Joseph Conrad: Nostromo

PART SECOND: THE ISABELS 7. CHAPTER SEVEN (continued)

"'No, senor. I don't suppose I have ever seen her before. How
should I? She has not probably been out in the streets for years.
She is one of those old women that you find in this country at
the back of huts, crouching over fireplaces, with a stick on the
ground by their side, and almost too feeble to drive away the
stray dogs from their cooking-pots. Caramba! I could tell by her
voice that death had forgotten her. But, old or young, they like
money, and will speak well of the man who gives it to them.' He
laughed a little. 'Senor, you should have felt the clutch of her
paw as I put the piece in her palm.' He paused. 'My last, too,'
he added.

"I made no comment. He's known for his liberality and his bad
luck at the game of monte, which keeps him as poor as when he
first came here.

"'I suppose, Don Martin,' he began, in a thoughtful, speculative
tone, 'that the Senor Administrador of San Tome will reward me
some day if I save his silver?'

"I said that it could not be otherwise, surely. He walked on,
muttering to himself. 'Si, si, without doubt, without doubt; and,
look you, Senor Martin, what it is to be well spoken of! There is
not another man that could have been even thought of for such a
thing. I shall get something great for it some day. And let it
come soon,' he mumbled. 'Time passes in this country as quick as
anywhere else.'

"This, soeur cherie, is my companion in the great escape for the
sake of the great cause. He is more naive than shrewd, more
masterful than crafty, more generous with his personality than
the people who make use of him are with their money. At least,
that is what he thinks himself with more pride than sentiment. I
am glad I have made friends with him. As a companion he acquires
more importance than he ever had as a sort of minor genius in his
way--as an original Italian sailor whom I allowed to come in in
the small hours and talk familiarly to the editor of the Porvenir
while the paper was going through the press. And it is curious to
have met a man for whom the value of life seems to consist in
personal prestige.