The wedding took place two days after this episode. I awoke that day with a violent pain in my chest. By dint of applying cloths soaked with arnica, which I slyly procured of the druggist in San AndrÉs, I had succeeded in partly disguising the scratches and bruises I had on my face. As for my clothing, I had only torn the lining of my coat; that was lucky. The only two witnesses of my fall had doubtless agreed to keep silent; but they would look at me from time to time, and I felt a disagreeable sensation on meeting Carmen’s surprised and severe gaze, or the Franciscan’s eyes, in which I thought I observed a humiliating mixture of anger and contempt. For that cause I deeply regretted my bruised condition, thinking to myself, “I’ll bet I have sprained or broken something, and that will necessarily let the cat out of the bag.” To my physical depression there was joined a mental state of considerable excitement, as the following paragraphs from my latest letter to Luis will demonstrate:

“My dear boy: I don’t know how to tell you what has happened to me. By chance I have discovered Carmen’s secret, and I am convinced that she is an angel, a seraph in the shape of a woman. The friar was right when he declared that CarmiÑa is the type of a perfect Christian woman. Undoubtedly there is something in such a woman which calls for reverence; something heavenly. I did wrong to doubt it or even to imagine that she might not be a saint. If you knew how unhappy she is, what self-sacrifice she is making! I will tell you what is going on—and then you say whether there can be greater heroism or dignity of character. I have been lost in amazement ever since I have learned the motives for her conduct.”

I then proceeded to explain affairs at length, praising Carmen’s wonderful strength of character; and added, to finish making a clean breast of it: “I think that the friar is good, also. Although it may seem very strange, yet I am inclined to think that he does fulfill his vows. There is no doubt of it, my boy, he will fulfill them. Virtue does exist, of course it does! There is even such a thing as country! I don’t know really what my feelings are; whether, since I have seen clearly what my auntie is I love her more, in a highly refined way, or whether I no longer care for her as a woman. What I am sure of is that my uncle does not deserve the treasure which has fallen to him from heaven. I know I shall never find such a woman, if ever I get married myself some day.”

I wrote this letter on the eve of the fatal day. At daybreak next morning I felt sore, as I was saying, and all my bones ached; I had a great desire to stay flat on my back without moving, thinking, or breathing scarcely. But the cursed acolyte came into my room with his customary jokes and boyish pranks, and at once fell to pulling off the sheets.

“What is the matter?” he asked; “is your breast-bone broken? You are like the cats that smash themselves jumping off the roof. What pains our young gentleman? Shall I rub you?”

I arose painfully, and, threatening him with my clenched fist, exclaimed:

“If you talk about falls—”

“Well, we’ll talk about whatever your Excellency desires. Ne in furore tuo arguas me!”

“I will argue with you with a shoe, if you don’t keep quiet.”

“Oh, it’s not worth while to put yourself out! Get up, for they are already putting all the frippery on the bride. Don’t you hear the orchestra from the Royal Imperial and Botanical Theater? Mighty good music!”

I could, in fact, hear, coming up from the court, the light, rapid notes of a country measure, which seemed to dance along with pastoral joy. It was the pipers tuning up and playing their prelude. That lively, merry, jubilant music depressed my heart.

Making an effort I set my bones in motion. I felt a depressing uncomfortableness in my chest, as though it held a heavy stone, giving me unendurable distress. Pulling myself together, I washed, dressed myself as well as I could, and went down to breakfast. Nearly all the guests were there. I noticed that SeÑor Aldao was uneasy, and learned that his disturbance arose from a letter he had just received from Naranjal. Don Vicente SotopeÑa’s godson and protegÉ, Lupercio Pimentel, wrote it in the former’s name, and after many courteous congratulations and great professions of friendship for my uncle, he went on to say that Don Vicente had commissioned him to be present, in the great man’s name, at the wedding feast, if not the ceremony itself.

Hence came Don RomÁn’s anxiety, for he was afraid that something might be lacking of the elegance which the presence of such an important personage demanded. He would almost have preferred to deal with the great chief himself. The latter, at least, was very unassuming and frank, and if one gave him country dishes and jokes in Galician dialect, he would not observe any omission. On the other hand, the godson—Heaven only knows! He was young, very elegant, and accustomed to the splendid festivities in the Capital.

After dispatching our chocolate without much ceremony, we proceeded to the parlor. We could hear merry feminine voices outside in the hall, and soon afterward the bride made her appearance, surrounded by several of her young friends from Pontevedra, invited to the ceremony, and by CandidiÑa, DoÑa Andrea, and the little girl, who were all stumbling over each other in their eagerness to get a good view of her.

Carmen Aldao was pale and feverish, with deep circles under her eyes. Her eyelids had a heavy, purplish look, as though she had passed a sleepless night. She wore the white dress with the net-work of imitation pearls, a black lace mantilla, fastened with jeweled pins, a spray of natural orange blossoms on her breast, long gloves, and carried a lace handkerchief and a prayer-book and rosary inlaid with pearl.

After bowing to her lover, who said “good-morning” to her in a somewhat constrained voice, and then smiling at the rest of the company, she remained standing in the middle of the room, not knowing what to do next. But when SeÑor Aldao, at a signal from Uncle Felipe, said, “Let us proceed to the chapel,” Carmen advanced, and went up to her father with a frank and eager air.

“Forgive me if I have ever offended you,” she said, in a vibrating, though restrained voice, “and I pray you give me your blessing.”

As she spoke, she fastened on her father an eloquent, profound, and almost dreadful look, so intense was it. Her father turned away, murmuring, “May God bless you!”

