The room remained in darkness. The noises outside slowly died away. An immense, keen, cruel grief palpitated in that lonely room, and a pair of fixed, stupefied, tearless eyes reflected the few rays of light that still wandered lost in the atmosphere.

How long did he remain so?

Perhaps the little birds that came at dawn to perch on the bars of the balconies might reply. But the pallor of his cheeks, the livid circles around his eyes, and the deep wrinkles in his brow, doubtless more exactly told.

CHAPTER XV.

LET US REJOICE, BELOVED.

In the small but pretty church of the nuns of San Bernardo, in Nieva, there was great bustling. The sacristan, aided by three acolytes, the two serving women of the convent, and a female from the city, celebrated for her skill in dressing the saints, were stirring up a more than ordinary noise in brushing the ornaments of the altars with fox tails and feather dusters. They had no hesitation in standing upon them, and even climbing upon the saints themselves, whenever it was required by the need of dusting some carved work or placing a taper in the proper place. The Mother Abbess from the choir, with her forehead pressed against the grating, shouted her orders like a general-in-chief, in a sharp, piping voice.

"A candlestick there! Yonder a wreath of flowers! Lift up that lamp a little more! Place the crown on that Virgin straight...."

In the interior of the convent likewise reigned considerable excitement.

A group of nuns was watching at the door of a cell, as one of their companions was giving the last touches to the poor bed which she was making. She had just put up above the pillow the crucifix demanded by the rules. A great silver waiter stood on the table, which was pine, likewise according to the rules. When the nun had made the bed ready, she came out of the cell, addressing a word or two to the others as she pa.s.sed. Then she returned with a bundle of clothes in her hand, and all hastened to relieve her of them, unfolding them, pulling them, and giving them a hundred turns. It was the complete dress of a novice,--the white flannel tunic, the linen hood, the shoes, the rosary, the bronze crucifix, and other things. The nuns looked eagerly at each one of the articles, as though it were something that they had never seen before, uttering in low voices many different opinions.

"Ay! it seems to me that this rosary has very coa.r.s.e beads."--"No, sister, take yours and you will see that they are alike."--"I am going to see, just for my own satisfaction.... It's true; they are alike....

What a goose!"--"The flannel is too harsh."--"It is because it wasn't well washed."--"This hood is beautifully ironed!"--"Hesus mio! what st.i.tches!... that is not sewing, it is basting!... Who made this tunic?"--"The Sister Isabel."--"Then it's splendid!"--"Don't say so, sister, perhaps you wouldn't have done it so well!"--"I? do it worse ...

Come ... come ... never in my life did I make such a botch!"--"How many have you ever done, sister?"--"Never did I, never!" repeated the nun, in angry voice. "I could sew better when I was seven years old."

At this moment the Mother Superior appeared in the pa.s.sage-way; the nun who had chided her companion stepped aside from the group, and said to her,--

"Mother, Sister Luisa has just boasted that she sews better than Sister Isabel, and she lost her temper because I told her that she ought not to do it."

"Is it true, daughter?" demanded the Mother Superior, in a severe tone.

Sister Luisa hung her head.

The Mother Superior meditated a moment or two; then she said:--

"Daughter, you know well that here no one ought to boast of doing anything better than any one else.... You ought to believe yourself the least of all, for perhaps you are.... For some time you have been very far from humble, and it is necessary for us to begin to correct this fault.... First thing, go and ask pardon of Sister Isabel for your fault, and then shut yourself in your cell and pray a rosary to the Virgin.... Afterwards when I am in the reception-room with the novice, you must present yourself there and kneel, so that the people may see that you are in disgrace."

Sister Luisa bent her head still lower and hurried away. A smile of triumph hovered over the lips of the nun.

