"
"And how about that white-bearded old fellow at his side?" asked
Fanny.
"He's one of those apostles that cure with water. They say he's a wise
old fellow.... He has a cross on his tongue. But I believe he painted
it there himself."
"And that other woman there?"
"That's La Paloma, Valencia's mistress."
"Prostitute?" asked the lady.
"For at least forty years," answered Leandro with a laugh.
They all looked closely at Paloma; she had a huge, soft face, with
pouches of violet skin, and a timid look as of a humble beast; she
represented at least forty years of prostitution and all its
concomitant ills; forty years of nights spent in the open, lurking
about barracks, sleeping in suburban shanties and the most repulsive
lodgings.
Among the women there was also a gypsy who, from time to time, would
get up and walk across the tavern with a saucy strut.
Leandro ordered some glasses of whiskey; but it was so bad that nobody
could drink it.
"Hey, you," called Leandro to the gipsy, offering her the glass. "Want
a drink?"
"No."
The gypsy placed her hands upon the table,--a pair of stubby, wrinkled
hands incrusted with dirt.
"Who are these gumps?" she asked Leandro.
"Friends of mine. Will you drink or not?" and he offered her the glass
again.
"No."
Then in a shrill voice, he shouted:
"Apostle, will you have a drink?"
The Apostle rose from his place amongst the gamblers.
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