fair pedestrian.

Her predominant expression at the present moment was one of proud disdain, to which perhaps the sun contributed by making her knit her smooth and delicate brows. There was not, it must be confessed, any sweetness in this face; its firm and regular lines betrayed a haughty spirit devoid of tenderness; those blue eyes had not the limpid serenity which lends perfect harmony to a certain virginal style of countenance, occasionally seen and admired in Spain, but more frequently in the north of Europe. They were made to express the tumult of vehement and violent passions, among which ardent love might, perhaps, have its turn, but never that humble and silent devotion which would consent to die unspoken.

She wore a high red hat, and a short thin veil, also red, reaching only to her lips. The hue of this veil contributed to lend her face that singular tinge which caught the eye of every one who met her. Her wrapper was a handsome fur cloak, over a dress of the same shade as her hat, with an overskirt of lace or grenadine such as was then the fashion.

She held up her muff, as has been said, to shade her eyes, and kept her eyes fixed on the ground as one who does not care to see or heed anything which may come in her way. Consequently, till she came to the Calle de Jorge Juan, she did not detect the presence of a young man, who, keeping pace with her on the opposite side of the way, gazed at her with even more admiration than curiosity. But on reaching the corner, without knowing why, she raised her head, and her eyes met those of her admirer. A very perceptible shade of annoyance clouded her face; she frowned with greater severity, and the haughty expression of her eyes was more marked than before. She walked a little faster, and, on reaching the Calle de Villanueva, she stood still, and looked down the street, hoping, no doubt, to see a tramcar. The youth dared not do the same; he went on his way, not without sending certain eager and significant glances after the graceful figure, to which she vouchsafed no notice. The car at last arrived; the lady stepped in, showing, as she did so, a pretty foot shod in a kid boot, and took her seat in the farthest corner. Finding herself safe from indiscreet observation, her eyes by degrees grew more serene, and rested with indifference on the few persons who were with her in the vehicle; still the cloud of anxious thought did not altogether disappear from her face, nor the touch of disdain which lent dignity to her beauty.