The clergyman descended from the desk.

There was a loud and prolonged noise in the church. The throng of women spread out, dispersed, moved to and fro, gossiping and chattering all at once. The clattering of the wooden shoes again was heard on the damp and filthy blocks of the pavement. An acolyte began to snuff out the candles burning around the image of Jesus and, standing on the altar, with his shorn head and mischievous eyes made profane grimaces at the other boys, whose mothers kept them on their knees saying their prayers. A few of the clergy issued from the confessionals and crossed over to the sacristy with long strides. One was detained in the centre of the church by various ladies, and stood talking with them a long time, though with evident anxiety to escape from them. Through the leaded panes of the great oriels poured all the daylight evaporating the mysteriousness of the temple, and making it seem melancholy, wretched, and dirty, as in reality it was. Two or three gay fellows, with coat-collars turned up and sleeves well pulled down, came in, casting quick glances of curiosity at all the places. A sacristan took it into his head to throw wide open the wooden screen at the door, and a restless, noisy mult.i.tude, who had not been early enough to take part in the novena, surged into the vast room to listen to the word of a missioner, who at that moment mounted the pulpit with a contemplative, zealous gesture.

When he stood up dominating the mult.i.tude, with the sacred dove made of painted wood above his head, the noise gradually subsided. The congregation, wonderfully increased, again crowded together beneath the lecturer. There were many men who came not out of pure devotion, but rather with the intention of judging the sermon from a literary point of view.

Meantime great throngs of people came pouring in through the door, disturbing the faithful, and hindering the establishment of silence.

Maria and Genoveva were pulled to and fro many times by the fluctuation of the mult.i.tude. The orator waited vainly for the bustle to cease. At last he extended his arm in academic style toward the door, and shouted emphatically, as though he were in the heart of his discourse,--

"Close that screen!"

The doors closed slowly, as though no one had touched them. The faithful were seating themselves in their places. For a time much coughing was heard; at last it ceased, and the church preserved a fragile, artificial silence, frequently broken by some stubborn cold or by the trumpet blast of some nose being blown. The jet and mother-of-pearl beads of the ladies' rosaries, clinking together, made a soft, melancholy tintillation.

The orator was young, tall, and slender, with great black eyes deep set in a pale, cla.s.sic face. He also wore a ca.s.sock with surplice and cowl.

He inspired respect by his sweet, gentle gravity.

He took off his cowl, and said a few words in Latin which no one could hear. Then putting on his cowl again, and leaning far over the railing, he exclaimed in a loud voice,--

"Beloved Brethren in Jesus Christ!"

He possessed a ringing voice, of a sweet and sympathetic quality, which lent a greater effect to the solemnity of the face. He began by showing an ironical astonishment that there were to be found any at all willing to abandon the vanities of the world to listen to the word of G.o.d, and he warmly congratulated the faithful who had come to take part in the Nine Days' Festival of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Of all the forms of devotion, invented by piety, most grateful in the eyes of the Lord was this; for it summed up and included all the rest, since, "as the heart in the human body represents the sum and substance,--the very centre of the physical life,--so in the same way the Sacred Heart of our Redeemer is the centre of pious souls and the focus of light around which revolve our aspirations for immortal glory." He ended his exordium by invoking with impa.s.sioned phrases the aid of this Sacred Heart in letting his discourse bring forth fruit. He offered in behalf of all an Ave Maria.

He devoted the first part of his sermon to the description of the torment of the soul alienated from G.o.d by sin, and he drew a circ.u.mstantial and complete picture of the griefs and insults which we daily inflict upon the gentle Heart of Jesus. When he came to paint the sufferings caused by sin, he abandoned the beaten track of speaking of the material torments of h.e.l.l and described nothing but the spiritual anguish, the pangs, and the heartbreak felt by the soul when it sees itself deprived through its own fault of the love of the Creator; but he painted them in such gloomy colorings, and with such power of expressions, that that infinite affliction, that depth of solitude, that silence and darkness made a greater impression on the imagination of the throng than the fire and the worm usually invoked.

Maria was filled with fear and sadness. She remembered her sins, and thought with horror that she might die suddenly and be lost forever.

