A few days after she had made her confession, Pilar expired. Her death was almost sweet, and altogether different from what they had expected it would be, inasmuch as it was painless. A more severe fit of coughing than usual interrupted her respiration and the flame of life went out, as the flame goes out in a lamp when the oil is exhausted. LucÍa was alone with the sick girl at the time, supporting her while she was coughing, when suddenly dropping her head forward she expired. The horrible malady, consumption, has so many different phases and aspects that, while some of its victims feel life slowly ebbing away from them hour by hour, others fall into eternity as suddenly as the wild animal falls into the snare. LucÍa, who had never seen any one die before, did not suppose that this was anything more than a deep swoon; she could not think that the spirit abandoned, without a greater struggle and sharper pangs, its mortal tenement. She ran out of the room calling for assistance. Sardiola was the first to come to the bedside in answer to her cries, and shaking his head he said, “It is all over.” Miranda and Perico came shortly afterward; they were both in the hotel at the time, it being eleven o’clock, the hour at which they left the bed for the breakfast table. Miranda raised his eyebrows when he received the intelligence and setting his voice in a solemn key, said:

“It was to be feared, it was to be feared. Yes, we knew she was very ill. But so suddenly, good heavens!—it does not seem possible.”

As for Perico, he hid his face in his hands, and murmured more than thirty times in succession, “Good heavens! Good heavens! What a misfortune! What a misfortune!” And I must add, in honor of the sensibility of the illustrious schemer, that he even changed countenance perceptibly, and that he made desperate attempts to shed, and did at last succeed in shedding a few of those drops called by poets the dew of the soul. I have not wished to omit these details lest it might be thought that Perico was heartless, the fact being that curious and minute statistical researches show him to have been less so than two-thirds of the progeny of Adam. Sorrowful and dejected in very truth, he allowed Miranda to lead him to his room, and it has also been ascertained for a fact that in the whole course of that day no other nourishment passed his lips than two cups of tea and a boiled egg, which at nightfall extreme debility obliged him to swallow.

Father Arrigoitia and Doctor Duhamel, in union with Miranda, empowered by telegraph by the sorrowing family of Gonzalvo, provided the dead girl with all that she now needed—a shroud and a coffin. Pilar, arrayed in the robe of a Carmelite nun, was placed in the casket which was laid on the bed she had occupied when living. Candles were lighted and the body left, in accordance with the Spanish custom, in the chamber of death, the French custom being to place the corpse, surrounded by lighted candles, at the entrance to the room, in order that every one who passes the door may sprinkle it with holy water, using for the purpose a sprig of box floating in a vessel standing near by. The funeral services and the interment were to take place on the following day.

The arrangements for these were soon made, and at about three in the afternoon, Father Arrigoitia was already reading from his breviary, beside the open window in the chamber of death (from which all traces of disorder had disappeared), the prayers for the dead, LucÍa answering “Amen” between her sobs. The flame of the tapers, paled by the glorious brightness of the sun, showed like a reddish point of light, with the black line of the wick strongly marked in the center. The rumbling of approaching and receding carriage wheels could be heard, causing the windows to rattle as they passed by; and above the noises of the street the voice of the Jesuit father, saying:

“Qui quasi putredo consumendus sum, et quasi vestimentum quod comeditur a tinea.”

As if in protest to the funeral hymn, the glorious winter sun darted his rays upon the bowed gray head of the priest, and lighted with warm tones LucÍa’s neck, bowed also.

And the prayer continued:

“Hen mihi, Domine, quia peccavi nimis in vita mea.”

A sunbeam, brighter and more daring than its fellows, stole into the room and fell across the form of the dead girl. Pilar was wasted away almost to a skeleton; death had bestowed neither beauty nor majesty on this body, emaciated, diseased, and consumed by fever. The white head-dress brought into relief the greenish pallor of the sunken countenance. She seemed to have shrunk and diminished in size. Her expression was undecided, between a smile and a grimace. Her teeth, of an ivory hue, were visible. On her breast gleamed in the sunlight the metal of a crucifix which Father Arrigoitia had placed between her hands.

The Jesuit and the friend of the dead girl prayed for about an hour. At the end of that time the priest rose, saying that he would return to watch beside the body after he had attended to some urgent business, which required his presence at his own house. He looked at LucÍa and, noticing that her cheeks were pale and her eyes swollen, he said to her kindly:

“Go rest a little, child; you are as pale as the corpse. God does not require that you should treat yourself in this way.”

“Instead of resting, father,” returned LucÍa. “I will go down into the garden to breathe the fresh air awhile—Juanilla will remain here. I feel the need of air, my head is burning.”

The Jesuit fixed his glance on her anew, and, suddenly putting his mouth close to her ear, he whispered, as if he were in the confessional:

“Now that this poor girl is dead, you know what my advice is, do you not? Put miles between you, daughter; this neighborhood, this place does not suit you. Return to Leon. If I chance to be sent there—I shall be able to congratulate you.”

And as LucÍa gave him an eloquent glance, he added:

“Yes, yes, put miles between you. How many sick souls have I cured with only this remedy! Well, good-by, good-by for a little while. Yes, my dear child, yes; God keeps an account of all these things in Heaven.”

