The Enemies of Women (Los enemigos de la mujer)

Lubimoff, one of the world's great millionaires a few years before, nodded his head at this statement.

"Even Governments keep up the habit of hope in the public by recourse to chance," continued Castro. "There are very few that do not authorize a lottery. A person who takes a ticket, buys a little hope and the possibility, if he has any imagination, of building for a few days every kind of wonderful dream, and feeling deeply stirred at the time of the drawing. The betterment of our material well-being by means of our own efforts is a laborious and difficult task; but there is a way to give the humble a certain relative happiness: by giving them hopes of becoming rich, of freeing themselves from every kind of servitude, and of realizing the ideal of freedom to which they aspire. As a matter of principle the State shows itself an enemy of games of chance; and considers them immoral because they are based on what is uncertain; but all classes of commercial, financial, and industrial operations represent chance and oftentimes the ruin of one or two parties. They are all games quite similar to the gambling that goes on here." Atilio smiled ironically before continuing.

"Let the moralists talk against gambling until they are weary. This much is certain. The sums that are played on horse races and in the Casino increase each year with rapid progression, more rapidly in fact than public wealth. The general improvement in ways of living which is developing, exerts no influence toward decreasing gambling. On the other hand, the complexity of modern life, with the increase of our needs and wants, favors this passion, and even aggravates it."

The Prince interrupted him. He was quite right, perhaps, in what he was saying, but what a degrading vice gambling was! The more reasonable people allow themselves to be mastered by it and even lose their ordinary intelligence.

"That's certain," confessed Atilio. "In gambling our human weaknesses and the tendency which we all have towards superstitions are shown most clearly. What madness… Just as though the past could influence the present! How many useless efforts to conquer luck! More wealth and imagination has been wasted in the invention of new systems in gambling than in the attempt to find perpetual motion – and just as uselessly. All these wonderful systems lead the gambler infallibly toward ruin with more or less rapidity, but always with certainty. And how strong our faith is! I feel that it is greater than that of religious martyrs. When we think we have a combination which is sure to win, there is no use trying to persuade us to the contrary. Nothing can convince us. It is curious that the failure of his system and the consequent losses never discourage a good gambler. He immediately seizes upon some new combination, a true one this time – which will enable him to make a fortune – one hope followed by another, and thus he goes on living until death overtakes him."

The melancholy of these last few words was brief. Castro seemed suddenly to recall something which made him smile.

"How many inconsistencies in the lives of gamblers! They are not afraid to risk their money and there is no class of people that is more stingy. Notice the women who play most passionately. They are all badly dressed; some of them are often careless about their persons. They must have money to gamble, and postpone buying necessities until the next day. There are men who carry their hats in their arms all afternoon in order to save the ten cents which it costs to leave them in the vestibule of the Casino. To-day when I came in I saw an elderly gentleman who waits for a friend every day standing by the cloak room window. They leave their hats and coats together and that way each one has to pay only five cents. Later on, at the roulette table, I saw them handling rolls of thousand-franc bills."

From the tables people called to the players who were entering the bar:

"Is she still winning?"

They referred to the Delille woman. The various reports did not agree. Some of the people seemed indignant: "Yes, she went on winning with luck that would make you tired." The enthusiasm of the first moment had vanished. There was a note of envy concealed in words and glances. Others moved by some selfish sentiment were pleased to point to a decline in her marvelous luck. She was losing and winning. Her runs of luck were not so frequent as in the beginning, but at all events if she were to stop at once, she might well take away three hundred thousand francs.

Atilio and the Prince noticed Lewis standing at the bar, drinking the whisky which always restored his peace of mind, and permitted him to resume the complicated systems that were to give him back his paternal inheritance and restore his castle.

They called to him to inquire about the luck of the Duchess. Lewis shrugged his shoulders with an expression of indignation and protest. It was absurd to win like that, playing so badly.

"She must have the Count's rosary hidden in her skirts," said Atilio, gravely.

