Carmen | Page 6

and blunderbuss,
and after saying a few words to the old woman in a lingo that I could
not understand, he ran out to the shed. A few minutes later, I heard him
galloping out into the country.
As for me, I lay down again on my bench, but I did not go to sleep
again. I queried in my own mind whether I had done right to save a
robber, and possibly a murderer, from the gallows, simply and solely
because I had eaten ham and rice in his company. Had I not betrayed
my guide, who was supporting the cause of law and order? Had I not
exposed him to a ruffian's vengeance? But then, what about the laws of
hospitality?
"A mere savage prejudice," said I to myself. "I shall have to answer for
all the crimes this brigand may commit in future." Yet is that instinct of
the conscience which resists every argument really a prejudice? It may
be I could not have escaped from the delicate position in which I found
myself without remorse of some kind. I was still tossed to and fro, in
the greatest uncertainty as to the morality of my behaviour, when I saw
half a dozen horsemen ride up, with Antonio prudently lagging behind
them. I went to meet them, and told them the brigand had fled over two
hours previously. The old woman, when she was questioned by the
sergeant, admitted that she knew Navarro, but said that living alone, as
she did, she would never have dared to risk her life by informing
against him. She added that when he came to her house, he habitually

went away in the middle of the night. I, for my part, was made to ride
to a place some leagues away, where I showed my passport, and signed
a declaration before the Alcalde. This done, I was allowed to
recommence my archaeological investigations. Antonio was sulky with
me; suspecting it was I who had prevented his earning those two
hundred ducats. Nevertheless, we parted good friends at Cordova,
where I gave him as large a gratuity as the state of my finances would
permit.
CHAPTER II
I spent several days at Cordova. I had been told of a certain manuscript
in the library of the Dominican convent which was likely to furnish me
with very interesting details about the ancient Munda. The good fathers
gave me the most kindly welcome. I spent the daylight hours within
their convent, and at night I walked about the town. At Cordova a great
many idlers collect, toward sunset, in the quay that runs along the right
bank of the Guadalquivir. Promenaders on the spot have to breathe the
odour of a tan yard which still keeps up the ancient fame of the country
in connection with the curing of leather. But to atone for this, they
enjoy a sight which has a charm of its own. A few minutes before the
Angelus bell rings, a great company of women gathers beside the river,
just below the quay, which is rather a high one. Not a man would dare
to join its ranks. The moment the Angelus rings, darkness is supposed
to have fallen. As the last stroke sounds, all the women disrobe and
step into the water. Then there is laughing and screaming and a
wonderful clatter. The men on the upper quay watch the bathers,
straining their eyes, and seeing very little. Yet the white uncertain
outlines perceptible against the dark-blue waters of the stream stir the
poetic mind, and the possessor of a little fancy finds it not difficult to
imagine that Diana and her nymphs are bathing below, while he
himself runs no risk of ending like Acteon.
I have been told that one day a party of good-for-nothing fellows
banded themselves together, and bribed the bell-ringer at the cathedral
to ring the Angelus some twenty minutes before the proper hour.
Though it was still broad daylight, the nymphs of the Guadalquivir

never hesitated, and putting far more trust in the Angelus bell than in
the sun, they proceeded to their bathing toilette--always of the
simplest--with an easy conscience. I was not present on that occasion.
In my day, the bell-ringer was incorruptible, the twilight was very dim,
and nobody but a cat could have distinguished the difference between
the oldest orange woman, and the prettiest shop-girl, in Cordova.
One evening, after it had grown quite dusk, I was leaning over the
parapet of the quay, smoking, when a woman came up the steps leading
from the river, and sat down near me. In her hair she wore a great
bunch of jasmine--a flower which, at night, exhales a most intoxicating
perfume. She was dressed simply, almost poorly, in black, as most
work-girls