“Father, I wish I were in her place,” murmured LucÍa, pointing to the dead girl.

“Holy Virgin! No, child. You must live in order to serve God by fulfilling his will. Good-by for a while, eh?”

When LucÍa went down into the garden, to her eyes, fatigued with weeping, it seemed less sickly-looking and arid than usual. The yucas raised their majestic heads wearing perennial crowns; the plants exhaled a faint rural odor, more grateful, at any rate, than the odor of the wax. The sun was sinking low in the west, but his rays still gilded the points of the lance-shaped heads of the railings. LucÍa, from habit, seated herself under the plane tree, which the blasts of winter had despoiled of its last withered leaf. The quiet of this solitary retreat brought familiar thoughts again to her mind. No, LucÍa could weep no more; her dry eyes could not shed another tear; what she desired was rest—rest. God and nature had forbidden her to wish for death; so that, employing an ingenious subterfuge, she wished for a long sleep, a sleep without end. While she was absorbed in these thoughts, she saw Sardiola running toward her.

“SeÑorita! SeÑorita!” The good Biscayan was panting for breath.

“What is the matter?” she asked, languidly raising her head.

“He is there,” said Sardiola, gasping.

“He is—there.” LucÍa sat erect, rigid as a statue, and pressed her hands to her heart.

“The SeÑorito—SeÑorito Ignacio. He arrived this morning—he is going away again to-night—where, no one knows—he refused to see me—Engracia says he looks worse even than when he left for Brittany.”

“Sardiola,” said LucÍa, in a faint voice, feeling her heart contract until it seemed to be no bigger than a hazelnut; “Sardiola——”

“I must go back, they need me at every moment. On account of to-day’s misfortune there are a hundred errands to be done. Can I do anything for you, SeÑorita?”

“Nothing.” And LucÍa’s faint voice died away in her throat. There was a buzzing sound in her ears, and railing, walls, plane tree and yucas seemed to whirl around her. There are in life supreme moments like this, when feeling, long suppressed, rises mighty and triumphant, and proclaims itself master of the soul. It was this already; but the soul was perhaps ignorant, or only vaguely conscious of its subjection, when suddenly it feels itself stamped, as with a red-hot iron, with the seal of its bondage. Although the comparison may appear irreverent, I shall say that the same thing happens here, in a measure, as in conversions; the soul wavers, undecided for a time, knowing neither what course it is taking, nor what is the cause of its disquiet, until a voice from on high, a dazzling light, suddenly come to dispel every doubt. The assault is swift, the resistance faint, the victory sure.

The sun was sinking rapidly in the west, the garden was in shadow, Sardiola, the faithful watch-dog who had given the alarm, was no longer there. LucÍa looked around with wandering gaze, and put her hand to her throat, as if she were strangling. Then she fixed her eyes on the house opposite as if by some magic art its walls of stone could transform themselves into walls of glass, and disclose to her what was within. She gazed at it fascinated, suppressing the cry that rose to her lips. The dining-room door stood ajar. This was not unusual, the nurse Engracia frequently standing at its threshold of an afternoon to breathe the fresh air and chat awhile with Sardiola; but there was something now in the aspect of the half-open door that froze LucÍa’s heart with terror, and at the same time filled her soul with ardent joy. Through her brain, incapable of thought, ran the refrain, with the monotonous regularity of the ticking of a clock:

“He came this morning; he is going away to-night.”

Then, her nerves irritated by this iteration, the sounds blended confusedly together and she heard clearly only the last word of the refrain—“night, night, night,” which seemed to sink and swell like those luminous points that we see in the darkness during sleepless hours, which approach and recede, without apparent change of place, by the mere vibration of their atoms. She pressed her temples between her hands as if she sought to arrest the movement of the persistent pendulum, and rising, walked slowly, step by step, toward the vestibule of Artegui’s house. As she put her foot on the first step of the stairs, there was a buzzing in her ears like the humming of a hundred gadflies, that seemed to say:

“Do not go; do not go.”

And another voice, low and mysterious, like the voice of the wind among the dry boughs of the plane tree, murmured in a prolonged whisper:

“Go, go, go!”

She mounted the steps. When she reached the second step she stumbled forward, tripping on the hem of her merino dressing-gown, which she now noticed, for the first time, not only bore the traces of her attendance in the sick room, but was both ugly and of an unfashionable cut. She noticed, too, that her cuffs were limp and wet with the tears she had lately shed, and on her skirt were bits of thread, evidences of her sewing. She passed both hands over her dress, mechanically brushing off the threads, and smoothed out her cuffs as she went toward the door. Here she hesitated again, but the semi-obscurity that now reigned gave her courage. She pushed open the door and found herself in a large and gloomy apartment—the dining-room, whose dark, leather-covered walls, high presses of carved oak, and chairs of the same wood, gave it an air of still greater gloom.

