An hour, or perhaps an hour and a half, might have passed when LucÍa heard a knock at the door of her room, and opening it she found herself face to face with her companion and protector, who gave proof, by his white cuffs and some slight changes which he had made in his dress, of having paid that minute attention to the business of the toilet which is a part of the religion of our age. He entered, and without seating himself, held out to LucÍa his pocket-book, filled with money.

“You have here,” he said, “money enough for any occasion that may arise until your husband joins you. As the trains are apt to be delayed at this season, I do not think he will be here before morning, but even if he should not arrive for a week, or even a month, there is enough to last you till then.”

LucÍa looked at him as if she had not understood his meaning, without making any motion to take the pocket-book. He slipped it into her palm.

“I am obliged to go out now, to attend to some business,” he said; “after which I will take the first train for Paris. Good-by, SeÑora,” he ended ceremoniously, taking two steps toward the door.

Then, grasping his meaning, the young girl, with pale and troubled countenance, caught him by the sleeve of his overcoat, exclaiming:

“What—what do you mean? What are you saying about the train?”

“What is natural, SeÑora,” said the traveler, with his former tired gesture, “that I am going to continue my journey; that I am going to Paris.”

“And you are going to leave me in this way—alone! Alone here in France!” said LucÍa, in the greatest distress.

“SeÑora, this is not a desert, nor need you fear that any harm will befall you. You have money. That is the one thing needful on French soil; that you will be well served and waited upon, I will guarantee.”

“But—good heavens! Alone! alone!” she repeated, without loosening her hold on Artegui’s sleeve.

“Within a few hours your husband will be here.”

“And if he does not come?”

“Why should he not come? What puts it into your head that he will not come?”

“I do not say that he will not come,” stammered LucÍa. “I only say that if he should delay——”

“In fine,” murmured Artegui, “I, too, have my occupations—it is imperative that I should go.”

LucÍa answered not a word to this, but, loosening her hold on his sleeve, she sank again into her chair and hid her face in her hands. Artegui approached her and saw that her bosom heaved with a quick, irregular motion, as if she were sobbing. Between her fingers drops flowed as copiously as if they had been squeezed out of a sponge.

“Lift up your face,” said Artegui in an authoritative voice.

LucÍa raised her flushed, moist countenance and, in spite of herself, smiled as she did so.

“You are a young girl,” he said, “a young girl who is not bound to know what the world is. I, who have seen more of it than I could wish, would be unpardonable if I did not undeceive you. The world is a collection of eyes, ears, and mouths that close themselves to all that is good and open themselves eagerly to all that is evil. My company at present is more to your injury than your advantage. If your husband has not exceptionally good judgment—and there is no reason to suppose that he has—it will give him but little satisfaction to find you so protected.”

“Good heavens! and why? What would have become of me if I had not met you so opportunely? That dreadful official might have put me in prison. I don’t know what SeÑor de Miranda will say but, as for poor papa, he would kiss the ground you walk upon, I am sure of it.”

And LucÍa, with a gesture of passionate and plebeian gratitude, made a movement as if to kneel before Artegui.

“A husband is not a father,” he answered. “The only reasonable, the only sensible course, SeÑora, is for me to go. I telegraphed from Ebro to Miranda, so that if your husband should be there, he may be told you are waiting here for him in Bayonne.”

“Go, then.”

And LucÍa turned her back on Artegui, and leaning her elbows on the window-sill, looked out of the window.

Artegui remained for a moment standing in the middle of the room, looking at the young girl, who doubtless was swallowing her tears silently, undecided what to do. At last he approached her, and almost in a whisper:

“After all,” he murmured, “there is no need to be so greatly troubled. Dry your tears, for if you live long enough you will have time and cause in plenty for them to flow.”

Lowering still more his sonorous voice, he added:

“I will remain.”

LucÍa turned round as if she had been moved by a spring, and, clapping her hands, cried with childish delight:

“Thank you! Thank you, SeÑor de Artegui. Oh, but will you stay in earnest? I am beside myself with joy. What happiness! But,” she added suddenly, as if the thought had only just occurred to her, “can you remain? Will it be a sacrifice, will it be a trouble to you?”

“No,” answered Artegui, with a gloomy countenance.

“That lady, that DoÑa Armanda, who is expecting you in Paris—may not she, too, need you?”

“She is my mother,” answered Artegui, and LucÍa was satisfied with the response, although it failed to answer her question.

Artegui, meanwhile, pushed a chair toward the table, and seating himself in it leaned his elbow on the cover and burying his face in his hands, gave himself up to his thoughts. LucÍa, from the embrasure of the window, was observing his movements. When ten minutes had passed, and Artegui had neither moved nor spoken, she approached him softly, and, in a timid and supplicating voice, stammered:

“SeÑor de Artegui——”

He looked up. His face wore its former gloomy expression.

“What do you wish?” he asked hoarsely.