At the same time, the servants of the Elorza mansion were coming and going, hither and thither, with various objects in their hands. Pedro, the old coachman, was polishing the state carriage, while two stable-boys were grooming the horses. Martin, the cook, was preparing a splendid collation. The maid-servants were running up and down stairs, from the princ.i.p.al floor to Maria's apartments, which were full of people, though it was not yet ten o'clock in the morning. The fifteen or twenty ladies who could scarcely find room to turn around, were all talking at once, as is natural, turning that silent elegant retreat into an insufferable hen-roost. Standing in the middle of it was Senor de Elorza's eldest daughter, half-dressed, and around her were several ladies, some of them on their knees, adorning her and adjusting her as though she were a wooden virgin. Great emotion reigned everywhere. They had already put on her a costly garment of white satin, decorated in front, from the neck to the bottom of the skirt, with a fringe of orange flowers. One lady was just putting on her feet a pair of diminutive and most elegant boots of the same cloth, while another was hurriedly sewing on a number of flowers, which had fallen off. Others were arranging a garland of orange blossoms upon the top of her head; this proceeding caused a great commotion. Amparito Ciudad claimed that the garland was too large, and did not show enough of her friend's beautiful hair; the rest believed that there was no need of making it smaller. After a lively discussion, it was decided to adopt a middle course by taking a number of flowers, though very few, from the wreath. Frequent exclamations were heard from those who took no share in the preparations.

"Ay! what an expense it takes, Dios mio!"

"Can it be her true vocation!... A girl so young and so lively!"

"There is nothing else talked about in town.... Everybody is excited over this fortunate event!"

"Fortunate for her, my dear! I don't know as I shall have strength enough to see the ceremony."

"But I am going to see it, though it should cost me a fit of sickness."

Some were already beginning to shed tears, putting their handkerchiefs to their eyes; others were whispering about the preparations for the festival, and the circ.u.mstances which had led the young woman to take the veil. Much was said about a letter which she had written to the Marques de Penalta, bidding him farewell, and exculpating herself. Some pitied Ricardo, while others said in an undertone, that he would have no trouble in finding somebody to marry him. "After all, if G.o.d called her to Him by this path, had she any reason to turn from Him, because a young lad was in love with her? If she had left him for another, that would be different! but as it was for G.o.d, he had no right to complain."

This was the same argument that shone in the Senorita de Elorza'a letter, written and sent to Ricardo a fortnight before the day of which we are speaking. Thus it ran:--

"MY DEAR RICARDO,--

"Though it is now some time since the course of our love was interrupted, tacitly, and by virtue of providential circ.u.mstances, rather than by my desire, I feel it my duty to explain to thee something about the resolution which I have made, and which, of course, is known to thee, I cannot forget, and indeed I ought not to forget, that thou hast been my betrothed, with the approbation of my parents, and the sincere affection of my heart.

"Before renouncing the world forever, I must tell thee that I have absolutely no reason to complain of thy behavior to me. Thou hast ever been good, true, and affectionate, and hast estimated me higher than I deserve. It is indeed true, that if I were to remain in the world I would not give thee in exchange for any other man, and I should count myself very happy in calling thee my husband, if I did not count myself much more so in being the bride of Jesus Christ. The preference which I make cannot offend or trouble a man who is as good and pious as thou art. Henceforth no earthly love exists between us; there remains only a pure and most sweet friendship, uniting us in the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

I shall not forget thee in my poor prayers. Forget me as far as possible. Thou art good, thou art n.o.ble, handsome, and rich. Seek for a woman who will deserve thee more than I deserve thee, and marry, and be happy. I shall pray without ceasing for you.

"Adios,

"MARIA."

Could he have had a better gilded pill? No; no; Ricardo had no right to complain.

While the most of the ladies added innumerable glosses to this doc.u.ment, those who were robing the new bride-elect of Jesus were about finishing their task and giving the last touches to her dress, with the same complacency that an artist shows in laying the last shades on his picture, stepping back and coming near a thousand times to realize the effect produced. Here a pin; the throat a little more open to show the beautiful alabaster neck; a few ringlets on her brow carelessly escaping from among the orange flowers; a b.u.t.ton that needed fastening. Maria aided her maids of honor with quick motions. All admired her serenity.

And, in fact, the young bride could not have shown a face more joyous at such moments. Nevertheless there was a certain agitation noticeable in her joy. Her movements were too quick and eager, as though she were trying to hide the slight trembling of her hands and the tremor that ran over her whole body. Was it a tremor of delight?

Oh, yes, Maria felt an intense delight.