“This is the dining-room,” said LucÍa aloud, and she looked around in search of the door. It was situated at the far end, fronting the door which led from the garden. LucÍa walked toward it, raised the heavy portiÈre, turned the knob with her trembling hand, and emerged into a corridor which was almost dark. She stood there breathless and uncertain which way to turn, regretting now that she had so persistently refused to visit the house before. Suddenly she heard a sound, the rattling of plate and china. Engracia was doubtless washing the dishes in the kitchen. She turned and walked along, the corridor in the opposite direction. The thick carpet deadened the sound of her footsteps. She groped her way along the wall in search of a door. At last she felt a door yield to her touch, and, still groping, she entered a small room, stumbling, as she went, over various objects; among others, the metal bars of a bedstead. From this room she passed into another and much larger apartment, faintly illuminated by the expiring daylight, that entered through a high window. LucÍa immediately came to the conclusion that this must be Artegui’s room. There were in it shelves laden with books, costly skins scattered around carelessly on the carpet, a divan, a panoply of handsome weapons, some anatomical figures, a massive writing-table littered with papers, several bronze and terra-cotta figures, and above the divan hung the portrait of a woman whose features she was unable to distinguish. Half-fainting, LucÍa dropped on the sofa, clasping both hands over her breast that heaved with the wild throbbing of her heart, and said aloud:

“His room!”

She remained thus for a time, without a thought, without a wish, abandoning herself to the happiness of being here, in this spot, where Artegui had been. Night was rapidly approaching, and she would soon have found herself in utter darkness if some one had not just then lighted a lamp outside, whose light entered through the window. At sight of the light LucÍa started.

“It must be night,” she exclaimed, this time also aloud.

A thousand thoughts rushed through her mind. No doubt they were already inquiring about her in the hotel. Perhaps Father Arrigoitia had already returned, and they might even now be searching for her in the garden, in her room, everywhere. She herself did not know why it was that the thought of Father Arrigoitia came to her mind before that of Miranda—but certain it is that her chief fear was that she might suddenly come face to face with the amiable Jesuit who would say to her, “Where have you been, my child?” Troubled by these fancies, she rose tremblingly to her feet, saying in a low tone to herself:

“It is not right to leave the corpse alone—alone.”

And she tried to find the door, but suddenly she stood motionless, like an automaton whose works have run down. She heard steps in the corridor, approaching steps, firm and resolute; no, they were not those of Engracia. The door of the room opened, and a man entered. LucÍa was now in the little room, concealed behind the curtain. This was not completely, drawn, and through the opening she saw the man light a match and then light a candle in one of the candlesticks; but the light was unnecessary, she had already recognized Artegui.

Yes, it was he, but he looked even more dejected, and his face bore stronger traces of suffering than when she had last seen him. His countenance was almost livid, his black beard heightening its pallor, and his eyes shone feverishly. He sat down at the table and began to write some letters. He was seated directly opposite LucÍa, and she devoured him with her eyes. As he finished each letter she said to herself:

“I have seen him; I will go now.”

But she still remained. At last Artegui rose and did a curious thing; he went over to the portrait hanging above the divan and kissed it. LucÍa, who had followed his every movement with intense interest, saw that the likeness was that of a woman who closely resembled Artegui, and softly murmured:

“His mother!”

The skeptic then opened a drawer in his writing-table, and drew from it an oblong shining object, which he examined with minute care. He was absorbed in his occupation, when suddenly he felt his arm grasped convulsively and saw beside him a woman with a countenance paler than his own, eyes fixed and burning like two coals of fire, lips parted to speak but mute, mute. He dropped the pistol on the floor and caught hold of her. Her form yielded to his touch like a flower broken on its stem, and he found himself with LucÍa lying insensible in his arms.

Alarmed, he laid her on the divan, and going to his dressing-room brought from it a bottle of lavender water, which he poured over her brow and temples, at the same time tearing open her gown to allow her to breathe more freely. Not for an instant did it occur to him to call Engracia; on the contrary, he murmured in low tones:

“LucÍa, do you hear me? LucÍa—LucÍa; it is I, only I—LucÍa!”

She opened her dazed eyes and answered in a voice low, also, but clear:

“I am here, Don Ignacio. Where are you?”

“Here, here—do you not see me?—here at your side.”

“Yes, yes; I see you now. Is it really you?”

“Tell me, I entreat you, LucÍa, what this—this miracle means. How did you come here?”

“Tell you—tell you—I cannot, Don Ignacio—my head feels confused. As you were here, I wished to see you and I said to myself, I must see him. No, it was not I that said so; it was a chorus of little birds that sang it within me, and so I came. That is all.”

“Rest,” said Artegui, in gentlest accents, as if he were speaking to a child. “Lean your head on the cushion. Would you like a cup of tea—or anything else? Do you feel better now?”

“No, let me rest, let me rest.” LucÍa closed her eyes, leaned back on the divan, and remained silent. Artegui gazed at her anxiously with dilated eyes, still trembling with excitement. He placed a footstool under her feet, over which he drew the folds of her gown. LucÍa remained passive, murmuring disconnected words in a low voice, still slightly wandering, but speaking now less incoherently and with clearer enunciation.