Thereupon she made a solemn vow to grow better. But how? To change her way of living meant nothing else than to break the bond which most powerfully fettered her to the earth and sin. She became the prey to a profound disturbance replete with tears, and she could not throw it off.

The clear, musical voice of the priest resounded through the great room, unweariedly relating one by one the sufferings of the d.a.m.ned. The congregation listened motionless and terrified. Far away in the background, near the princ.i.p.al altar, the image of the Saviour, encircled with candles, looked like a great red blur whose rays cast fugitive shadows across the walls of the edifice.

"But the divine compa.s.sion is inexhaustible. There is no sin so enormous that it cannot be blotted out by the mercy of G.o.d. The Saviour's love for the souls that he has redeemed by his blood is not weak and limited like that of men; like a loving father, like an affectionate spouse, He is even ready to open his arms for the repentant sinner. Man sooner tires of sinning than G.o.d of granting forgiveness, for we have at His right hand an advocate who never wearies of interceding for us. Sin not, offend not the Divine Majesty, either with words or deeds; but if ye should give way to sin, be not discouraged, keep up good heart and return to G.o.d. _Sed et si quis pecaverit_, _advocatum habemus apud Patrem_, _Jesum Christum justum_, says Saint John.[9] If ye should sin, wash with repentant tears the Redeemer's feet after the pattern of Saint Mary Magdalene, and ye shall be saved. Remember that sad, sinful woman, who, worn out with grief, appalled with love, threw herself at Jesus'

feet and washed them with her tears and wiped them with her hair and anointed them with ointment, while not a word fell from her lips because she was consumed with the fire of love. Oh, tears shed for G.o.d! how much ye avail, how great your power, how mighty your results! In winning forgiveness tears are more potential than words; for tears, as Saint Maximus says, are silent prayers, and demand not forgiveness if forgiveness be undeserved. There is no deception possible with tears as with words, and thus it was Saint Peter to win forgiveness for his fault used not words, since with them he had sinned, had blasphemed and denied his Lord; but he wept with bitter lamentation and was believed and pardoned. Tears are money which cannot be counterfeited, our only refuge: they purge the spots caused by our transgressions, they appease the anger of G.o.d, they win us forgiveness, they enliven the soul, they strengthen faith, magnify hope, kindle charity. The divine Jesus himself has said, 'Blessed are they who mourn; for they shall be comforted.'"

Maria felt her heart melt within her. That fervid eulogy of tears drove fear from her breast. The thought of the inexhaustible good will of Jesus Christ, who, after suffering so much and shedding his precious blood for us, forgets each moment the greatest sins, if only they are confessed to him with repentance, stirred her to the depths of her soul.

She seemed to see the saint whose name she bore, Mary Magdalene, bathed in tears at the Redeemer's feet, and she felt that she had done the same. A torrent of tears burst from her eyes as she imagined herself p.r.o.ne before Jesus. The women around her saw her weep, and they cast respectful glances of admiration at her as they whispered among themselves.

The sermon ended by exhorting the faithful, with lofty flights of eloquence rich in imagery, to devote themselves to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. "A quarter of an hour every day of loving discourse with this Sacred Heart brings to the soul the purest joy that it can have on earth. _Gustate_, _et videte quoniam suavis est Dominus_.[10] Try to hold converse a while with the Lord, and ye will enjoy the delights of heaven and the rarest satisfactions, such as those have who love. All that is in this world is folly and deception: banquets, comedies, receptions, amus.e.m.e.nts, and all the rest that the world considers good are mingled with gall and sown with thorns. Doubt not that the Heart of Jesus gives greater delight and comfort to those souls which seek it with devotion and self-abnegation, than the world with all its pastimes and insipid pleasures. What delight to be speaking for one instant with the most lovable Jesus, forever ready to hearken to our prayers! To unbosom one's self to him alone as to a most intimate friend. To demand his grace, his love, and his glory! Oh, my dear friends _gustate et videte_, _gustate et videte!_"

The orator ended the final clauses of his sermon always with those words, gustate et videte, gustate et videte. When he ended by expressing his wish that all might have eternal glory, he was pale with weariness.

Drops of perspiration rolled down his wide brow. He had uttered the last part of his discourse with growing agitation and enthusiasm which he succeeded in communicating to his hearers. Maria, after her first fit of weeping, remained comforted and almost happy. Genoveva whispered in her ear while the priest was descending from the pulpit,--

"Senorita, I just saw Don Cesar in the congregation."

The young girl's face changed slightly. The crowd began to dissolve, spreading out over the whole area of the church. The majority of the people crowded tumultuously to the door, struggling to get out. After some difficulty Maria and Genoveva succeeded in reaching the portico, and started on their homeward way. But the Senorita de Elorza kept frequently turning her head. An elderly gentleman, tall, slender, and pale, with goatee and long white mustachios, dressed in black from head to foot, was following them at a considerable distance. As they entered the arcade of a narrow and lonely street, the caballero hastened his steps, and the two women lingered for him, so that very soon they were together. The caballero turned to Maria and said in a low voice,--

"Senorita, last night I returned from where you know."

"I have prayed G.o.d to bring you back in safety, Don Cesar."

"Thanks, thanks.[11] Have you finished embroidering the banner?"

"Yes, senor!"

"And the flannel hearts?"

"Those also."

"That is good, senorita; I shall not forget your diligence and enthusiasm."

Don Cesar did not move a line of his vigorous face during this conversation. His eyes, which were of a strange intensity gleaming with ferocity, did not for a moment leave the girl's face. He said nothing for a time, having something in his mind, and then he broke the silence, speaking in the curt tone of command,--

"To-morrow at this time be on hand again. We have some commissions to give you."

"I will not fail you."

Don Cesar noticed that two young men had just turned the corner and were coming toward them; thereupon, without saying farewell, he left the women, crossing to the opposite sidewalk.

CHAPTER IV.

HOW THE MARQUIS OF PEnALTA WAS CONVERTED INTO DUKE OF THURINGEN.

A few days later Ricardo set forth from home as usual about ten o'clock in the morning and turned his steps toward the house of his betrothed.

It was not love alone that impelled him to walk the street so early, but as much the melancholy solitude that reigned at the present time in the vast seignorial mansion where he lived: for our hero had been alone in the world a little more than a year. His father, the old Marques de Penalta, had died when he was under six, and he had scarcely more than a vague remembrance of his pale face between the sheets of the bed when they raised him up to give him a kiss a few hours before he died. He remembered also how on that same day every one had hugged him and kissed him, with tears, and this had attracted his attention and made him ask, "Why are you all crying to-day?"

His mother had loved him with one of those concentrated and fierce affections which destroy by very reason of over care. During his boyhood she had kept him tied to her ap.r.o.n-strings, never consenting for him to take part in the games of the other lads, lest he should hurt himself.

Even when he was quite a youth, she always used to put him to bed, offering with him a series of innocent prayers, and sitting by his bedside with folded arms until he fell asleep, when she would silently leave his chamber on tip-toe. When he reached early manhood, she had nothing to do but think of her son's career, for the late marquis had provided that he should follow one. Ricardo wanted to enter the artillery. How many tears the lad's resolute decision cost the mother!

The first time that he went to Segovia, the good lady thought she should die: she made up her mind not to leave the house until her son returned, and she carried out her intention. When he came home to spend his vacation, she could not be enough at his side, caressing him and reading in his eyes his slightest caprices, so as to carry them out instantly.

Two or three days before it was time for him to return, she would begin to sob and cry: she held him close to her bosom for long moments and made him promise a thousand times to write her every day, to cover himself up warm during his journey, and not to go out nights. The only thing which served to divert her for a short time was the preparation of his cadet's chest, with which she took so much pains that it lacked nothing, from the more usual articles of dress, down to a piece of court plaster and a package of lint in case he were wounded. Ricardo always avoided leave-taking by escaping on the sly.

Thanks to his genial, happy, and sympathetic nature, rather than by his application, the young Marques de Penalta finished his course. At college everybody loved him, students as well as professors. He was one of those frank and friendly young fellows with whom it is difficult to quarrel, and whom we all go to as a confidant worthy of sharing the secrets of our hearts in the bitter misfortunes of life. He was always found smiling and unreserved, bringing joy and confidence wherever he went, and rarely did a dispute arise between two cadets which he did not succeed in bringing to a friendly issue. In spite of his conciliatory temperament no one in college or out of it questioned his courage, much less the remarkable prowess of his fists. More than once, in the frequent quarrels between the cadets and the peasants, which generally broke out in candle-light b.a.l.l.s, he had floored three or four stout carls with as many blows, which attracted all the more attention from the crowd because there was nothing stout or athletic in his figure.

One day, while encamped in the park at Sevilla, the colonel called him into his tent and asked him,--

"Isn't it a number of days since you have had a letter from your mother, Penalta?"

Ricardo grew as pale as death.

"What is it, colonel? what is it?"

"Don't be alarmed, child;[12] I happened to learn that she wasn't very well."

Ricardo understood perfectly, and fell into the colonel's arms, shedding a flood of tears. That night he took the train for the north.

The dismal night spent in that journey remained deeply impressed upon his mind. When the engine whistled, and his comrades, who had come to see him off, standing on the platform, waved their _adios_, he went and sat in a corner of the carriage, wrapped up in his cloak, feigning to sleep, in order better to abandon himself to his painful, gloomy thoughts. Oh, how painful and gloomy his thoughts! He imagined the guardian angel of his infancy, the mother of his heart, dying alone, without receiving her son's last kiss, perhaps calling for him with yearning in the supreme moment of her agony. He remembered that when he had last left her, her health was rather feeble, and the embrace which she gave him was much longer than usual, and her kisses more numerous, as though the poor woman had felt a presentiment that she should never see him again. In her wide, moist eyes he read a fervent silent prayer that he would abandon his profession and not leave her. But he, pleased with the vanities of society, and seduced by the voice of selfishness, had paid no heed to this prayer which the unhappy woman had not dared to formulate with her lips. He felt deeply angry with himself, and called himself the most insulting and humiliating names. From time to time he put his head out of the window and breathed the cool night air, to prevent the sobs from choking him. The vague, mysterious outline of the undulating landscape, wrapt in shadows, transformed his despair into grief, which gradually changed into a solemn melancholy like the gloomy clouds hovering above the still more gloomy earth. The silent majesty of inanimate nature calmed his agitation, but it made him think with cold chills of the perfect loneliness awaiting him. The tie that bound him to earth, and through which he felt that all human beings were his kin, was cut; now he had no one in the world whom he could call his own. The wind, stirred by the swift rush of the train, hummed in his ears and seemed to say to him, Alone! alone! The harsh racket of the wheels and engine violently excited his morbid state of mind, giving him a sensation almost of pain like that caused by the thoughts rushing through his brain. The noisy, metallic rhythm of the wheels likewise seemed to say, with still more relentless accent, Alone! alone! His sad face followed the far-off line of the horizon, and this came back to him in quivering, prophetic reflections, which barely sufficed to cleave asunder the network of shadows, gloom upon gloom. The light from the engine cast a reddish gleam, tingeing as with blood the ground and the trees lining the track. Where there were no trees, the telegraph poles flew past him with bewildering rapidity like the happy hours of his youth. Above his head floated the huge black plume of the smoke, emitted by the smoke-stack of the engine, and this, as it disappeared in the atmosphere, in dying made a thousand strange and monstrous phantasms.

These phantasms, as they fled away, rolling along just above the ground, seemed also to say mournfully, Alone! alone! Thereupon, being no longer able to endure the icy breath of the deserted landscape which penetrated his breast and parched his eyes, he shut the window and again returned to his corner and his tears.

In the car were four other people: an elderly senora and a young man of twenty or twenty-five, a girl of eighteen or twenty, and a little girl of five or six years old,--all of whom seemed to be her children. The senora went to sleep, though she kept opening her eyes to watch the child, who was incessantly running from one side to the other; the two young people were chatting quietly and confidentially together. The sight of this mother surrounded by her children and often looking at them lovingly still more deeply affected Ricardo. The gentle murmur of the brother and sister's conversation, repeatedly broken by repressed laughter, roused in his heart a keen, melancholy envy. The young girl was beautiful, with a n.o.ble, fascinating face. Ricardo, without realizing it, watched her all night, but she seemed to give no heed to him. When the guard of the station shouted, "Cordoba! twenty minutes for refreshments!" all hastily got up and collected their things in preparation to leave the train. Then only the young lady gave him a long, sweet look, and as she went out, said with a sad, sympathetic smile, "Good night, and a happy journey to you."[13] There was no doubt that she had noticed his grief.