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The voice of the alferez was distinguished, as he came running in, and crying: "Father curate! Father Salví! Come!" "Misere! The alferez is asking for confession!" cried Aunt Isabel. "Is he wounded?" asked Linares at last. "Ah!" "Come, Father Salví! There is nothing to fear now," continued the alferez, shouting.
"And his fertility of expression!" added Padre Salvi. "Do you know that Señor Ibarra has the best cook in the province?" remarked the alcalde, to cut short such talk. "You may well say that, but his beautiful neighbor doesn't wish to honor the table, for she is scarcely eating a bite," observed one of the employees. Maria Clara blushed.
"Friend, do you believe," asked Tio Quico uneasily, "that on account of the competition with Padre Salvi my business will in the future be prohibited?" "Maybe so, Quico, maybe so," replied the other, gazing at the sky. "Money's getting scarce." Tio Quico muttered some incoherent words: if the friars were going to turn theatrical advertisers, he would become a friar.
Fray Bernardo Salvi was that silent young Franciscan of whom we have spoken before. In his habits and manners he was quite different from his brethren and even from his predecessor, the violent Padre Damaso. He was thin and sickly, habitually pensive, strict in the fulfilment of his religious duties, and careful of his good name.
"But your presence honors him sufficiently," concluded the gallant Alcalde. Then turning to Father Salví: "Father Curate, I notice that you have been silent and pensive all day long." "It is my nature," muttered the Franciscan. "I would rather listen than talk." "Your Reverence seeks always to gain and never to lose," replied the alferez, in a joking manner.
"That's it, puñales, that very thing, that was exactly what I was going to say!" exclaimed the friar-artilleryman, thumping his fists down on the arms of his bamboo chair. "That's it, that bridge and the scientists! That was just what I was going to mention, Padre Salvi puñales!"
Father Salví, on the contrary, almost touched the floor with his head. "Which of Your Reverences is Father Dámaso?" asked His Excellency unexpectedly, without having them sit down, or even asking about their health, and without addressing them with any of those courteous phrases which are customary with such high personages.
All felt as if they had entered a house where there was a corpse, an illusion accentuated by an odor of wax and incense. Don Custodio and Padre Salvi consulted in whispers over the expediency of prohibiting such shows. Ben-Zayb, in order to cheer the dispirited group and embarrass Mr.
Officially I was referred to the actual manager of the Opera, Herr Salvi, who had formerly been the singing-master of a lady- in-waiting to the Grand Duchess Sophia. He was an absolutely incapable and ignorant man, who was obliged to pretend in front of me that, according to the command of the supreme authorities, nothing lay so near his heart as the furtherance of the performance of Tristan.
"Why, where has your Reverence been?" asked the latter, as he noticed the curate's scratched face and his habit covered with leaves and dry twigs. "Has your Reverence had a fall?" "No, I lost my way," replied Padre Salvi, lowering his gaze to examine his gown.
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