“I don’t know how I came here—I was afraid, so much afraid of meeting some one—of meeting—Engracia—but I said to myself, on, on! Sardiola says he is going away to-day, and if he goes away—you too are going to Leon—and then, for all time to come, LucÍa, unless it be in heaven, I don’t know where you will see him again! When thoughts like these come to one’s mind, one is afraid of nothing. I trembled, I trembled like a leaf—it may be that I broke something in the little room—I should be sorry for it if I did—and I should be sorry, too, if Father Urtazu and Father Arrigoitia should blame me, as they will, oh, indeed they will—I shall tell them I only wanted to see him for an instant—as the light fell upon his face I could see him clearly; he looks so pale, always so pale! Pilar too, is pale, and I—and everybody—and the world, yes, the world that was rose-colored and azure before—but now—— Well, as I wanted to see him, I entered. The dining-room is large. Engracia was washing the dishes. How I ran! It was a chance to have found his room. It is a pretty room. His mother’s likeness is there—poor lady! Duhamel is a great doctor, but there are diseases for which there is no cure, as I well know, but the grave. That is a cure for everything. How pleasant it must be there—and here too. It is pleasant; one feels like sleeping, because——”

“Sleep, LucÍa, my life, my soul,” murmured a passionate and vibrant voice. “Sleep, while I guard your slumbers, and fear nothing. Sleep; never in your cradle, watched over by your mother, did you sleep more secure. Let them come, let them come to seek you here!”

Like a hind wounded by an arrow from some unseen hand, LucÍa started at the sound of those words, and opening her eyes, and passing her hand over her forehead, she sprang to her feet and standing before Artegui looked around her, her cheeks flushed with sudden shame; her glance and her intelligence now clear.

“What is this?” she cried, in a changed voice—“I here—yes, I know now what brought me here, why I came and when—and I remember, too—ah! Don Ignacio, Don Ignacio! You must be surprised, and with good reason, to meet me again when you least expected. At what a moment did I come! Thanks, Holy Virgin; now I am in possession of all my senses and my reason, and I can throw myself at your feet, Don Ignacio, and say to you, ‘For God’s sake, by the memory of your mother who is in heaven,—by—by—all you hold sacred, never again, promise me, never again to think of taking the life you can employ so usefully!’ If I knew how to speak, if I were learned like Father Urtazu, I would put it in better words, but you know what I mean—is it not so?—promise me never again—never again——”

And LucÍa, with disheveled hair, pathetic, beautiful, threw herself at Artegui’s feet and embraced his knees. Artegui raised her with difficulty.

“You know,” he said, with confusion, “that I have attached little value to life; more, that I have hated it ever since I have realized its hollowness, and have known what a useless burden it is to man; and now that my mother is dead, and there is no one to feel my loss——”

A torrent of tears and sobs straight from the heart were LucÍa’s answer. Artegui lifted her in his arms, and, placing her on the sofa, seated himself beside her.

“Don’t cry,” he said, speaking more composedly; “don’t cry; rejoice rather, for you have conquered. And is this to be wondered at since you embody the illusion dearest to man, the one illusion that is worth a hundred realities, the illusion that vanishes only with life! The most persistent and invincible of all the illusions that nature has contrived to attach us to life and prevent the world going back to chaos! Listen to me! I will not tell you that you are for me happiness, for happiness does not exist, and I will not deceive you; but what I will say is this, that for your sake a noble spirit may worthily prefer life to death. Among the deceptions which attach us to life, there is one that cheats us more sweetly than all the others, with delights so blissful, so intoxicating, that a man may well give himself up to a joy that, though it be a fictitious one, can thus embellish and gild existence. Hear me, hear me. I have always shunned women, for knowing the mysterious doom of sorrow pronounced on man, the irremediable suffering of life, I did not wish to attach myself through them to this abode of misery, nor give life to beings who should inherit as their birthright suffering, the only inheritance which every human being has the certainty of transmitting to his children. Yes, I regard it as a matter of conscience to act thus and diminish by so much the sum of sorrows and evils; when I considered how overwhelming was this sum, I cursed the sun that engenders life and suffering on the earth; the stars that are the abodes of misery; the world that is the prison in which our doom is fulfilled, and finally love, love which sustains and preserves and perpetuates unhappiness, interrupting, in order to prolong it, the sacred repose of annihilation. Annihilation! Annihilation was the haven of repose which my weary spirit wished to reach. Annihilation, nothingness, absorption in the universe, dissolution for the body, peace and eternal silence for the spirit. If I had had faith, how beautiful and attractive and sweet would the cloister have seemed to me! Neither will, nor desire, nor feelings, nor passions—a robe of sackcloth, a walking corpse beneath. But——” Artegui bent toward LucÍa uneasily.

“Do you comprehend me?” he suddenly asked.

“Yes, yes,” she said, and a shiver ran through her frame.

“But I saw you,” continued Artegui. “I saw you by chance; by chance, too, and without any volition of my own, I remained for a time at your side, I breathed the same air, and against my will—against my will—I knew—I did not wish to acknowledge your victory to myself, nor did I know it until I left you to the embraces of another. Ah, how I have cursed my folly in not taking you with me then! When I received your letter of condolence, I was on the point of going to seek you——”

Artegui paused for a moment.

“You were the illusion. Yes, through you, nature, inexorable and persistent, once more entangled my soul in her snares. I was vanquished. It was not possible now to obtain the quietude of soul, the annihilation, the perfect and contemplative tranquillity to which I aspired; therefore I desired to end the life that each day grew more intolerable to me.”