“What is the matter? It seems to me that you are—very downcast and very sad—I suppose it is on account of—what we were saying—see, if it annoys you so greatly, I think I prefer that you should go. Yes, I am sure I do.”

“I am not annoyed. I am—as I always am. It is because you know me so little that you are surprised at my manner.”

And seeing that LucÍa remained standing with a remorseful expression on her countenance, he motioned to the other chair. LucÍa drew it forward and sat down in it, facing Artegui.

“Say something,” continued Artegui, “let us talk. We must amuse ourselves, we must chat—as we did this afternoon.”

“Ah, this afternoon you were in a good humor.”

“And you?”

“I was suffocated with the heat. Our house at Leon is very cool; I am much more susceptible to the heat than to the cold.”

“You found it pleasant, no doubt, to wash off the dust of the road. It is so refreshing to make one’s toilet after a journey.”

“Yes, but——” LucÍa stopped. “I missed one thing—a very important thing,” she added.

“What? Cologne water, perhaps. I forgot to bring you my necessaire.”

“No, indeed,—the trunk which contained my linen—I could not change my things.”

Artegui rose.

“Why did you not mention this before?” he said. “We are precisely in the place where Spanish brides purchase their wedding outfits!—I will be back directly.”

“But—where are you going?”

“To bring you a couple of changes of linen; you must be in torture with those dusty garments.”

“SeÑor de Artegui! for Heaven’s sake! I am imposing on your good nature; wait——”

“Why do you not come with me to choose them?”

And Artegui handed LucÍa her toque.

The scruples that at first presented themselves to the young girl’s mind vanished quickly like a flock of frightened quail, and a little confused, but still more happy, she hastily took Artegui’s offered arm.

“We shall see the streets, shall we not?” she exclaimed excitedly.

And as they went down the waxed and slippery stairs, she said, with a remnant of provincial scrupulousness and shyness:

“Of course, SeÑor de Artegui, my husband will repay you all you are spending.”

Artegui tightened his clasp on her arm with a smile, and they walked on through the streets of Bayonne, as much at home with each other as if they had lived all their lives together. The night was worthy of the day. In the soft blue sky the stars shone clear and bright. The gas-lights of the innumerable shops, which in Bayonne trade upon the vanity of the wealthy and migratory Spaniards, encircled the dark blocks of houses with zones of light, and in the show-cases gleamed, in every tone of the chromatic scale, rich stuffs, porcelains, curious bronzes, and costly jewels. The pair walked on in silence, Artegui accommodating his long manly stride to the shorter step of LucÍa. The streets were filled with people who walked along quickly, with an air of animation, like people engaged in some business that interests them; not with the languid air of the southern races, who walk for exercise or to kill time. The tables standing in front of the cafÉs were crowded with customers, for the mild atmosphere made it pleasant to sit in the open air, and under the bright light of the gas lamps the waiters hurried about serving beer, coffee, or chocolate bavaroise; and the smoke of the cigars, and the rustling of newspapers, and the talk, and the sharp ring of the dominoes on the marble made the sidewalk full of life. Suddenly Artegui turned the corner of the street and led the way into a rather narrow shop, whose show-case was almost filled by two long morning-gowns adorned with cascades of lace, one of them trimmed with blue, the other with pink ribbons. Inside the shop were numberless articles of underwear for women and children, coquettishly displayed,—jackets with extended sleeves, wrappers hanging in graceful folds. The ivory white of the laces contrasted with the chalky white of the muslins. Here and there the brilliant colors, the silk and gold of some morning cap resting on its wooden stand, rose in contrast from among the white masses lying around on all sides like a carpet of snow.

The proprietress of the establishment, like most of the shopkeepers of Bayonne, spoke Spanish; and when LucÍa asked her for two suits of linen she availed herself of her knowledge of the language of Cervantes to endeavor to persuade her to launch into further purchases. Taking LucÍa and Artegui for a newly married couple she became flattering, insinuating, importunate, and persisted in showing them a complete outfit, lauding its beauty and its cheapness. She threw on the counter armfuls of articles, floods of lace, embroidery, batiste. Not content with which, and seeing that LucÍa, submerged in a flood of linen, was making signs in the negative with head and hands, she touched another spring, and took down enormous pasteboard boxes containing diminutive caps, flannel, swaddling-clothes, finely scalloped cashmere and piquÉ cloaks, petticoats of an exaggerated length, and other articles which brought the blood to LucÍa’s cheeks.

Artegui put an end to the attack by paying for the suits selected, and giving the address of the hotel to which they were to be sent.

This done, they left the shop; but LucÍa, enchanted with the beauty and serenity of the night, expressed a wish to remain out a little longer.

They retraced their steps, passing again before the brilliantly lighted cafÉs and the theater, and took the road to the bridge, at this hour almost deserted. The lights of the city were tremulously reflected on the tranquil bosom of the Adour.

“How bright the stars are!” exclaimed LucÍa; and suddenly pulling Artegui by the sleeve, to arrest his steps. “What star is that,” she said, “that shines so brightly?”

