THE day following these events, the duke was seated in his library, absorbed by his thoughts.

The door slowly opened, and near the window appeared the pretty ringleted head of a lovely child.

“Papa Carlos,” he said, “are you alone? may I enter?”

“Since when, my angel, have you had need of permission to enter here?”

“Since you have ceased to love me so much,” replied the lovely creature, seating himself on his father’s knees. “Do you know, papa, I am very wise. I study well with Don Frederico, and I already speak German.”

“Really!”

“I know already how to say, ‘God bless my good father and my good mother:’ I say, ‘Gott segne meinen guten Vater und meine liebe Mutter!’ Now kiss me. But,” said he suddenly, “I forgot to tell you that Don Frederico wishes to speak to you.”

“Don Frederico?” asked the duke in surprise.

“Yes, papa.”

“Go, and ask him to come in, my son; his time is precious, and he must not lose it.”

The duke folded the paper on which he had traced some lines, and Stein entered.

“My lord duke,” he said, “I will no doubt astonish you: I come to take your orders, to thank you for all your goodness, and to announce to you my immediate departure.”

“Your departure?” said the duke, overcome with astonishment.

“Yes, seÑor, to-day.”

“And Maria?”

“She does not go with me.”

“Come, Don Frederico, this must be a piece of fun; this cannot be.”

“That which cannot be, duke, is that I remain an instant longer in Madrid.”

“What motive?”

“Do not ask me, I cannot tell you.”

“I cannot imagine even the motive of such folly.”

“The motive must be very powerful to oblige me to adopt so extreme a course.”

“But, Stein, my friend, once more, what is the motive?”

“It cannot be spoken. And the silence which I impose on myself is very painful to me, for I deprive myself of the only consolation that remains: to open my heart to a noble and generous man, who has held out to me his powerful hand, and has deigned to call me his friend.”

“And where do you go?”

“To America.”

“It is impossible, Stein; I tell you again, it is impossible.” The duke rose in an agitated state. “There is nothing in the world,” he continued, “that can oblige you to abandon your wife, to separate yourself from your friends, and to quit your patients, of whom I am one. You have then ambition? Are you then promised great advantages in America?”

Stein smiled bitterly.

“Advantages, my lord duke! Has not fortune disappointed all these hopes of your poor fellow-traveller?”

“You confound me, Stein. Is it a caprice—a sudden thought—an act of folly?”

Stein was silent.

“In any case, Don Frederico, it is ungrateful.”

These bitter, and at the same time affectionate words, caused Stein the utmost emotion. He covered his face with both hands, and his long-repressed grief burst forth in sobs.

The duke approached him.

“Don Frederico,” said he to him, “there is no indiscretion in confiding one’s griefs to a friend. In the grave circumstances of life, every thing obliges those who suffer to receive the good counsel of those who are interested in their happiness. Speak to me, my friend, open your heart to me. You are too much agitated at this moment to act with coolness. Your reason is too much troubled to allow you to be directed wisely. Let us sit down. Listen to me: let me guide you in circumstances which appear to me grave, imperious, and receive my advice as I would receive yours under like circumstances.”

Stein was vanquished. He took a seat near to the duke, and both remained for a long time silent. Stein broke through it at last.

“My lord duke,” said he, “what would you do if the duchess preferred another man?—if she practised infidelity towards you?”

“Doctor! this question—”

“Answer me!” supplicated Stein, a prey to the most intense anxiety.

“By heaven! both should die by my hand.”

Stein bowed his head.

“I,” said he, “I will not kill them. I will die.”

The duke began to suspect the truth, and an involuntary trembling shook his limbs.

“Maria?” cried he.

“Maria,” said Stein, without raising his head, as if the infamy of his wife pressed on him with all its weight.

“You surprised them?” asked the duke, scarcely able to articulate these words, his voice was so stifled with indignation.

“In a veritable orgie, as gross as licentious: in an atmosphere of wine and tobacco, and where Pepe Vera, the matador, boasted of being her lover. O Maria! Maria!” he continued, letting his head fall on his hands.

The duke, like all energetic men, had great command over himself; he was immediately calm, and replied with but one word to Stein—

“Go!”

Stein rose, pressed in his hands those of the duke. He desired to speak, but his sobs prevented.

The duke opened his arms.

“Courage, Stein,” he said to him, “and to a happier meeting.”