He paused again, and, seeing that LucÍa continued silent, added:

“It may be that you do not fully comprehend me. There are things which, although true, are difficult of comprehension to those who hear them for the first time. But you will understand me if I tell you plainly that I will not die because I love you and you love me; and now, come what may, I will live.”

He pronounced these words with an energy that had more of violence than of love in it, and throwing his arms around LucÍa, he drew her to him with resistless force. She felt as if she were clasped in a fiery embrace, in which her strength was gradually melting away, and summoning all the power of her will, by a desperate effort she tore herself from Artegui’s arms and stood trembling, but erect, before him. Her tall form, her gesture of supreme indignation might have made her seem like a Greek statue, had it not been for the black merino gown, which served to destroy the illusion.

“Don Ignacio,” stammered the young Leonese, “you deceive yourself, you deceive yourself. I do not love you—that is to say, not in that way; no, never!”

“Swear it, if you dare!” he thundered.

“No, no; it is enough for me to say so,” replied LucÍa, with growing firmness. “Not that.” And she took two steps toward the door.

“Listen to me for an instant,” he said, detaining her; “only for an instant. I have wealth, more than I can make use of. I have made arrangements to leave this place to-night. We are in a free country; we will go to a country still more free. In the United States no one asks any one where he comes from, whither he is going, who he is, or what is his business. We will go away together. A life spent together, do you hear? See, I know you desire it. Your heart urges you to consent. I know with absolute certainty that you are neither happy, nor well married; that your health is failing; that you suffer. Do not imagine that I do not know this. No one loves you but me, and I offer you——”

LucÍa took two steps more, but this time toward Artegui, and with one of those rapid, childish, joyous gestures which women sometimes employ on the most solemn and serious occasions, she said to him:

“Do you believe that? Well then, Don Ignacio, God will send me by-and-by some one who will love me!”

Ignacio bent his head, vanquished by that cry of victorious nature. LucÍa seemed to him the personification of the great Mother he had calumniated and cursed, that, smiling, fecund, provident and indulgent, symbolized life, indestructible and inexhaustible, saying to him: “Foolish skeptic! see how unavailing are your efforts against me. I am eternal.”

“No matter,” he murmured, resigned and humble. “For that very reason I will respect your sacred rights.”

He caught her by the folds of her gown, and gently made her sit down again.

“Now let us talk together,” he said quietly. “Tell me why you refuse. I cannot understand you,” he added, with renewed vehemence. “Was it not love, was it not love you showed me on the journey and in Bayonne? Is it not love that makes you come here to-day—alone—to see me? Oh, you cannot deny it. You may invent a thousand sophisms, you may weave a thousand subtleties, but—it is plain to be seen! Do you know that if you deny it, you say what is not true? I did not know that in your innocent nature there was room for falsehood.”

LucÍa raised her head.

“No, Don Ignacio,” she said, “I will speak the truth—I think it is better that I should do so now, for you are right, I came here—yes, you must hear me. I have loved you madly ever since that day at Bayonne—no, ever since the moment I first saw you. Now you know it. I am not to blame; it was against my will, God knows. At first I thought it could not be possible, that all I felt for you was pity, and—well, gratitude, for all the services you had rendered me. I believed that a married woman could feel love for no one but her husband. If any one had told me it was that, I should certainly have denied it indignantly. But by dint of thinking—no, it was not I who made the discovery; I did not even suspect it. It was another person, one who knows more than I do about the mysteries of the heart. See, if I had known that you were happy, I should have been cured of my love—or if any one had shown me, in my turn, pity. Charity! Pity! I have it for every one and for me—no one, no one has it. So that—do you remember how light-hearted I was? You declared that my presence brought with it joy. Well—now I have fallen into the habit of indulging in thoughts as gloomy as your own—and of wishing for death. If it were not for the hope I have, nothing would make me happier than to lie down in Pilar’s place. I used to be strong and healthy—I never know now what it is to be well for a moment. This has come upon me like a thunderbolt. It is a punishment from God. The greatest bitterness of all is to think of you—that you must be unhappy in this world, lost in the next.”

Artegui listened with mingled joy and pity.

“So that, LucÍa——” he said meaningly.

“So that you who are so good, for if you were not good I should not have cared for you in this way, will let me go now. Or if you do not, I shall go without your leave, even if I should have to jump out of the window.”

“Unhappy woman!” he murmured gloomily, relapsing into his former state of dejection, “you have stumbled across happiness—that is to say, not happiness, but at least its shadow, but a shadow so beautiful——”

He rose to his feet suddenly, shaking himself and writhing like a lion in his death agony.

“Give me a reason!” he cried, “or I shall kill myself at your feet. Let me at least know why you refuse. Is it for your father’s sake? your husband’s? your child’s? the world’s? Is it——”

“It is,” she murmured, bending her head, and speaking with great sweetness, “it is for the sake of God.”

“God!” groaned the skeptic. “And if there be no——”

A hand was placed upon his mouth.

“Can you still doubt his existence when to-day, by a miracle—you yourself have said it—by a miracle—he preserved your life?”

