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He could not be all to the cause he honored that other men were men like Flaubert and Maupassant, and Tourguenieff and Tolstoy, and Galdos and Valdes because his intellectual youth had been nurtured on the milk of romanticism at the breast of his mother-time. He grew up in the day when the great novelists and poets were romanticists, and what he came to abhor he had first adored.
"It is a land grant, made by Governor Facundo Megares, of New Mexico, which territory was then a province of Spain, to Don Fernando Valdés, in consideration of services rendered the Spanish crown against the Indians." Dick shook his head. "You've got me, sir. If I ever heard of it the thing has plumb slipped my mind. Ought I to know about it?" "Have you ever heard of the Moreño grant?"
I'll tell you what's ailing you. You're just honing to see Miss Valdés again. You want to go grand-standing around making her mad at you some more." "You're a wiz, Steve," admitted his friend dryly. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I do want to see her again. Why shouldn't I?" "What good does it do you when you quarrel all the time you're together?
Miss Valdés would regret any trouble, and so should I." A shadow crossed her face as she spoke. "But she could not prevent her friends from violence, I am afraid. You see, she is only a girl, after all. They would move without her knowledge. I know they would." "How would they move? Would it be a knife in the dark?"
"No one," as Senor Valdes truly says, "can rise from the perusal of a naturalistic book . . . without a vivid desire to escape" from the wretched world depicted in it, "and a purpose, more or less vague, of helping to better the lot and morally elevate the abject beings who figure in it.
"Was that why you offered a hundred dollars' reward for the arrest of these same men?" came his indolent, satiric reply. "Don Manuel offered the reward," she told him haughtily. An impish smile was in his eyes. "At your suggestion, he tells me. And I understand you insisted on paying the bill, Miss Valdés." "Why should he pay it? The men worked for me. They were brought up on my father's place.
Another Spanish novelist of our day, whose books have given me great pleasure, is so far from being of the same mind of Senor Valdes about fiction that he boldly declares himself, in the preface to his 'Pepita Ximenez, "an advocate of art for art's sake."
She seemed to struggle with some emotion before she spoke: "Please don't mention Valencia Valdés while you are at the ranch. I I have reasons, sir." "Certainly; I'll do as you prefer." To himself he thought that there was probably a feud of some kind between the two families that might make a mention of the name unpleasant. "And that reminds me that I don't know what your name is.
Every man in turn was called by name, and answered in a loud voice, "I praise God!;" then saying how much he had earned in the day, for the Administrador to write down. "Juan Fernandez!" "Alabo a Dios, tres reales y medio:" "I praise God, one and ninepence." "José Valdes!" "I praise God, eighteen pence, and sixpence for the boy;" and so on, through a couple of hundred names.
And the patience, the curiosity, of the artist which made Cesar Birotteau and his bankrupt ledgers matters of high import to us, which did not shrink from creating a Vautrin and a Lucien de Rubempre, would have been incomplete had it stopped short of a Marquise de San-Real, of a Paquita Valdes.
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