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Updated: June 9, 2025
It's Abrego y Mochales, the greatest bullfighter in existence, the Flower of Spain. I've seen him in the ring and at San Sebastian with the King; and I can assure you that one was hardly more important than the other. He's idolized by every one in Spain and South America; women of all classes fall over each other with declarations and gifts."
He loomed at the back of her thoughts, inscrutably dark and romantic. It piqued her that he had not made the slightest response to her palpable admiration. But he had been tremendously stirred by Gheta, who was never touched by such emotions. A desire to see Mochales grew insidiously out of her speculations; a desire to talk about him, hear his name.
"Orsi has been only truthful enough to suit his own purpose," Mochales stated, "Signora, please " He indicated the descent from the belvedere. She moved closer to him, smiling appealingly. "What is it all about?" she queried. "Forgive me; it is impossible to answer." "Cesare?" She addressed her husband. "Why, this this donkey hints that there was something improper in my present.
"The attendant, a new man, started the car too soon and caught Mochales " She sank down upon her knees in an attitude of prayer, and Cesare Orsi stood reverently bowed. "The will of God!" he muttered. A long slow shiver passed over Lavinia, and he bent and lifted her in his arms. He was the younger of two brothers, in his sixteenth year; and he had his father's eyes a tender and idyllic blue.
It seems that I have been annoying Gheta by my attentions, flattering her with pearls." "Did Gheta tell you that?" Lavinia demanded. A growing resentment took possession of her. "Because if she did, she lied!" "Ah!" Mochales whispered sharply. "They're both mad," Orsi told her, "and should be dipped in the bay." Never had Abrego y Mochales appeared handsomer; never more like fine bronze.
"He resembles a juggler." Lavinia elaborately masked her hot resentment at this fresh stupidity. She must not, she felt, allow Orsi to discover her feeling for Abrego y Mochales; that was a secret she must keep forever from the profane world. She would die, perhaps at a terribly advanced age, with it locked in her heart. But if Gheta married him she would go into a convent.
The coffee was on when the elder sister said: "I had a card from the Grand Hotel a while ago; Abrego y Mochales is there." "And there," Orsi put in promptly, "I hope he'll stay, or sail for Spain. I don't want the clown about here." Gheta turned. "But you will regret that," she addressed Lavinia; "you always found him so fascinating."
Orsi looked on without any emotion visible on his heavy face. Anna Mantegazza leaned forward, tense with interest. "Bravo!" she called. Gheta Sanviano smiled. The bull did not see Mochales at first, then the man cried tauntingly. The bull turned and stood with a lowered slowly-moving head, an uneasy tail.
"Do you talk to me Abrego y Mochales?" A dark tide of passion, visible even in the night, flooded Orsi's countenance. "Leave!" he insisted, "Or I'll have you flung into the bay." A deep silence followed, in which Lavinia could hear the stir of the water against the walls below. A sharp fear entered her heart, a new dread of the Spaniard.
Suddenly she rose and mechanically shook loose her hair footsteps were approaching. Her sister entered, pale and vindictive. "You are to be congratulated," she proceeded thinly; "you made a success with everybody that is, with all but Mochales. It was for him, wasn't it? You were very clever, but you failed ridiculously." Lavinia made no reply.
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