The brilliant rose bloom of her cheeks told the same story; the unnatural glitter of her eyes likewise proclaimed it. Her lips were dry, and her nostrils pink and more dilated than usual. Her white brow was marked by a long, slight furrow, telling of the quick desire, the restless, sensual eagerness hidden in her heart. It was the cheerful eagerness of the epicure, who finds himself face to face with his favorite food after a long fast. Over her excited brilliant face pa.s.sed a throng of warm flushes, in a vague, intricate confusion of dismay, dread, and voluptuous desires. She was going to be the bride of Jesus Christ and shut herself forever between four walls, pa.s.sing her whole life in a mysterious union, whose sweet delight she had not as yet enjoyed in full. A great curiosity overwhelmed her, stirred her unspeakably. The choir of the Convent of San Bernardo, where the half light pouring in through the lofty windows slept in mystic calm upon the gray oaken chairs, had always fascinated her. How many times she had trembled, when she saw a silent white figure cross the floor and sit down there in the body of the church. It was a sweet voluptuous trembling, which made her eagerly long to enter that fantastic retreat.

The nuns, with their tall white figures, seemed to her like supernatural beings,--angels come down to earth for a while, who would soon mount up to heaven again. She was particularly attracted by one who was young and beautiful; when she saw her enter the choir, she could not take her eyes from her. The stern, cla.s.sic beauty of that sister, and her clear, steady gaze made an impression upon her, which she could not explain. In her breast sprang up a certain extravagant attraction toward her, and a quick, eager desire to be her friend, or rather her disciple; to kneel before her and say: "Teach me, guide me." Oh, if she would permit me to give her a kiss, even though it were the briefest! One evening a tremendous temptation a.s.sailed her to ask her for it. The church was empty; she looked back and saw that the beautiful nun had made her way into the choir and was kneeling near the grating. And, without further consideration as to what she was doing, she went to her and said in trembling voice: "Senora, give me your hand, that I may kiss it." The nun made a graceful sign that it could not be, but rising, she offered her the crucifix of her rosary, with a smile so sweet and a.s.suring, that Maria, when she kissed it, felt deeply moved.

Always when she entered the church of the convent she felt the same rapture, a species of voluptuous somnolence penetrating her whole being like a caress. From that choir came languorous, sweet murmurs, calling her, inviting her to leave the pleasures of the world for others more sweet and mysterious, which she had already begun to enjoy without full knowledge of them. Jesus had granted her already rich enjoyments in her prayers, but He would not abandon himself completely,--certainly would not lose consciousness of self in the arms of the bride; would not give His all to her with the infinite, immortal love which she eagerly desired, except within that silent poetic retreat where no sound could disturb them.

At last the day had come for her to satisfy her desire; within an hour she would be within that mysterious choir which had caused her so many dreams, and would cross with floating tunic the warm sunlight falling through the lofty windows. She felt impatient for the moment to arrive.

She was nervous, restless, but smiling. Never had she been so self-satisfied. Her friends were not weary of exalting her virtue and heroism; the town regarded her with surprise, and around her she heard only praise and words of admiration. Maria really found herself upon a pedestal. And like every one who is under the public gaze, our heroine succeeded in hiding the emotions of her soul, and showed a serene and joyous face. It was her day; it was the day of the great battle, and she smoothed her brow and composed the expression of her face, like a general when the hour of the attack has come.

Nevertheless, from time to time she gazed with anxiety at one of the corners of her boudoir. In that corner sat her sister, with her face in her hands, sobbing. At last, not being able to control herself longer, she suddenly left her maids of honor and went to Marta, and bending down her face so that it touched her, she said:--

"Do not weep, dear, do not weep more; ... there is no misfortune here to make you so sorrowful. On the other hand, think of the great favor which G.o.d has shown in calling me to be his bride.... You ought to rejoice, my little pigeon;[70] come, don't weep any more, darling [_monina_]....

Consider that you are taking away my strength."

And as she said that, she kissed her pretty little sister's smooth rosy cheek. The girl replied amid her sobs,--

"Ay! Maria, I lose you forever!"

"No, monina, no ... you will often see me ... and you will speak with me...."

"What does that amount to?... I am going to lose you, my sister."

And Marta could not help saying this "I lose you; I lose you forever"--she could not because it was the only thought that filled her heart at that instant, her heart that never was untrue; she was accustomed to speak freely her beliefs and opinions. Marta accepted without resistance the idea that her sister was doing well to enter the convent, but she was absolute mistress of her heart; there no one held sway but herself, and her heart told her that she had no longer any sister, that all Maria's love, all her tenderness was about to evaporate like a divine essence in the depths of a mysterious, vague something, totally incomprehensible to her.