Lewis was puzzled for the moment as though he took the words seriously. Later he blushed like a proper Briton, as he remembered the strange ornaments on his friend's rosary. Suddenly he burst into a violent fit of laughter. "Oh, Mr. Castro! – " Mr. Castro's supposition seemed to him so witty that he laughed till he nearly choked himself coughing, and then he decided to get another whisky to regain his serenity.

The two friends returned to the drawing room of the Florentine Graces.

The Prince saw Novoa and Valeria on the same divan continuing their conversation, but constantly becoming dreamier as they gazed into each other's eyes, as though in some deserted spot.

He came near them without their seeing him, and was able to hear some of what Alicia's companion was saying.

"I don't know Spain, but I am so interested in it. I adore all of the romantic countries where love is everything, and men are disinterested, where dowries don't exist, and a woman may marry even if she is poor."

The Prince, in passing, gave the scientist a casual glance of pity.

CHAPTER VII

A new personage entered the lives of the dwellers in Villa Sirena. The Colonel announced with enthusiasm this friend whom Doña Clorinda had introduced.

"He is a Spanish Lieutenant in the Foreign Legion. He lives in the hotel which the Prince of Monaco gave up for convalescent officers. His name is Antonio Martinez, a very common name which reveals nothing of his character; but he is a great soldier, a hero, and I don't know how he manages to survive his wounds."

The "General" who kept track of all the soldiers of a certain reputation, as soon as they arrived in Monte Carlo, had been anxious to meet this Lieutenant, and had taken him under her protection. The Duchess de Delille was also interested in him, and the two women, proud of being his marraines, showed him off in the anteroom of the Casino, rented carriages to promenade him around to the most beautiful spots on the Riviera, and treated him to the finest war-time foods and pastry that they could find. With his lungs injured by German poison gases, he had also received a hand grenade wound on his head, and suffered from time to time from nervous trouble, which caused him to fall to the ground unconscious. The doctors talked despairingly of his condition. Perhaps he would live for years, perhaps he would die in one of these crises; the important thing was that he should live a quiet life, without any deep emotion. And the two ladies, who knew the real state of his health, lamented it when he was not present. He was so young, so affectionate, and so timid? On the breast of his mustard-colored uniform, attached by red ribbons, as a symbol of bravery given to the foreign battalions, were the War Cross and the Legion of Honor.

Clorinda, who considered that she had greater rights over him because of having "discovered" him, thought for awhile of taking him to live with her in order to be able to take better care of him. But as she was at the Hôtel de Paris, she did not, like Alicia, have an entire villa at her disposal. And the latter, although tempted by her friend's suggestions, did not dare to take the convalescent into her home. People liked to talk, and she, without saying why, was afraid of their gossip.

In the meantime, they both took the Lieutenant everywhere, protesting that, because of his uniform, he was not allowed to enter the rooms of the Casino. One afternoon, Doña Clorinda, with all the natural boldness of her character, took him to Villa Sirena. It was a shame that the handsome building and its vast gardens should be given over to five men who did nothing for humanity at all. Often in her imagination, she had converted it into a Sanitarium filled with invalid soldiers, with herself at the head of it as director and patroness. But her suggestions had no effect whatever on the Prince. "A selfish fellow," she said to herself, returning to her former opinion.

As long as it was impossible to occupy the Villa with a band of convalescents, she took the Spanish officer to show him the gardens, without first asking Lubimoff's permission.

The latter was able to see at first hand the hero of whom Don Marcos, during the last few days, had talked so much. He saw nothing in him to indicate extraordinary deeds. Martinez was a youth, ready to blush when forced to tell what he had done in the war. Without his uniform and his insignia of honor, he would have seemed like a poor office clerk, modest and resigned and incapable of being anything else. His appearance contrasted with the deeds which, after much pleading, he would finally be persuaded to confess. He was twenty-six years old, and seemed much younger, but it was a sickly sort of youthfulness, undermined by wounds and hardships.

