Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1922)

She smiled at him, as if she took the dedication to herself. And through the struggle that followed, while the applause broke like waves upon the shore, she watched Juan, silent, tense. Until — he was back, with the bull dead behind him, its ear in his hand, to be presented, according to custom, to the Presidente. Swiftly, then, she moved; drew a ring from her finger; knotted her handkerchief about it; dropped it to Juan, who caught it, smiled his thanks, and thrust it into his sash. Later, when Fuentes, too, had killed his bull, Don Jose, Juan's manager, took him up to a party that was awaiting him. Juan was presented to the Marquis de Moraima, raiser of the most famous bulls in Spain, and to Dona Sol, his niece. It was she who had tossed him her handkerchief — Dona Sol, acclaimed the most beautiful woman in Spain, a reigning toast, indeed, of Europe. She was a widow — but who could count the tale of her lovers? Free she held herself to be — free to indulge each whim and caprice. And it took little keenness of vision to see, now, that Juan intrigued her; that it might be her whim to seek a new thrill through him. Here was a lady holding herself high indeed — above all petty thought of convention and propriety. She spoke to Don Jose imperiously. "You know where I live," she said. "When you come back to Seville, bring your torero to tea some day. He amuses me." Juan laughed when Don Jose, bursting with pride and delight, told him of this invitation. But Don Jose was stern. "She is a great lady — there is none greater in all Spain," he said. "She can make those she favors — break those she dislikes. If you are to be the success you can be you must cultivate her — do nothing to anger her." JUAN was back in Seville. And once more he wondered whether he was dreaming. He was in the home of Dona Sol. Don Jose had gone; he was alone with her. He thought of Carmen, awaiting him at home — but about this woman there was something that he had never seen or felt before in any woman. She maddened him; she set his veins on fire. She was as far above him as the sun whose name she bore — and yet — she smiled, her hand was on his arm as he was at the door to go, her breath was hot upon his cheek. . . . And then — she was in his arms, and he was crushing her. She was no goddess, no woman of a distant sun — she was flesh and blood, like his, all hot and flaming with desire, and she was his — his . . . They talked, through all Seville, of Juan Gallarda and the Dona Sol. Don Jose smirked; here was added fame for his torero; something to make him more than ever an object of curiosity to the crowd. El Nacional frowned and scowled; there could be no good in such a mating. And, beside — his wife and Carmen were friends; he liked Juan's wistful wife. And he was wise, the old matador; he knew that in his heart it was Carmen that Juan loved, no matter what evil spell Dona Sol was able to cast upon him for the time. Juan himself was far from happy. There was no peace, no true happiness, in this strange love that devoured him like fire. El Nacional was right ; he knew it. It was good advice to go away; to let the free air of his farm, Rinconada, blow from his brain the strange desires that tormented him and plagued him. He was going; found, at last, the courage to tell Dona Sol of his intention. But the first sign of resistance only whetted her appetite for him. She begged him to take her with him; to let her, too, find peace and comfort in the country — with him. But he refused — and by his firmness maddened her. He left her happier than he had been since that first night when the impossible had come to pass. He was triumphant; knew, too, that he had won a victory greater than any that had ever come to him in mortal struggle with one of her uncle's bulls. A song was on his lips as he set off for Rinconada in his car, with his cuadrilla. And then, near the old farm that he had bought, his chauffeur stopped. A great limousine was drawn up beside the road; its driver lay beneath it, inspecting it. And from the limousine, as Juan came up to it, stepped Dona Sol — smiling, surprised, triumphant! "Well met!" she said. "I was on my way to my uncle's — and my foolish car has broken down! I must seek shelter for the night." El Nacional scowled. He saw the trap. Feebly Juan struggled. She could have his car to complete her journey. "But no, my friend!" She shrugged her shoulders. "I have heard tales of a famous bandit — Plumitas. I fear him. It is his hobby, they say, to rob the rich to feed the poor. No — you shall be my host tonight." All her charm, her strange and terrible fascination, came to her aid. Juan had made his fight; had thought it won. Now — if fate itself conspired against him so, what could he do? What chance had he against her? He threw up his head, suddenly. "You shall come!" he cried. "Madre de Dios — why not?" "Why not, indeed?" she sighed. But in her eyes there was a strange hint of regret. Few men had gone so far as he had done in resisting her. She was sorry, almost, to miss the thrill of failure — of finding a man she could not, by fair means or foul, bend to her will. Now — ah, now, that she had proved that he was like the rest, clay in her hands — well, the end of Juan Gallardo's day with her was close at hand, she knew! A strange setting for Doiia Sol was Juan's farm. Yet her setting mattered little, at any time, to Doiia Sol; she could rise above environment, circumstances, {Continued on page 103) The bull approached. For a moment Juan gathered all his forces: made skillful play with cloak and sword u