“They are getting to be more and more extravagant and loud every day. Now, do you like that odd gown with the head of a bird, to match the bird on the hat, fastening every pleat? They look like a glass case in the Museum of Natural History. Even on the fan a bird’s head! It is not credible that Worth should have conceived that grotesque style. I believe they make them at home themselves with the help of the maid and then say they were ordered from Worth.”
“But it is said for a fact that their father is a very wealthy banker in Havana.”
“Yes, yes; they have more tricks than _trapiches_,”[A] said Pilar, repeating a jest that had been going the rounds of Madrid all the winter, _à-propos_ of the Amézegas.
“There is no doubt but that birds are a very curious ornament. I have one, too, in a hat.”
“Yes, in a toque; but that is different. Besides, a married lady can use certain things that in the dress of a young girl----”
“And for that reason Perico was quite right not to buy you that wrap embroidered in colored beads that you took such a fancy to. It was very striking.”
“Nothing of the kind. It was very distinguished-looking. What do you know of those matters?”
“The gown of the Swede must have been lovely--cream-color and heliotrope! I like the combination. But how she is making herself talked about with Albares--a married man! Good need they both have of the waters!”
“Why, I heard your brother say that she does not take the slightest notice of him.”
“Bah! unless you would have them pay the town-crier to publish it! Albares is a fool, inside and out, who loves to attract attention. The fact is that every one in Vichy is talking about them.”
Lucía remained thoughtful, her gaze fixed on the flower-knots of the park, that looked like enameled medallions fastened on a green satin skirt. They were formed of several varieties of the coleus; those in the center had lance-shaped and brilliant leaves of dark brown, purplish red, brick-red, red of the color of the turkey’s comb, rose-red. At the edge, a row of ruins of Italy, showed their bluish disks against the fresh vivid green of the grass. The larches and the pines formed, here and there, in some retired corner of the park, woody, Swiss-like clumps, their innumerable branches drooping languidly to the ground. Through the light foliage of the majestic catalpas streamed the last rays of the setting sun, and splashes of golden light danced here and there upon the fine sanded walk. The place had the mysterious and secluded air of a temple. A solemn, poetic silence prevailed, which it almost seemed a sacrilege to break by a word or movement.