But comfort came, in fact, from much lower down—from Hipólito, who, when he finished playing piano that night at Elvira's, went to Tivoli, and hearing from Ravioli about the arrival of the two men in black and the disappearance of Santa, began to imagine who knows what terrible scenarios and rushed out to search the neighboring streets and nearby houses of prostitution, the places that he was likely to find her under normal circumstances.

“Are you sure, Ravioli, that she left?”

“Yes, yes. Epigmenio opened the door for her about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Let's go, Jenaro, my boy, and keep your eyes peeled!”

When they located Santa, when Jenaro recognized her at a distance and said so, Hipólito stopped short.

“Wait a minute and let me get my breath, you savage. You've been pulling me along at a full gallop!”

Jenaro laughed at the consternation of his bossy master, who had suddenly turned tremulous and tentative.

“Santita,” murmured Hipólito as he approached the girl, “what has happened?”

“Oh, Hipo, I'm so glad you've come,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck without the slightest hesitation, shaking anew with sobs, dissolving once more in a flood of tears.

“But, why are you so upset, Santita? What has happened?” replied Hipólito, without even putting his arms around her, despite the tempting opportunity.

And upon learning of the death of Agustina and understanding that Santa did not want to see—or sleep with—anybody, which might cause serious problems were she to return to Elvira's, he delicately suggested a course of action.

“Of course, you're right, Santita … losing your mother is … well … you shouldn't go back to the house tonight. Sleep tonight at a hotel, just you and your sorrows. Tomorrow, you can decide what to do next. Jenaro, look for a cab!”

Even more delicately, during the momentary absence of the boy, unable to restrain himself, Hipólito kissed Santa's hands—just a kiss or two, that's all—delicate, respectful kisses that barely brushed the silky skin of the luckless prostitute. Then he helped her into a coach, recommended a hotel, paid the driver tip and all, and sent her on her way.

“I'll pay, Santita. I'm sure you don't have change, and what does it matter?”

And he stood still for a moment after her departure, as if fastened to the sidewalk, his eyebrows twitching and his lips, too. Jenaro, who could not help being interested in these unusual events, even began to wonder whether the blind man might not be praying …

ONLY GOD KNOWS what went through Santa's mind during that seemingly eternal night of solitary grief in the Hotel Numancia, where she remained in bed, more drowsing than sleeping, until eleven o'clock the next morning. When she finally pressed the buzzer to call for a chambermaid, one quickly appeared in the middle of the room without taking off her cap.

“Should I bring up coffee? What kind of bread do you want with it?” inquired the chambermaid.

“I don't care. It's all the same to me. Bring me paper and a pen, though, and call a messenger. Oh, and open the door to the balcony before you leave … not so much … there, that's it …”