"If such reflections did anything to bring you nearer G.o.d, and make you labour in His service, I should be glad indeed."

"Do you think I do nothing in His service, when I spend above five thousand dollars in ma.s.ses every year?"

"Come, Antonio, do not talk like that."

"My dear child, it is a very good thing to think of the next world, but it is prudent, to say the least, to think of this world to. I have just lately been considering that if you or I were to die, there would be no end of complications for the survivor."

"Why?"

"Because husband and wife are not by law nearest of kin to each other, and if by chance either of us died intestate, our relations would be a perfect torment to the survivor."

"For that there is an easy remedy. We make our wills and it is settled."

"That is just what I have been thinking," said Salabert, endeavouring to make a show of calm indifference, which he was far from feeling. "It struck me that instead of our each making an independent will, we might come to a mutual arrangement."

"What is that?"

"A will by which each is the heir to the other."

Dona Carmen looked down at the book she still held, and did not immediately answer. The Duke, somewhat uneasy, watched her narrowly from under his eyelids, gnawing his cigar with impatience.

"That is impossible," said she at last, very gravely.

"What is impossible? And why?" he hastily asked, sitting upright in his chair.

"Because I intend to leave all I have, whether much or little, to your daughter. I have promised her that I will."

Salabert had never dreamed of stumbling on such an obstacle, he had thought of the mutual bequest as a settled thing. He was equally startled and vexed, but he immediately recovered himself, and a.s.suming a serious and dignified manner, he spoke:

"Very good, Carmen. I have no wish to coerce you in the matter. You are mistress of your possessions, and can leave them to whom you choose, though you must remember that that fortune has been earned by me at the cost of much toil. During the years of our married life, pecuniary questions have never given rise to any differences between us, and I sincerely wish that they never may. Money, as compared with the feelings of the heart, is of no importance whatever. The thing that pains me is the thought that any other person, even though it be my own daughter, should have usurped my place in your affections."

At these words his voice broke a little.

"No, Antonio, no," Dona Carmen hastened to put in. "Neither your daughter nor any one else can rob you of the affection due to you. But you are rich enough without needing my fortune, and she wants it."

"No. It is vain to try to soften the blow, I feel it in the depths of my heart," replied Salabert in pathetic accents, and pressing one hand to his left side. "Five-and-thirty years of married life, five-and-thirty years of joys and griefs, of fears and hopes in common, have not availed to secure me the foremost place in your affections. Nothing that can be said will remedy that. I fancied that our union, the years of love and happiness that we have spent together, might be closed by an act which would crown our lives by making one of us inherit the whole of what we have gained. The devotion of a husband and wife is never better displayed than in a last will and testament."

Requena's oratory had risen to a tone of moral dignity which, for a moment, seemed to impress his wife. However, she replied with perfect sweetness but unshaken firmness:

"Though Clementina is not my own flesh and blood, I love her as if she were. I have always regarded her as my own child, and it seems to me an act of injustice to deprive a child of its share of an inheritance."

"But, my dear," exclaimed the Duke vehemently, "for whom do you suppose I want it but for my daughter? Make me your heir, and I pledge myself to transmit it to her, not only undiminished but greatly augmented."

Dona Carmen kept silence, but shook her head in negation. Her husband rose as though emotion were quite too much for him.

"Oh, yes! I understand! You cannot forgive me some little errors of caprice and folly. You are taking advantage of this opportunity of revenge. Very well, very well. Indulge your vengeance; but believe me when I say that I have never loved any woman better than you. The heart cannot be made to obey orders, Carmen; if I desired to tear your image out of mine, my heart would answer: 'No, I cannot give it up without breaking.' It is sad, very sad, to meet with so cruel a disenchantment at the end of our lives. If you were to die to-morrow, which G.o.d forbid!

what worries and troubles must await me, besides the grief of losing the wife I adore. Why I, a poor old man, might be compelled to quit the house where I have lived so many years, which I built and beautified in the hope of dying under its roof in your arms!"

Requena's voice broke at judicious intervals, and his eyes filled with tears. When he ceased speaking he sank into his armchair as though quite crushed, pressing his handkerchief to his eyes.

But Dona Carmen, though tender-hearted and sensitive, showed no signs of emotion. On the contrary, she replied in a steady voice:

"You know perfectly well that there is no truth in all that. I am not capable of taking any revenge, nor, if I were, could there be any such vengeance in leaving all I can to your daughter, who is mine solely by the affection I bear to her."

