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Updated: June 24, 2025
He had never again seen a woman like La Clavel, a friend who could compare with Andrés, wickedness such as Pilar's, days and players as brilliant as those of Havana before, well before he had passed fifty. If the trade winds still blew, tempering the magnificence of the Cuban nights, they no longer blew for him. But Havana, as well, had changed.
Such calm insolence he had never yet encountered. Pilar shot a glance of fury at the countess, to which she did not pay the slightest attention, but examined Wilhelm insolently through her gold eyeglasses, and went on with a vulgar laugh: "General Varon told me about you, and described you to me. He thinks you very nice, and I must say I think he is right." Pilar's patience gave out.
Monsieur Martin drew out a little notebook, with ivory tablets, and a silver monogram, and held it up before Pilar's eyes. "Eleven heads after that of Madame la Comtesse." "All for the embassy ball?" "No, madame; I have another dance to-night in the Faubourg, and a betrothal party in the American colony." While speaking he had not remained idle.
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