“See, Santa? See that you're mine? Now hold me like you'll never let me go!” sighed el Jarameño hoarsely.

Santa snuggled against his throat and put her arms around him voluptuously:

“It's you who's mine, silly … every bit of you. Don't you feel how much I hug you? More than you!”

And, forgetting everything around them, what had just happened and what might happen, they held each other's hand and spoke of their life together, of their certain and endless happiness. Santa did not owe a cent to Elvira. She was free! First she would go by for her clothes (you'd better believe it!) and her jewelry (that's for sure!) and to say goodbye to the girls who remained there, at whose side she had been enchained … Poor things! She felt profoundly sorry for them now, but what could be done? Supposing that a lover appeared out of nowhere to rescue each of them that very night, there would always be others: the girls of nearby houses, those of more distant ones, those who worked alone, a legion of slaves, teeming, never ending. A brigade that endured persecutions, cruelties, and affronts, closing ranks without wavering, without pausing to evacuate its wounded or even bury its dead. On they go, living personifications of Love, Desire, Temptation, and the Flesh, charging ahead, without more of a shield or weapon than their naked breasts!

Once at Elivra's, what with all the farewells, the packing of trunks, and el Jarameño's delirious, ceaseless invitations to visit, they lost track of the hour, until eventually Hipólito showed up for work. All the girls together blurted out the sensational news.

“Hipo! El Jarameño's taking Santa out of here! Tonight!”

“I'm sorry for her, but he must be thrilled,” pronounced the musician sententiously. He had seen this coming since the day before, having well understood the mutual passion that the torero and the girl had tried to resist and conceal. Since the day before, Hipólito had said goodbye to Santa, not because he expected her to disappear forever—to the contrary, he expected that she would eventually return to Elvira's house—but because he knew that the torero had captured her heart, and he, Hipólito, might never come close to it again.

In his lodgings, he had cried as much as is humanly possible to cry, witnessed by Jenaro, who, despite his sleepiness and his toughness, said more than once:

“Master, don't cry like that anymore, because you're going to use up all that's left of your eyes … Go to sleep … Rest …”

But he didn't cry there in the brothel. Not on your life! He went straight to his piano, tried out the keyboard, and wished with all his soul for two things, both of which happened: there were a lot of customers and Santa did not appear in the parlor.

That was no coincidence, because what could be more discouraging to Elvira's clientele than the spectacle of Santa's departure? So Elvira escorted Santa and el Jarameño out a private door with only a few indispensable things in a suitcase carried by Eufrasia. The rest of the things would be sent along in the morning.