Lubimoff, who hated the swagger of boastful heroes, felt at first disconcerted, and then attracted by the simplicity of this officer. If he had not known from Don Marcos the authenticity of his prowess, he would have taken no stock in it.

Somewhat intimidated in the presence of the famous owner of Villa Sirena, Martinez confessed his humble birth with neither pride nor timidity. He was poor, the son of poor people. He had tried to study for a career, but the necessity of earning his living had caused him to abandon books, trying the most diverse occupations, one after the other. It was so difficult to earn one's bread in Spain! After fighting in the Spanish campaign in Morocco, he had wandered through various South American Republics, struggling all the while against poverty and ill luck.

"There where so many common rough people get rich," he said, "all I found was poverty, like that in my own country. When this war broke out, like many other people, I was indignant at the conduct of the Germans, and their atrocities in the invaded countries. At the time I was in Madrid. One night some of my café acquaintances agreed to go and fight for France. The person who backed down was to pay ten dollars. They all repented their decision, except myself. Don't imagine that it was to avoid paying the wager. I have my own ideas, and have read more or less. I believe in republics – and France is the country of the Great Revolution. I entered a battalion of the Foreign Legion, which, composed for the most part of Spaniards, was being organized in Bayonne. There are a very few left by this time; most of them are dead; the rest are living scattered throughout the various hospitals, or else are crippled for life. I knew what war was like from mountain warfare against the Moors in the Riff country, and without seeking the honor I had gotten as far as being a Lieutenant of Reserves in my own country. Perhaps that is why they made me a Sergeant in the Legion after a few weeks. But it certainly was hard! I had never imagined they would receive us with a brass band! France has too many other things to think of; but it was sad to see how badly our enthusiasm was interpreted. Men called to arms by the laws of their country, and who were obliged to fight, looked at us with jealousy and suspicion. The other regiments considered us adventurers; or even escaped convicts. 'How hungry you must have been at home,' they said to me at the front, 'to have come here to be able to get something to eat!' And among us there were students, newspaper men, young men from wealthy families, fellows who had enlisted with enthusiasm – but let's not talk about that. In every country there are vulgar minded people incapable of understanding anything beyond their selfish, material wants."

His military experience was confined to trench warfare, endless and monotonous, and to short distance attacks. He had arrived late at the Battle of the Marne; and he, who imagined that he would take part in gigantic combat, involving millions of men and the firing of immense cannon, merely witnessed a series of struggles between small forces hidden in the earth, and hand-to-hand encounters to win a few yards of ground. Life at the Dardanelles was the worst of his memories. He hated to think of that horrible campaign. The struggles in France seemed rather placid compared to that fighting on a few miles of coast, with the sea at their backs and unconquerable lines ahead of them.

After saying this he fell silent, and the Colonel had to insist, with a certain paternal pride, that Martinez go on talking.

"Wounds, many wounds," he added simply. "I have lost count of the hospitals that I have known in three years, and of the trips I have made through France in Red Cross ambulances. When we are not killed outright, we are like the horses in bull fights. They patch up our skins outside the ring, strengthen us a bit and back we go into the arena, until we get the final goring."

Toledo, becoming impatient at the young man's modesty, told the story of his wounds. He received some in every period of the fighting. Some belonged to modern warfare, produced by fragments of high explosive shells, others came from machine guns, and even that cough which interrupted his speech from time to time was caused by asphyxiating gases. Others were made by knives, by clubbings from gun stocks, by flying stones, and even by the teeth of the Germans in night encounters and surprise attacks, in which men fought as they did in the infancy of human life on this planet.

Prince Lubimoff could not help admiring this slight, dark young man, who looked so insignificant. It seemed impossible that a human organism could resist so many blows, and that his weak body could sustain so many shocks without succumbing.

But Martinez, with the solidarity of all those who face danger, refused all personal glory. He talked about the Legion as a soldier talks about his regiment, as a sailor talks about his ship, considering it the finest of all. He saw the entire war in terms of the Legion. The French were all brave. Besides, no one could guess where the enemy would attack, and wherever the latter assumed the offensive, they found troops that withstood them and kept them from passing. But the Foreign Legion!

"The soldiers who fight at the front are men," he said, "men torn from their families through the needs of the country. But we are fighters. That is why in the difficult operations, when flesh and blood have to be sacrificed, they send us forward. I am always, of course, only one of many. But the Legion!.. Every six months a new Colonel: He is killed and another takes his place, he, too, is destined to die. And how the enemy hates us! There is one thing we are proud of. Among the prisoners that there are in Germany, there is not a single one from the Foreign Legion. Any one of us who ever falls into the hands of the Boches knows that he is a dead man: we are outlawed. And for our part, well, we do our best too!.. Even when they insult us from trench to trench, we are proud of belonging to the Legion. One night, the enemy opposite, hearing us speak Spanish, began to shout in our language. They must have been Germans from South America. 'Hey, Macabros! Wait till we get hold of you, and then!..' They threatened us with the most terrible tortures. And they always nicknamed us 'Macabros!' I don't know why."

The Duchess de Delille admired the hero, feeling at the same time a certain sense of uneasiness at the horrors which she guessed from his words. "The war! When would the war be over?"

The Lieutenant shrugged his shoulders, smiling. People who live far from the front were more impatient for peace than those who risked their lives in the front lines. They had become accustomed to contact with death. The war would last as long as was necessary: five years, ten years; the main thing was to win the victory.

But Toledo, fearing that the conversation would get away from his hero, insisted once more on his great deeds.

"I'm only one of many," said Martinez. "But as far as brave men are concerned, I can recommend the Legion. That is where you'll find them. And all have died!.. At first we had men from every country. But the Americans left as soon as their Republic intervened in the war; and it was the same with the Italians and Poles. On the other hand, many Russians, when their regiments were disbanded, joined the Legion. There is nothing extraordinary to tell about myself. And they have rewarded me so highly for the little I have done! Being a foreigner I have two ribbons. Besides, I shall never forget the moment when the Colonel, a week before they killed him, called me, and said, 'Martinez, the General has given me four Crosses of the Legion of Honor for our Legion. One of them is yours.' And he put it on my breast in front of a whole battalion of brave men presenting arms. It was unforgettable: it was worth a life time."

It was the truth. Colonel Toledo affirmed it, nodding his head, his eyes wet with tears. Later, with selfish jealousy, Don Marcos tore him away from the ladies, who were busy for the moment, talking with the Prince and his friend.

Walking through the gardens, the Colonel gazed at his hero with a look of tender protection, such as an artist who has exhausted his talents gazes at the increasing triumph of a younger, fresher, and more successful colleague.

"Youth, youth!" he said. "You, Martinez, belong to the Spain of the future; I belong to the Spain of past days, the Spain that will never return again. I am convinced that the world is progressing in new directions."

The Colonel kept up a frequent correspondence with many Spanish volunteers in the Legion. He looked after them with all the affection of a marraine, sending them chocolate, select edibles, everything that he could spare from the Villa Sirena pantry, without impairing the service. Some of the letters which came from the front made him weep and laugh. One volunteer asked him to send a good Spanish knife, having broken his own in a night attack. Another dreamt of a Browning revolver. Who would give him a Browning? He had only an ordnance revolver, an undependable weapon that had failed him twice in an attack on a trench and had prevented him from killing the German who finally wounded him.

With Lieutenant Martinez, the Colonel could let go all his enthusiasm and give free rein to prophesies in favor of the Allies.

In the presence of Atilio and Novoa he was less talkative as he feared their ridicule.

In order to tease him and make him mad they recalled the enthusiasm of the Carlist party in Spain for Germany. Castro even pretended that he was surprised that the Colonel was not a pro-German, the same as his political friends.

"I am where I belong," said Don Marcos with dignity. "I am a gentleman, and belong with decent people."

This was his supreme argument. Humanity was divided, according to him, into two classes – the decent and the indecent. It was the same with nations, and Germany was not to be counted among the decent.