I believe that I saw something glistening in his eyes. There are some things which grate on the nerves.

Her friends devoted themselves to arranging the bride’s dress, pulling out her flounces and picking up the pearl beads, some of which were already rolling around the floor. Not walking arm in arm, and in considerable disorder, we set out for the chapel.

It was fragrant with flowers, and entirely carpeted with ferns and anise, while the altar was lighted up with countless tapers. The ceremony was rather long, as they were married and took the communion at the same time. I heard the clearly pronounced “yes” of the bride, and the indistinct one of the bridegroom. I heard read what everybody calls St. Paul’s Epistle, though it may not be so. There the husband is compared to Christ, the wife to the Church; and, in confirmation of the man’s superiority, the embroidered stole fell over the head of the bride at the same time that it fell on her husband’s shoulder. Carmen Aldao, crossing her hands on her breast, bowed her head and submitted to the yoke.

A number of peasants were among the spectators, attracted by curiosity, and were crowding each other with a respectful murmur in their efforts to see over the heads of the gentry. When the mass was over, the fire-crackers went off, the country pipes gave forth their characteristic harsh sounds, and the people all rushed out in a body, while the bride was surrounded by her friends, who filched the orange leaves and buds from her dress, and gave her hearty smacks.

That was an awkward moment. Where should we go? What should we do? How should we entertain the company?

Castro Mera, who was young and lively, proposed that we should go over to the yew, have the piano brought out into the garden, and get up a dance, while the married couple and Father Moreno were breakfasting, as they had not been able to do so before on account of the mass and communion service. They all consented to this arrangement, but the dancing had scarcely begun when the bride reappeared without her mantilla. She had only taken a sip of chocolate, and came to fulfill her social duties. She herself played the first country dance down in the garden. The second was played by a young lady from Pontevedra, and Castro Mera then danced it with her, whom I may now with propriety call my aunt. Afterward a young lady from San AndrÉs proposed to have a waltz. I had dragged myself through the country dance only so that people should not discover how much I was suffering with my bruises; but when I heard them say “waltz,” a Wertherian thought flashed through my mind: “I will embrace the bride before the arms of her lover have touched her.” Rising quickly, and forgetting all about my sprains, I invited her to take a turn. She refused, smilingly, but her friends pushed her on, and then, making a grimace as though to say, “Well, it will be for the last time,” she rested her left arm on mine and allowed my right arm to encircle her waist.

As I clasped her form, I forgot all about my fatigue and bruises, and felt intuitively that I was more in love than ever with that woman who was now indissolubly bound to another. Thus to hold her—in that room walled in by vegetation, gilded by the sun, which at times, stealing through the branches, cast a playful ray upon the bride’s hair or brow—made me beside myself. I observed the delicate outlines of her lithe figure; I felt her warm breath on my cheek; and the wild fancy which agitated me became a longing so vehement that I was obliged to exert all my self-control in order not to press her so closely to my heart as to hurt her.

Nevertheless, my transport was the purest and most sublimated of all such loving raptures. I felt a heavenly illusion, if I may so call it; a divine illusion, noble in its origin and development. What thrilled me most was the thought that I held in my arms the purest and holiest woman on earth, and that, although she belonged to another, she was still a virgin, pure, unsoiled as the calyx of a lily, as the orange blossoms which she still wore on her bosom, and which, as they faded, gave out an intoxicating and delicious perfume.

We waltzed on very smoothly, and between the turns, I believe I said to her:

“As we are relatives now, may I address you with the tu?”

“Of course; it would be absurd for you to be so terribly formal as to say usted to me.”

“Will you get vexed?”

“No, why should I?”

I remained silent. The silken folds of her dress brushed caressingly across my knees, and I felt my heart, agitated by the movement of the waltz, beating violently. Then, with an irresistible impulse, the truth burst from my lips:

“Auntie,” I murmured, “forgive me. I have behaved very badly toward you, don’t you know? I was indiscreet. But then, I am so glad, so glad! Because I now know all that you are worth; and listen—I know it to be so much, that I am like one crazy. Don’t you see it?”

“Be quiet, you silly boy!” she replied, somewhat short-breathed from dancing. “If you were really indiscreet, what shall I say to you? You did very wrong.”

“I know it,” I said, remorsefully. “For that very reason I want you to pardon me. Pardon me, come now, pardon me. Will you forgive me?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, as though acceding to a childish whim.

“How good you are!” I exclaimed, impulsively, in a low, deep tone.

We took several turns more, and felt our heads grow dizzy from waltzing in such close quarters. She stopped for a moment, and I then inquired:

“Auntie, do you expect ever to dance again?”

“No, this is my last waltz. Married women do not dance.”

“The last!”

“Certainly.”

“Then give me, I beg you, that spray of orange-blossoms. Do give it to me!”

“What do you want it for?”

“Give it to me, or I shall do something desperate.”

“Take it, nephew,” she replied, stopping; “and don’t ever hide in the trees again.”

I grasped the spray as a robber would grasp a stolen treasure, and looked at my aunt, searching her eyes to their depths. I did not perceive either resentment or severity in her while she thus frankly avowed that she had discovered my outrageous performance. But a slight sense of startled modesty was discernible in her eyes, though this severe bearing was tempered by a half-smile and the animation of her countenance, flushed by the dance.

I would gladly have had that waltz last forever. I remained silent, for the force of my feelings tied my tongue; while I felt that I was raised to the fifth heaven. Unable to restrain myself, I must have clasped her slender waist too closely, for suddenly aunt stopped, and with an agitated countenance, but a firm voice, said: “That is enough.”