“But your God is angry with you,” he objected. “You offended him by loving me; you offend him by continuing to love me; by coming here you have offended him still more deeply——”

“Though I stood on the brink of perdition, though I were sinking in the flames of hell—my God is ready to save and to pardon me if my will be turned to Him. Now, now I will ask Him to save me.”

“And He will not save you,” replied Artegui, taking both her hands in his; “He will not save you; for wherever you may go, though you should hide yourself from me in the very center of the earth, though you should take refuge in the cell of a convent, you will still adore me, you will offend Him by thinking of me. No, the sincerity of your nature will not permit you to deny it. Ah! if one could only love or not love at will! But your conscience tells you plainly that, do what you may, I shall always be in your thoughts—always. And for the very reason that it horrifies you that this should be so, so it will be. And more—the day will come when, like to-day, you will desire to see me, although it be but for a moment, and overcoming all the obstacles that lie in your way, and breaking down the barriers that oppose themselves to your will, you will come to me—to me.”

And he shook her violently by the wrists, as the hurricane shakes the tender sapling.

“God,” she murmured faintly, “God is more powerful than you or I or any one. I will ask Him to protect me and He will do it; He must do it; He will do it, He will do it.”

“No,” responded Artegui energetically. “I know that you will come, that you will fall, as the stone falls, drawn by its own weight, into this abyss or this heaven; you will come. See, I am so certain of this, that you need not fear now that I shall kill myself. I will not die because I know that one day you will inevitably come to me; and on that day—which will arrive—I wish to be still in the world that I may open my arms to you thus.”

Had not LucÍa’s back been turned to the light, Artegui must have perceived the joy that diffused itself over her countenance, and the swift glance of gratitude she raised to heaven. He waited with outstretched arms. LucÍa bowed her form, and, swift as the swallow that skims the crest of the waves in its flight across the seas, rushed toward him, and rested her head for an instant on his shoulder.

Then, and no less swiftly, she went toward the table, and taking from it the candlestick handed it to him and said in a firm and tranquil voice:

“Show me the way out.”

Artegui led the way without uttering a word. His blood had suddenly cooled, and after the terrible crisis his habitual weariness and melancholy were greater than before. They passed through his room and entered the corridor in silence. In the corridor LucÍa turned her head for an instant and fixed her eyes on Artegui’s countenance as if she wished to engrave his image in indelible characters on her memory. The light of the candle fell full upon it, bringing it out in strong relief against the dark background of the embossed leather that covered the walls. It was a handsome face; handsomer, even, from its expression and character than from the regularity of its features. The blackness of the beard contrasted with its interesting pallor, and its air of dejection made it resemble those dead faces of John the Baptist, so vigorous in chiaroscuro, produced by our national tragic school of painting. Artegui returned LucÍa’s gaze with one so full of pain and pity that she could bear her feelings no longer, and ran to the door. At the threshold Artegui looked down into the dark recesses of the garden.

“Shall I accompany you?” he said.

“Do not advance a step. Put out the light, and close the door.”

Artegui obeyed the first command; but, before executing the second, he murmured in LucÍa’s ear:

“In Bayonne you once said to me, ‘Are you going to leave me alone?’ It is my turn to ask you the same question now. Remain. There is still time. Have pity on me and on yourself.”

“Because I have pity” she replied, in a choking voice, “for that very reason—farewell, Don Ignacio.”

“Good-by,” he answered, almost inaudibly. The door closed.

LucÍa looked at the sky in which the stars were shining brightly, and shivered with cold. She knelt down in the vestibule and leaned her face against the door. At that moment she remembered a trivial circumstance—that the door was covered on the inner side with a brocade of a dark red color, harmonizing with the color of the leather on the walls. She did not know why she remembered this detail; but so it often happens in supreme moments like this, ideas come to the mind that possess no importance in themselves, and have no bearing on any of the momentous events which are taking place.

Miranda had gone out that afternoon,—to clear his brain, as he said. On his return to the hotel, he went up to the death-chamber and found Juanilla watching there by the dead girl, and worn out with fatigue and terror. She said complainingly that the SeÑorita LucÍa had asked her to watch for a little while in the room, but that she had now been a long, long time here, and that she could bear it no longer. Not the faintest misgiving entered the suspicious mind of Miranda, then, and he answered with naturalness:

“The SeÑorita has probably gone to lie down for a while, she must be very tired,—but you can go. I will send Sardiola to take your place.”

He did so; and the dinner-bell of the hotel sounding immediately afterward, he went down into the dining-room, having that day an excellent appetite, a thing by no means of daily occurrence in the present debilitated condition of his stomach. The bell was yet to ring twice before the soup should be served, and knots of the guests were standing about the room, conversing while they waited; the greater number of them were talking about Pilar’s death, in low tones, through consideration for Miranda, whom they knew to be her friend. But one group, composed of Navarrese and Biscayans, were talking aloud, the subject of their conversation being of a nature that called for no such precaution. Nevertheless, so strongly was Miranda’s attention attracted by their words that he stood motionless, all his faculties concentrated in the one faculty of hearing, and scarcely daring to breathe. After listening for ten minutes he knew more than he desired to know: that Artegui was in Paris, that he lived in the neighboring house, and that his dwelling could be reached by crossing the garden, since one of the Biscayans mentioned that he had gone that way to visit him in the morning. The waiter, who was passing at the moment with a tray full of plates of steaming soup, signified to Miranda that he might now take his place at the table; but the latter, without heeding him, ran up-stairs like a madman and rushed into the chamber of death.

