All the women of the Claverias wished to revenge themselves for their former thraldom, standing already on the declivity of disrespect.
"Look at her!" screamed the shoemaker's wife to her neighbours, "always so dressed up, the ugly jade.

She decks herself with the blood that vampire of an uncle sucks from the poor." And from the iron gratings of the upper Claverias, giving on the roofs, there was generally a voice singing the ancient couplet, no doubt inspired by the Cathedral garden-- "Las amas de los curas y los laureles Como nunca dan fruto siempre estan verdes." [1] [Footnote 1: Priest's housekeepers--like laurels--never have any fruit, because they are evergreens.] It was this that ended the patience of Don Antolin; this insulting conjecture about himself and his niece that disturbed his miserly chastity.

He visited the cardinal to complain of the inhabitants of the cloister, but His Eminence, who lived in a perpetual rage, grew furious listening to him and very nearly thrashed him.

Why did he come to him with such tales?
For what reason had he been given any authority?
Was there nothing left of a man beneath his cassock?
He who was wanting in the good discipline of the house--turn him out into the street at once! More energy, and be careful never to trouble him again with such insignificant tales, otherwise the person who would be turned into the street would be Silver Stick himself.
Don Antolin felt a little braver after this interview, although he swore mentally never again to visit that terrible prelate.

He was determined to reassert his authority, by punishing the weakest, whom he considered as the origin of all these scandals.