“I do not ask your price,” said Don José, restraining his indignation.
“The junta may dispose as it likes with its own; but in my house no one sells anything but myself,” answered the miser. “And that is all there is to say. Each one may do in his own house as I do in mine.”
“Come, look here, you bloodsucker!” exclaimed Montoria, catching him by the arm, making him jump, “look here, Candiola of a thousand devils, I have said that I have come for the flour, and I will not go without it! The army of defence of Saragossa must not die of hunger, porra ! and all citizens must contribute to maintain it.”
“To maintain it! to maintain the army!” cried the miser, venomously. “Perhaps I am the author of its being?”
“Miserable pig, is there not in your black and empty soul one spark of patriotism?”
“I do not maintain vagabonds. What need was there that the French should bombard us and destroy the city? You want me to feed the soldiers. I will give them poison.”
“Wretch, worm, bloodsucker of Saragossa, disgrace of the Spanish people!” exclaimed my protector, threatening with his doubled fist the miser’s wrinkled face. “I would rather be damned to hell forever than to be what you are, to be Candiola for one minute. You black conscience, you perverse soul, are you not ashamed of being the only one in this city who has refused all his resources to the patriotic army of his country? Does not everybody’s hatred of you for this vile conduct weigh upon you more heavily than if all the rocks of Moncayo had fallen upon you?”
“Stop your music and leave me in peace,” said Don Jerónimo, starting to the door.