But no, she did not die, in spite of her full-blown pneumonia. Whether it was her youth and her sturdy peasant stock (that contributed much, clearly, to aid the strong medicines that they gave her) or whether, on the other hand, it was merely the demonstrable caprice that governs the course of grave illnesses that fade when expected to kill and kill when expected to fade—whatever it was, Santa had gotten so much better seven days after the onset of the disease that the doctor pronounced her cured. He did recommend extreme caution during her convalescence. “A relapse,” said the doctor in so many words, “could well be fatal.”

And yet, Santa's recovery, her figurative rebirth, took place under auspicious circumstances, indeed. For the second time, she was leaving the brothel and its anti-hygienic slavery, ignorant of the risks that she had run during her sickness, ignorant, too, of the heroic role played by el Jarameño, whom she would in fact never see again. She was convinced that Rubio, her new lover, really loved her and would satisfy her every whim. Overnight, she became the mistress of her own little house, with her own servants and her own furniture, her own everything, with plans to acquire a bird cage to hang in the courtyard with songbirds to gladden the house and bring her pleasant memories of her former life. Even the season was propitious, summer. The torrential rains of mid-July were refreshing and cleansing everything. Delightful afternoons were followed by soft, pensive nights, clear and sparkling, perfect for sitting outside in the open air, chatting with the stars and promising oneself never to repeat the errors of the past. In addition, she again experienced the instinctive joy of having escaped death, a sensation that poeticizes the whole world for those who feel it, and Santa felt it deeply. She felt generous toward everyone she was leaving behind in the brothel, even Pepa and Elvira, not to mention Hipólito and Jenaro. The shabby little garden that grew in front of the brothel, half-concealing it, appeared to her eyes as an enchanted sylvan grove when she observed it now, from her convalescent window, still bundled in blankets, gradually recovering her health. From her high vantage point, the street looked cheerful, the neighborhood admirable, the entire city grand, life itself incomparable.

Santa made her farewell early in the day to avoid being drenched in transit to her new abode by a menacing thundershower. The brothel was tranquil and silent, with no nosy customers around at that hour, and the coach sent by Rubio was of the better class, with shock absorbers and an expert driver who pledged to avoid potholes. Weak, pale, and thin, Santa walked out slowly, holding the arm of Hipólito, whom Rubio (not daring to appear in daylight with his new mistress on such a busy street) had commissioned to escort her. The women, their hair uncombed, wearing slippers and robes that occasionally came brazenly unbuttoned, went out to the curb to say goodbye to the escapee. Eufrasia cried like a baby, and Elvira made jokingly dire predictions: