Nothing, the young marquis perceived nothing! He, too, was a little pale. The indifferent tone in which he made the announcement was pure comedy, for I know on good authority that he walked up and down his room the night before, till he was tired out, and that the rays of the morning found him still unable to close his eyes.

Don Mariano made a gesture of disappointment, exclaiming,--

"There, my son, there!... I feel that we are going to lose you!...

However, if it is your pleasure...."

Ricardo preserved a gloomy silence. Gladly would he have exclaimed, "How can it be my pleasure? My pleasure would be to ask for a discharge at this very moment, and stay here forever and live calmly near you!

Near you, the people whom I love most in this world!" But he had the weakness to hold his tongue, and such weaknesses as these generally cost very dear in life.

"And when do you expect to go?" pursued the caballero.

"To-morrow. I must stop in Madrid a few days to attend to some business.

I shall reach Valencia the tenth of next month."

"Are you going to some regiment?"

"To the First Cavalry."

"Ah!"

And there was silence. Sadness ruled them all, choking conversation, which usually was very animated, even though it touched upon the details of domestic affairs. Don Mariano renewed it in a sad and distracted tone.

"Have you ever been in Valencia?"

"Yes, sir; I spent a month there a few years ago."

"It is very pretty, isn't it?"

"Yes; very pretty."

"Many oranges, eh?"

"A great many."

"I think it is a very gay city."

"No, not gay; it seemed to me very melancholy."

"Then, my dear fellow, I should think...."

But they relapsed into silence. Their hearts were oppressed, and the indifferent tone of the words was not sufficient to hide it. Marta had not once spoken during all the time, and, as she sat in a low chair next the window, paid close attention to her crochet work. Ricardo was lounging on the sofa near Don Mariano. A thousand melancholy thoughts sifted through the minds of all three, and that cheerful room, bright in the pure, brilliant morning light, was nevertheless filled with sadness and silence. When the Senor de Elorza spoke to Ricardo again, his emotion shone through his slightly hoa.r.s.e and tremulous voice.

"And what arrangements have you made about your house?... Are you going to dismiss the servants?"

"All except Pepe, the gardener, and Cesar, the inside man."

"Have you packed yet?"

"No; I shall have time this afternoon and to-morrow morning."

"And your calls?"

"Really, Don Mariano, the only people with whom I am intimate are you here.... Three or four other calls, and I am done.... I shall send cards to the rest.... What I am most sorry about is, to leave the improvements in my garden unfinished, and the two pavilions in the corners just begun...."

"Don't be troubled about that, I will attend to it.... I will attend to it.... I will attend to it...."

He could say no more. Emotion choked him. Those pavilions had been Maria's idea before the engagement was broken, and this recollection brought in its train many others, all painful, in which his wife, his daughter, and Ricardo were mingled, bringing before his eyes the terrible misfortunes which he had recently suffered. He hastily arose and left the room.

Ricardo, likewise moved and overwhelmed by great dejection, remained with bent head, and silent. Marta kept on busily with her task, as though she felt no interest in what was going on. She did not once lift her head during the conversation, nor even when her father left the room. Ricardo looked at her fixedly a long time. The girl's impa.s.sive att.i.tude began to mortify him. He had presumptuously imagined that it would affect Mart.i.ta very deeply to hear the announcement of his departure, for she had always given evidence of being fond of him. He had blind confidence in the goodness of her heart and the strength of her affections; but when he saw her so serene, moving the ivory needle between her slender rosy fingers, without asking him anything about it, without urging him to postpone his journey for a few days, without speaking a word, he felt a new and painful disenchantment. And he allowed himself, by the weight of his gloomy thoughts, to be drawn away into a desperate, pessimistic philosophy.

"Then, sir," he said to himself tearfully, "you must accept the world and humanity as they are.... This girl whom I believed to be so tender-hearted.... What is to be done about it?... In woman exists only one true affection.... Can it possibly be that this child is in love with some one?"

Ricardo had no reason to be indignant at such a thought. But it is certain that he was indignant, and not a little. He tried to drive it away as an absurdity, and succeeded only in convincing himself that, not only it would not be an absurdity, but would not even be strange. But as he was downcast, indignation very soon gave way to sadness; deep, painful sadness.

"Aren't you sorry that I am going away?" he asked, with a sort of melancholy smile creeping over his face.

"Not if it is your pleasure to go...." replied the girl, not lifting her head.

Confound the pleasure! Ricardo had no longer any desire to go away; he was furious with himself for having asked to be sent. Gladly would he give everything to exchange.... But he did not say a word of what he thought.

His sadness and depression kept increasing. He felt a cruel desire to weep. He dared not say a word to Marta, lest she should notice his emotion. Besides, what reason had he to speak to her?... Such an unfeeling child!

He found himself in one of those moments of dejection in which everything appears clad in black, and he took a certain bitter delight in it; moment, in which one (if the expression be permissible) wallows voluptuously in sadness, endeavoring to add to it by unhappy recollections and expectations. He dropped his head on the pillow of the sofa, and shut his eyes, as though he were meditating. Our hero had been meditating deeply, deeply, for many hours. His nerves had been on the strain for a long time, and he began to feel the attack of a languor akin to faintness. He lifted his head a little, to prove to himself that he still had the power of motion, and he looked once more at Mart.i.ta, who was still in the same position; but very soon he let it fall again.

It seemed to him as if he were seized against his will, and kept lying there, without the possibility of moving a finger. He still had his eyes open, but they were as heavy as if the lids had been made of lead. At last he closed them, and fell asleep. That is, we cannot say that he slept, or only napped. It is certain, however, that the Marques de Penalta, thus stretched out, with eyes closed, seemed to be asleep, and his face looked so pale, there were such dark rings under his eyes, and his whole appearance was so lifeless that it inspired alarm.

In the s.p.a.ce of a few moments one can dream of many and very different things. All have experienced this phenomenon. Ricardo had not as yet entirely lost the idea of reality, when he found himself in a room like the one in which he really was. However, there was this difference, that in the new one the window had very thick iron gratings, like lattices, and one of the walls was likewise grated, through which there could be seen in the background, gilded altars, images of saints, lamps hung from the ceiling; in fact, a real church. Looking attentively from the sofa, he perceived that a great throng was pouring into the church, causing a low, but disagreeable noise, until they filled it entirely, and there was no more room. Then he began to hear the tones of an organ playing the waltzes of the Queen of Scotland, which made him suspect that the organist was Fray Saturnino, the capellane of San Felipe. Then, rising above the heads of the people, he saw the gilded points of a mitre. The organ ceased, and he heard the nasal voice of a preacher delivering a long sermon, although he could not understand a word of what he said.

When the sermon was over, he heard a sweet song which made him tremble with delight; it was Maria's sweet voice, singing with more sweetness than ever, the aria from _Traviata_: "Gran Dio morir si giovane." When this was finished, prolonged applause rang through the church. Then all the people crowded up to the great altar, leaving the s.p.a.ces near the grating free. Something was going on there, for he clearly heard some voices saying,--

"Now he gives her the benediction ... now ... now."

And at the same instant Don Maximo appeared in the door of the room, and said,--

"What are you doing, lying down here? Didn't you know that Maria is being married?"

"Whom is she marrying?"

"Jesus Christ! Come and see the ceremony!"

He desired to arise, but could not. Then the physician said,--

"Well, since you cannot move, I will go into the church, to see if I can persuade the people to stand aside a little so that you may see from here."

And in fact, he soon perceived that the congregation was making a sufficiently wide pa.s.sage from the grating, so that he could see afar away, over the steps of the great altar, Maria's proud figure in bridal array. At her side stood another little human figure holding her by the hand. The bishop was giving them his blessing. It was no more Jesus Christ than it was a pumpkin! The person whom Maria was marrying was neither more nor less than Manolito Lopez, that most impertinent and uncongenial of urchins! He was like one who saw a vision! Could it be possible that a girl so beautiful and wise, would unite herself to this cub and leave him, who in every respect was a man abandoned to despair?

The truth is, he had reason for serious and painful reflections. But just as he was getting deeper and deeper involved in them, behold the same Maria enters the room in the garb of a San Bernardo nun, and coming directly to him said, sweetly smiling,--

"Art thou sad because I marry?"

"Why should I not be?"