“Where is the SeÑorita LucÍa?” he abruptly asked Sardiola, who was watching by the body.

“I do not know.” The Biscayan looked up and by a swift intuition he read in the distorted features of the husband a hundred things at once. Miranda rushed out like a rocket, and went through the rooms calling LucÍa’s name. There was no answer. Then he went quickly out on the balcony and ran down into the garden.

A dark form at the same moment descended the stairs leading from the vestibule of Artegui’s home. By the light of the stars and of the distant street lamps could be perceived the unsteadiness of the gait, the frequent pressing of the hands over the face. Miranda waited, like the hunter lying in wait for his prey. The figure drew nearer. Suddenly from a clump of bushes emerged the form of a man, and the silence was broken by a vulgar exclamation, which in polite language might be rendered:

“Shameless woman!”

Sounds of violence followed, and a body fell to the ground. At this moment another figure came running down the staircase of the hotel, and rushing between the two, bent down to raise LucÍa from the ground. Miranda gesticulated wildly, and in a hoarse, choking voice, stuttering with rage, and throwing every vestige of good-breeding to the winds, cried:

“Out of this, boor, intermeddler! What business is this—is this of yours? I struck—struck her, because I had—had—had the right to do so, and because I wished to do it. I am her husband. If you don’t take yourself off without delay I will cut—cut you in two. I will let daylight through you.”

If Sardiola had been a stone wall he could not have paid less heed to the words of Miranda than he did. With supreme indifference to his threats, and with Herculean force, he took the unconscious form in his arms, and thrusting the husband aside with a vigorous movement, carried his lovely burden up the stairs, not stopping till he had placed it on a sofa in the chamber of death. The madman followed close behind, but he controlled himself somewhat, seeing the warlike attitude and the flashing eyes of the Carlist ex-volunteer, who formed a rampart with his body for the defense of the insensible woman.

“If you do not take yourself off——” yelled Miranda, shaking his clenched fists.

“Take myself off!” repeated Sardiola quietly. “In order that you may strangle her at your ease. You ought to be ashamed of yourself to touch even so much as a thread of the SeÑorita’s garments.”

“But you—by what authority do you come here? Who has sent for you?” and Miranda’s countenance was convulsed with senile rage. “Begone!” he cried, with renewed anger, “or I shall find a weapon.” The bloodshot eyes of the husband glanced around the room until they fell upon the corpse, which preserved in the midst of all this violence its vague funereal smile. Sardiola, meantime, putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket, drew from it a medium-sized knife, probably used for cutting tobacco, and threw it at his adversary’s feet.

“There is one!” he cried, with the proud and chivalric air so frequently seen among the Spanish populace. “God has given me good hands with which to defend myself.”

Miranda stood for a moment, hesitating, then his rage boiled over again and he yelled out:

“I warn you that I will use it! I will use it! Go away, then, before I lose my patience.”

“Use it,” replied Sardiola, smiling disdainfully, “let us see how much courage there is behind those bold words—for, as for my leaving the room—unless the SeÑorita herself commands me to do so——”

“Go, Sardiola,” said a faint voice from the sofa, and LucÍa, opening her eyes, fixed them with a look of mingled gratitude and authority on the waiter.

“But SeÑorita, to go away and——”

“Go, I say.” And LucÍa sat erect, apparently quite calm. Miranda held the knife in his right hand. Sardiola, throwing himself upon him, snatched the weapon from his grasp, and taking a sudden resolution ran out into the corridor shouting, “Help! help! the SeÑorita has been taken ill.” At his cries, two persons who had just come up the stairs hurried forward into the chamber of death. They were Father Arrigoitia and Duhamel, the physician. A strange scene met their view; at the foot of the bed, on which lay the dead girl, a woman stood with outstretched hands trying to protect her sides and her bosom from the blows which a man was showering down upon her with his clenched fists. With a vigor not to be looked for in one of his frail physique, Father Arrigoitia rushed between the pair, receiving as he did so, if report speak truly, a blow or two on his venerable tonsured crown, and Duhamel, emulating, in the honor of science, the courage of the Jesuit, seized the furious man by the arm, and succeeded in preventing further violence. Pity it is that no stenographer could have been present at the time to take down the eloquent discourse, in broken French-Lusitanian-Brazilian, addressed by the doctor to Miranda for the purpose of demonstrating to him the cruelty and barbarity of striking in this way a menina, in LucÍa’s condition. Miranda listened with a countenance that grew darker and darker every moment, while Father Arrigoitia lavished cares and affectionate attentions on the maltreated woman. Suddenly the husband confronted the doctor and asked something in a hoarse voice.

“Yes,” answered Duhamel, nodding his head affirmatively, with the quick and energetic movement of a pasteboard doll moved by a string.