“It is called Jupiter. It is one of the planets belonging to our system.”

“How bright and lovely it is! Some of the stars seem to be cold, they tremble so as they shine; and others are motionless, as if they were watching us.”

“They are, in effect, fixed stars. Do you see that band of light that crosses the sky?”

“That looks like a wide silver gauze ribbon?”

“That is the Milky Way; a collection of stars, the number of which is so great as to be inconceivable even to the imagination. Our sun is one of the ants of that ant-hill,—one of those stars.”

“The sun—is it a star?” asked the young girl in surprise.

“A fixed star—we whirl around it like mad people.”

“Ah, how delightful to know all those things! In the school I attended, we were not taught a particle of all that, and DoÑa Romualda used to laugh at me when I would say I was going to ask Father Urtazu—who is always looking at the heavens through a big telescope—what the stars and the sun and the moon are.”

Artegui turned to the right, following the embankment, while he explained to LucÍa the first notions of that science of astronomy which seems like a celestial romance, a fantastic tale written in characters of light on sapphire tablets. The young girl, enraptured, gazed now at her companion, now at the serene firmament. She was amazed, above all, at the magnitude and number of the stars.

“How vast the sky is! Dear Lord! if the material, the visible heavens are so great, what must the real heavens be, where the Virgin, the angels, and the saints are!”

Artegui shook his head, and bending toward LucÍa, murmured:

“How do those stars seem to you? One might fancy they were sad. Is it not true that when they twinkle they look as if they were shedding tears?”

“They are not sad,” responded LucÍa, “they are pensive, which is a very different thing. They are thinking, and they have something to think about,—to go no further, God who created them.”

“Thinking! They think as much as that bridge or those vessels think. The privilege of thinking”—Artegui laid a bitter emphasis on the word privilege—“is reserved for man, the lord of creation. And if there be on those stars, as there must be, men endowed with the privileges and the faculties of humanity, they it is who think.”

“Do you believe there are people on those stars? Do you think they are like us, SeÑor de Artegui? Do they eat? Do they drink? Do they walk?”

“Of that I know nothing. There is only one thing I can assure you of, but that with full knowledge and perfect certainty.”

“What is that?” asked the young girl, with curiosity, watching, by the uncertain light of the stars Artegui’s countenance.

“That they suffer as we suffer,” he answered.

“How do you know that?” she murmured, impressed by the hollow tone in which the words were uttered. “Well, for my part, I fancy that in the stars that are so beautiful and that shine so brightly, there is neither discord nor death, as there is here. It must be blissful there!” she declared, raising her hand and pointing to the refulgent orb of Jupiter.

“Pain is the universal law, here as well as there,” said Artegui, looking fixedly at the Adour which ran, dark and silent, at his feet.

They spoke little more until they reached the hotel. There are conversations which awaken profound thoughts and which are more fittingly followed by silence than by frivolous words. LucÍa, tired, without knowing why, leaned heavily on the arm of Artegui, who walked slowly, with his accustomed air of indifference. The last words of their conversation were discordant—almost hostile.

“At what hour does the morning train arrive?” asked LucÍa suddenly.

“The first train arrives at five or thereabouts.”

The voice of Artegui was dry and hard.

“Shall we go to meet it to see if SeÑor de Miranda is on it?”

“You may do so if you choose, SeÑora; as for me, permit me to decline.”

The tone in which he answered was so bitter that LucÍa did not know what to reply.

“The employees of the hotel will go,” added Artegui, “whether you do or not, to meet the trains. There is no need for you to rise so early—at least, unless your conjugal tenderness is so great——”

LucÍa bent her head, and her face flushed as if a red-hot iron had passed close to it. When they entered the hotel the landlady approached them; her smile, animated by curiosity, was even more amiable and obsequious than before. She explained that she had forgotten a necessary formality—to enter the names of the lady and gentleman, and their nationality, in the hotel register.

“Ignacio Artegui, Madame de Miranda; Spaniards,” said Artegui.

“If the gentleman had a card——” the landlady ventured to say.

Artegui gave her the desired slip of pasteboard, and the landlady was as profuse in her courtesies and thanks as if she were excusing herself for complying with the required formality.

“When the morning train arrives,” said Ignacio, “give orders to inquire for Monsieur Aurelio Miranda—don’t forget! Let him be told that Madame is in this hotel, that she is well, and that she is waiting for him to join her. Do you understand?”

“Parfait,” answered the Frenchwoman.

LucÍa and Artegui bade each other good-night at the doors of their respective rooms. LucÍa, as she was about to undress, saw the purchases she had made, lying on the table. She put on the fresh linen with delight, and lay down thinking she was going to sleep profoundly, as she had done the preceding night. But she did not enjoy the repose she had anticipated: her sleep was restless and broken. Perhaps the strangeness of the bed, its very softness, produced in LucÍa the effect which unaccustomed luxuries produce in persons habituated to a monastic life, of whom it may be said with truth, paradoxical as it may appear, that comfort makes them uncomfortable.