Since the routine had been interrupted, the maids no longer gave instructions. Now the tyrannical cook, the surly porter, the lascivious parlormaid champed under the inflexible orders of a mistress who was suddenly vigilant, bubbling over with great ideas she had just had, new projects that couldn’t be delayed.

From the most ancient trunks emerged yellowed, heirloom sheets, venerable sets of china, smudged pictures. Long-overlooked shelves were dusted at last, properties and possessions were inventoried. From time to time, with aloof magnanimity, the patrona yielded up some useless shred of cloth to the greed of the maid who was helping her.

The young girls looked for an opportunity to join in. They quarreled over a piece of silk, a pitcher, a silver place setting for the dowry they would take to their hypothetical marriages. The mother mediated the disputes, promising that everyone would receive an equal share, but later, because now they were in a hurry to hide the objects that belonged to them as carefully as possible.

“Otherwise, after the looting, we’ll be left without so much as a strand of thread.”

“Who’s going to loot, Mama?”

“The Indians, if they come into the city.”

“And if they don’t come?”

“Then the poor people will, the ones who live on the edges of town. They’re always on the lookout for any kind of disorder that will give them the chance to steal. And the troops, too.”

“Is it true that the soldiers carry girls off with them?”

The respectable lady gave a start.

“Make the sign of the cross over your lips and hush. Now, let’s get on with this.”

The respectable lady was displeased precisely because what she had been asked about was true. During thé Revolution, how, many times they had seen it happen! Poor Angélica Ortiz, so pretty and with a serious boyfriend, had to endure the officers’ abuse, and in front of her family. Afterward she was like a madwoman, of course. And she could never marry.

The story had happened once and could repeat itself now. The victims would be these girls. The respectable lady observed her daughters with panic in her heart as they laughed in front of a mirror, trying on old-fashioned hats. Only one of them was still quiet, her eyes downcast and her cheeks reddening. She was the eldest.

“They would have to kill me first!” the respectable lady exclaimed violently. The girls turned to look at her in bewilderment. The eldest daughter smiled.

The gentlemen gathered in the parlor. They smoked one cigarette after another and had pots and pots of coffee brought in.

“The bishop is not with us.”

Leonardo’s gesture sought to lessen the impact of this exaggeration.

“He hasn’t said that.”

“He hasn’t said he supports us either.”

“And he should be the most enraged of all. After all, he raised Padre Manuel.”