The Duke changed his tactics. He looked at his wife compa.s.sionately for a few minutes, and then he said:

"The greatest happiness you could confer on Clementina to show your affection would be to get out of her way as soon as you can. Poor Osorio is up to the ears in hot water. Now I understand why his creditors have been so long-suffering. You no doubt have said something to his wife of this will of yours, and as you are somewhat ailing they are looking for your death like showers in May. Make no mistake about that."

Dona Carmen at these cruel words turned even paler than she always was.

She clutched the arms of her chair with an effort to keep herself from fainting. This that her husband had said was horrible, but only too probable. He saw her agitation, and at once brought forward facts to confirm his hypothesis. He drew a complete picture of Osorio's position, pointing out how unlikely it was that his creditors should still give him time if they had not some definite hope to count on; and this could only be her own death.

The unhappy woman at last spoke. Her words were almost sublime:

"If, indeed, Clementina desires my death," she said, "then so do I, with all my heart. Everything I can leave is for her."

Salabert left the room in a towering rage, fighting like a bull a.s.sailed by crackers, or an actor who has been hissed off the stage.

Dona Carmen lay for some time motionless in the att.i.tude in which he had left her, her eyes fixed on vacancy. At last two tears dropped from her eyes and slowly trickled down her cheeks.

CHAPTER XI.

THE DUKE'S BALL.

Weeks and months went by. Clementina spent the summer at Biarritz as usual. Raimundo followed her, leaving his sister in charge of some relations, and only returned at the end of September. A storm had swept over the orphan's dwelling which had completely wrecked its happiness.

Raimundo, entirely neglecting his methodical habits of study, had rushed into the world of pleasure with the ardour of a novice. His sister, amazed at such a change, remonstrated mildly but without effect. The young man behaved with the petulance of a spoilt child, answering her sharply, or if she spoke with sterner decision, melting into tears, declaring that he was miserable, that she did not love him, that it would have been better if he had died when his mother died, and so forth. Aurelia saw that there was nothing for it but to suffer in silence, and kept her fears and gloomy antic.i.p.ations to herself. She could too easily guess the cause of this change, but neither of them ever made any allusion to it; Raimundo because he could not speak to his sister of his connection with Clementina, and she because she could not bear that he should suppose she even understood it.

Meanwhile it led our young friend to great extravagance, far beyond what his income allowed. To enable him to keep up with the lady's carriage as she drove in the fashionable avenues, he bought a fine horse, after taking some riding lessons. Theatres, flowers and gifts for his mistress, amus.e.m.e.nts shared with his new friends of the Savage Club, dress, trinkets, everything, in short, which a youth "about town"

thinks indispensable, cost him enormous sums in proportion to his income. He was forced to touch his capital. This, as we know, was in the form of shares in a powder manufactory, and in the funds. His mother had kept her securities in an iron box inside her wardrobe. When she died, the guardian she had appointed to her two children, examined the doc.u.ments and made due note of them, but as Raimundo was esteemed a very steady young fellow of impeccable conduct, and as he had for some time past presented and cashed the coupons, his uncle did not take the securities out of his keeping, but left them in the box where he had found them. And now Raimundo, needing money at any cost, and not daring to borrow it of any one, broke his trust, for he was not yet of legal age, and sold some of the securities. And the strange thing is, that although he had hitherto lived so blamelessly, upright in thought and honest in purpose, he did it without feeling any very deep remorse. His pa.s.sion had so completely stultified and altered him.

Of course he did not do this without its leading to worse consequences.

His uncle, hearing of his extravagant expenditure, came to the house one day, shut himself up with him in his study and attacked him point-blank:

"We must settle accounts together, Raimundo. From what I am told, and from what I can see, you are living at a rate which you cannot possibly afford. This is a serious matter, and, as your trustee, I must know where the money comes from, if not for your own sake, at any rate for your sister's."

Raimundo was greatly startled. He turned pale and muttered some unintelligible words. Then finding himself at bay, at once perceiving that his safety depended on this interview--that is to say, the safety of his love affair--he did not hesitate to lie boldly.

"Yes, uncle, it is true that I am spending a good deal, more than my income would permit, no doubt. But you need not therefore conclude that it is the capital I inherited from my parents."

"Well, then?"

"Well, then," said the young man, and his voice dropped as if he had some difficulty in speaking, "I cannot tell you whence I get the money, uncle, it is a matter of honour."

His guardian was mystified.

"Of honour! I do not know what that may mean. But listen to me, boy; I cannot let the matter drop. My position is critical. If I do not take proper care of your interests I may find myself called upon to pay up, and there is no mercy for trustees."