I very much doubt whether Senorita Carmen was a pure-blooded gipsy. At all events， she was infinitely prettier than any other woman of her race I have ever seen. For a women to be beautiful， they say in Spain， she must fulfil thirty /ifs/， or， if it please you better， you must be able to define her appearance by ten adjectives， applicable to three portions of her person.
For instance， three things about her must be black， her eyes， her eyelashes， and her eyebrows. Three must be dainty， her fingers， her lips， her hair， and so forth. For the rest of this inventory， see Brantome. My gipsy girl could lay no claim to so many perfections. Her skin， though perfectly smooth， was almost of a copper hue. Her eyes were set obliquely in her head， but they were magnificent and large.
Her lips， a little full， but beautifully shaped， revealed a set of teeth as white as newly skinned almonds. Her hair--a trifle coarse， perhaps--was black， with blue lights on it like a raven's wing， long and glossy. Not to weary my readers with too prolix a description， Iwill merely add， that to every blemish she united some advantage， which was perhaps all the more evident by contrast. There was something strange and wild about her beauty. Her face astonished you， at first sight， but nobody could forget it. Her eyes， especially， had an expression of mingled sensuality and fierceness which I had never seen in any other human glance. "Gipsy's eye， wolf's eye！" is a Spanish saying which denotes close observation. If my readers have no time to go to the "Jardin des Plantes" to study the wolf's expression， they will do well to watch the ordinary cat when it is lying in wait for a sparrow.
It will be understood that I should have looked ridiculous if I had proposed to have my fortune told in a /café/. I therefore begged the pretty witch's leave to go home with her. She made no difficulties about consenting， but she wanted to know what o'clock it was again， and requested me to make my repeater strike once more.
"Is it really gold？" she said， gazing at it with rapt attention.
When we started off again， it was quite dark. Most of the shops were shut， and the streets were almost empty. We crossed the bridge over the Guadalquivir， and at the far end of the suburb we stopped in front of a house of anything but palatial appearance. The door was opened by a child， to whom the gipsy spoke a few words in a language unknown to me， which I afterward understood to be /Romany/， or /chipe calli/--the gipsy idiom. The child instantly disappeared， leaving us in sole possession of a tolerably spacious room， furnished with a small table， two stools， and a chest. I must not forget to mention a jar of water， a pile of oranges， and a bunch of onions.
As soon as we were left alone， the gipsy produced， out of her chest， a pack of cards， bearing signs of constant usage， a magnet， a dried chameleon， and a few other indispensable adjuncts of her art. Then she bade me cross my left hand with a silver coin， and the magic ceremonies duly began. It is unnecessary to chronicle her predictions， and as for the style of her performance， it proved her to be no mean sorceress.
Unluckily we were soon disturbed. The door was suddenly burst open， and a man， shrouded to the eyes in a brown cloak， entered the room， apostrophizing the gipsy in anything but gentle terms. What he said Icould not catch， but the tone of his voice revealed the fact that he was in a very evil temper. The gipsy betrayed neither surprise nor anger at his advent， but she ran to meet him， and with a most striking volubility， she poured out several sentences in the mysterious language she had already used in my presence. The word /payllo/， frequently reiterated， was the only one I understood. I knew that the gipsies use it to describe all men not of their own race. Concluding myself to be the subject of this discourse， I was prepared for a somewhat delicate explanation. I had already laid my hand on the leg of one of the stools， and was studying within myself to discover the exact moment at which I had better throw it at his head， when， roughly pushing the gipsy to one side， the man advanced toward me. Then with a step backward he cried：
"What， sir！ Is it you？"
I looked at him in my turn and recognised my friend Don Jose. At that moment I did feel rather sorry I had saved him from the gallows.
"What， is it you， my good fellow？" I exclaimed， with as easy a smile as I could muster. "You have interrupted this young lady just when she was foretelling me most interesting things！""The same as ever. There shall be an end to it！" he hissed between his teeth， with a savage glance at her.
Meanwhile the /gitana/ was still talking to him in her own tongue. She became more and more excited. Her eyes grew fierce and bloodshot， her features contracted， she stamped her foot. She seemed to me to be earnestly pressing him to do something he was unwilling to do. What this was I fancied I understood only too well， by the fashion in which she kept drawing her little hand backward and forward under her chin.