“Good-by, and—forever,” murmured Stein.

And he departed.

The duke, now quite alone, walked about for a long time. As he calmed down from the agitation which Stein’s revelation had caused him, a smile of contempt played on his lips, for he was not one of those men who, possessed of those gross desires for which the misconduct of women, far from being a motive of repulsion, serve on the contrary to stimulate their brutal appetites. His character, full of elevation and nobleness, could not admit of love joined to contempt. The woman, whom he had sang in verse, who had fascinated him in his dreams, had become completely indifferent to him.

“And I,” he said to himself, “I who adored her as one adores an ideal being which he has created; I who honored her as virtue is honored, and who respected her as one respects the wife of a friend! I, who blindly absorbed by her, estranged myself from the noble woman who was my first and my only love, the pure and chaste mother of my children—my Leonore, who has so much suffered, without ever a complaint escaping from her lips!—”

By a sudden movement, yielding to the powerful influence of these last reflections, the duke left his library, and went to the apartment of his wife. On arriving near the saloon where the duchess was accustomed to remain during the day, he heard his name pronounced; he stopped.

“Then the duke has become invisible?” said a voice. “It is now fifteen days since I arrived in Madrid, and my dear nephew has not deigned to come and see me yet, and I have seen him nowhere.”

“My aunt,” replied the duchess, “he is no doubt ignorant of your arrival.”

“Ignorant of the arrival in Madrid of the Marchioness Gutibamba! It is impossible! He would be the only person of the court who knew not of it. I will tell you, besides, you have had time to inform him of it.”

“That is true, my aunt, I am culpable for having forgotten it.”

“But that is not astonishing,” said the voice. “What pleasure can he find in our society, and that of persons of his rank, he who only frequents actresses?”

“It is false!” replied the duchess.

“Are you blind, or consenting?” said the marchioness exasperated.

“What I would never consent to is this calumny, which is at once an insult to my husband, here, in his house, and to his wife.”

“It would be wiser,” continued the voice, angrily, “to prevent the duke, your husband, from giving credit by his conduct to the thousand scandals he has given birth to in Madrid, than to defend him, and driving away from your house your best friends with your ungracious answers—dictated, without doubt, by your confessor.”

“My aunt, it will be also wiser to consult your own as to the language you ought to hold to a married woman, who is your niece.”

“’Tis well,” said the Gutibamba; “your reserved character, austere and gloomy, has already lost you the love and the heart of your husband: it will finish by your losing the affection of your friends.”

And the Marchioness de Gutibamba departed, enchanted with her peroration.

Leonore remained seated on the sofa, her head bowed, and her face bathed in tears long suppressed.

Suddenly she uttered a cry—she was in the arms of her husband. She still wept, but these tears were sweet; she comprehended that this man, always frank and loyal, returned her love, a love which no one could henceforth dispute.

“My Leonore, can you, will you pardon me?” asked the duke on his knees before his wife, who put both her hands on the duke’s mouth, and said to him—

“Would you disturb the happiness of the present in calling back the memories of the past?”

“I wish that you know my faults, which the world has judged too severely; I wish to justify myself and repent.”

“And I, I wish to make a compact with you,” interrupted the duchess; “never speak to me of your faults, and I will never speak to you of my sufferings.”

Angel entered at that moment.

“Mamma weeps! mamma weeps!” he cried, sobbing.

“No, my child,” replied the duchess; “I weep for joy.”

“And why?” asked the child, whose smile had already succeeded to his tears.

“Because that, to-morrow, certainly,” said the duke, taking him in his arms, “we depart for our country-seat in Andalusia, which your mother desires to visit.”

Angel gave vent to a cry of pleasure, and, casting his arms around the necks of the duke and the duchess, he drew their heads together, and covered them with kisses.

The Marquis of Elda entered, and became a witness of this charming family tableau.

“Papa Marquis,” said the child, “to-morrow we all depart.”

“Truly?” asked the marquis of his daughter.

“Yes, my father, and our happiness will be complete if you come with us.”

“My father,” said the duke, “can you refuse any thing to your daughter, who would be a saint, if she were not an angel?”

The marquis looked at his daughter, whose face was radiant with happiness; then at the duke’s, whose ecstasy was visible. A sweet smile illuminated his countenance, naturally austere, and, taking the hand of the duke, he said to him—

“Since I am necessary to complete your happiness, count on me.”