Miranda looked around the room, he fixed his eyes in turn on his wife, on the Jesuit, on the doctor. Then he took a hand of each of the two latter, and begged them, with much stuttering, to grant him an interview of a few minutes. They went into the adjoining room and LucÍa remained alone with the corpse. She might almost have fancied all that had passed a terrible nightmare. Through the open window could be seen the dark masses of the trees of the garden; the stars shone brightly, inviting to sweet meditation; the tapers burned beside Pilar, and in Artegui’s dwelling the light could be seen shining behind the curtains. To descend ten steps and find herself in the garden, to cross the garden and find herself clasped to a loving heart, for her soft as wax, but hard as steel for her enemies—horrible temptation! LucÍa pressed her hands with all her force to her heart, she dug her nails into her breast. One of the blows which she had received caused her intense pain; it was on the shoulder blade, and it seemed as if a screw were twisting the muscles until they must snap asunder. If Artegui were to present himself now! To weep, to weep, with her head resting on his shoulder! At last she remembered a prayer which Father Urtazu had taught her, and said: “My God, by your cross grant me patience, patience.” She remained for a long time repeating between her moans—“patience.”

Father Arrigoitia at last made his appearance. His sallow forehead was contracted in a frown, and clouded with gloom. He and LucÍa stood for a long time conversing together on the balcony without either of them feeling the cold, which was sharp. LucÍa at last gave free rein to her grief.

“You may judge if I would speak falsely—with that corpse lying there before me. This very moment I might go away with him, father—and if God were not above in the heavens——”

“But he is, he is, and he is looking at us now,” said the Jesuit, gently stroking her cold hands. “Enough of madness. Do you not see how your punishment has already begun? You are innocent of what Don Aurelio charges you with and yet his atrocious suspicion is not without some appearance of foundation—you yourself have given it by going to that man’s house to-day. God has punished you in that which is dearest to you—in the little angel that has not yet come into the world.”

LucÍa sobbed bitterly.

“Come, courage daughter; courage, my poor child,” continued the spiritual father, in accents that every moment grew more tender and consoling. “And in the name of God and of His Holy Mother, to Spain! To Spain, to-morrow!”

“With him?” asked LucÍa, terrified.

“He is packing his trunks to leave Paris to-night. He is going to Madrid. He is leaving you. If you would throw yourself at his feet and humbly and repentantly——”

“Not that, Father,” cried the proud Castilian. “He would think I was what he has called me; no, no.” And more gently she added: “Father, I have done what is right to-day, but I am exhausted. Ask nothing more from me to-day. I have no strength left. Pity, SeÑor; pity!”

“Yes, I will ask you for the love of Jesus Christ to set out to-morrow for Spain. I shall not leave you until I put you on board the train. Go, my dear daughter, to your father. Can you not see that I am right in advising you as I do? What would your husband think of you if you were to remain here?—with only a wall between you. You are too good and prudent even to think of such a thing. In the name of your child! That its father may be convinced—for in time, witnessing your conduct, he will be convinced. Ah, let man not divide those whom God has joined together. He will return, he will return to his wife. Do not doubt it. To-day he has allowed himself to be carried away by his anger—but later——”

Sobs deeper and more piteous than before were LucÍa’s only answer.

Father Arrigoitia pressed the hands of the weeping woman tenderly in his.

“Will you give me your promise?” he murmured, with earnest entreaty, but also with the authority of one accustomed to exact spiritual obedience.

“Yes,” answered LucÍa, “I will go to-morrow; but let me give way to my misery now—I can bear it no longer.”

“Yes, weep,” answered the Jesuit. “Relieve your sorrow-laden heart. Meanwhile, I will pray.”

And returning to the bedroom he knelt down beside the bed of death, and taking out his breviary began in grave and composed accents to read by the flickering light of the tapers the solemn service for the dead.

For more than a fortnight the idle tongues of Leon found food for gossip in the strange circumstance of LucÍa Gonzalez’s arrival alone, sad and deteriorated in looks, at her father’s home. The wildest stories were invented to explain the mystery of her return, the seclusion in which she chose to live, the heavy cloud of gloom that rested constantly on the countenance of Uncle Joaquin Gonzalez, the disappearance of the husband, and the innumerable other things which hinted at scandal or domestic infelicity. As usually happens in similar cases, a few grains of truth were mixed up with a great deal of fiction, and some of what was said was not without a semblance of reason; but for want of the necessary data wherewith to complete and elucidate the known facts of the story, public opinion groped about blindly for a time and at last went altogether astray. As may be inferred, however, the scandalmongers performed their part with diligence and zeal, some criticising the mature dandy who had wanted to marry a young wife; some the vain and foolish father who had sacrificed his daughter’s happiness to his wish to make her a lady; some the crazy girl who—— In short, they tacked on so many morals to LucÍa’s story, that I may well be excused from adding another. What was most severely criticized, however, was the modern fashion of the wedding trip, a foreign and reprehensible innovation, calculated only to give rise to disgusts and annoyances of all kinds. I suspect that, warned by LucÍa’s sad example, handed down by tradition, and repeated in turn to all the marriageable girls of the place, that for a century to come not a Leonese bride will be found willing to stir an inch from the domestic hearth, at least during the first ten years of her married life.

THE END.