) to leave his seat, directed this dance of money, conducting it
from the hands of the public to the depths of the iron safe, or fetching
it forth to spread it, with a certain sadness, upon the counter. The
ridiculous little room seemed to grow in size and acquire beauty at the
sound of the sonorous names that issued from the lips of the banker and
his customers. London! Paris! Vienna!... The house of Aboab had branches
everywhere. Its name and its influence extended not only to the famous
world centers, but even to the humblest corners, wherever one of their
race existed. Rabat, Casablanca, Larache, Tafilete, Fez, were African
towns into which the great banks of Europe could penetrate only with the
aid of these auxiliaries, bearing an almost famous name yet living very
poorly.

Zabulon, as he changed Aguirre's money, greeted him as if he were a
friend. In that city every one knew every body else within twenty-four
hours.

Old Aboab pulled himself together in his chair, peering out of his weak
eyes with a certain surprise at not being able to recognize this
customer among his habitual visitors.

"It's the consul, father," said Zabulon, without raising his glance from
the money that he was counting, guessing the reason for the movement of
the old man behind him. "The Spanish consul who stops at the hotel
opposite our house."

The patriarch seemed to be impressed and raised his hand to his hat with
humble courtesy.

"Ah! The consul! The worthy consul!" he exclaimed, emphasizing the title
as a token of his great respect for all the powers of the earth. "Highly
honored by your visit, worthy consul."

And believing that he owed his visitor renewed expressions of flattery,
he added with tearful sighs, imparting to his words a telegraphic
conciseness, "Ah, Spain! Beautiful land, excellent country, nation of
gentlemen!... My forefathers came from there, from a place called
Espinosa de los Monteros."

His voice quivered, pained by recollections, and afterwards, as if he
had in memory advanced to recent times, he added, "Ah! Castelar!...
Castelar, a friend of the Jews, and he defended them. Of the _judeos_,
as they say there!"

His flood of tears, ill restrained up to that moment, could no longer be
held back, and at this grateful recollection it gushed from his eyes,
inundating his beard.

"Spain! Beautiful country!" sighed the old man, deeply moved.

And he recalled everything that in the past of his race and his f