The latter, when tired of looking out into the darkness, he turned his
gaze on the interior of the compartment, thought it strange enough that
the girl who lay sleeping there before him, so much at her ease, should
have come here instead of going into one of the compartments reserved
for ladies. And to this reflection succeeded an idea which contracted
his brows with a frown and curved his lips in a disdainful smile. A
second glance which he cast at Lucía, however, inspired him with more
charitable thoughts. The light of the lamp, whose blue shade he drew
aside in order to obtain a better view of the sleeping girl, fell
directly upon her, but the flame flickered with the motion of the train,
now leaving her form in shadow, now illuminating it brightly. The light
brought into relief the salient points of her face and her form. The
forehead, white as a jasmine flower, the rosy cheeks, the rounded chin,
the slightly parted lips giving egress to the soft breath and disclosing
to view the pearly teeth, gleamed, as the strong clear light fell upon
them; one arm supported her head in the attitude of an antique
bacchante, the whiteness of the hand contrasting with the blackness of
the hair, while the other hand, also ungloved, hung by her side in the
abandonment of sleep, the veins slightly swollen from the posture, which
caused the blood to flow downward, the wedding-ring gleaming on the
little finger. Every time the form of Lucía came within the luminous
zone, the chased metal buttons cast forth golden gleams, flashing red
over the maroon cloth of the jacket; and here and there, beneath the
pleated flounce bordering the skirt, could be caught glimpses of the
lace of the petticoats and of the exquisite bronze leather shoe with its
rounded heel. From the whole person of the sleeping girl there exhaled
an indescribable aroma of freshness and purity, a breath of
virtuousness, as it were, that could be perceived leagues away. This was
not the bold adventuress, the low-flying butterfly in search of a light
at which to scorch its wings; and the traveler, as this reflection
passed through his mind, wondered at this young creature sleeping
tranquilly here alone, exposed as she was to the risk of insult and to
all sorts of disagreeable accidents, and he recalled to mind a picture
he had once seen in a magnificent copy of illustrated fables
representing Fortune awakening the careless boy sleeping on the brink of
the well. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps his
traveling-companion was some English or American miss who carried in
her pocket as escort and attendant a six-barreled revolver. But although
Lucía was as fresh and robust as a Niobe--a type very common among
Yankee girls--in certain details the Spanish type was so plainly visible
that, as the traveler contemplated her, he was constrained to say to
himself, “She does not bear the remotest resemblance to a foreigner.” He
looked at her for some time longer, as if seeking in her appearance the
solution of the mystery, then, slightly shrugging his shoulders as if to
say, “After all, what does it matter to me,” he took a book from his
portmanteau and began to read; but the wavering light making the letters
dance on the white page at every jolt of the carriage, he soon closed
the book again. He then pressed his forehead once more against the cold
window-pane and thus remained, motionless and lost in thought.
The train hurried forward on its course, swaying and leaning to one side
occasionally, stopping only for a moment at the stations, whose names
the officials called out in gutteral and melancholy tones. After each
stop the train, as if it had gathered fresh force from the momentary
rest, hurried forward with greater speed than before, like a steed that
feels the spur. Owing to the difference of temperature between the outer
air and the air of the carriage, the window-pane was covered with a
lace-like mist, and the traveler, becoming tired perhaps of dissolving
it with his breath, devoted himself anew to the observation of the
sleeping girl and, as the slow hours passed, yielding to an involuntary
feeling which appeared ridiculous to himself, he grew more and more
impatient, indignant, almost, to see the unruffled serenity of this
insolent sleep; and he could not help wishing, in spite of himself, that
his fellow-traveler might awake, if only to give him some opportunity of
gratifying his curiosity concerning her. Perhaps there was no slight
degree of envy mingled with this impatience. What delightful and
desirable sleep! What beneficent repose! It was the untroubled sleep of
youth, of innocent girlhood, of a tranquil conscience, of a rich and
happy temperament, of health. Far from being disfigured, far from
showing that cadaverical hollowness, that contraction of the corners of
the mouth, that species of general distortion, which betrays in the
countenance whose muscles are no longer carefully adjusted to an
artificial expression, the corroding cares of sleepless hours, in
Lucía’s face shone the peacefulness which forms so large a part of the
charm of sleeping childhood. Once, however, she softly sighed. The cold
night air penetrated through the crevices of the closed windows. The
traveler rose, and without observing that there was a bundle of shawls
in the rack, opened his own portmanteau and taking out a fine Scotch
woolen plaid spread it gently over the form of the sleeping girl. The
latter turned slightly, without wakening, her head remaining in the
shadow.
Outside, the telegraph posts looked like a row of specters, the trees
shook their disordered locks, agitating their branches that seemed like
arms stretched out in supplication; here and there a gray house rose
solitary in the landscape, like the immense head of some granite
sphinx--all confused, vague, blurred in outline, shifting as the clouds
of smoke from the engine that enveloped the train like the breath of the
fiery dragon enveloping his prey. Inside the carriage reigned unbroken
silence; it seemed like an enchanted region. The traveler drew the blue
curtain before the lamp, leaned back in a corner, closed his eyes and
stretching out his legs rested his feet against the seat in front. In
this way station after station was passed. He dozed a little and then,
astonished at the prolonged sleep of Lucía, rose, fearing lest she might
have fainted. He went forward and leaned over her, and, having convinced
himself of the peaceful and regular breathing of the young girl,
returned to his seat.
A diffused and pale light began to shed itself over the landscape.
Already could be discerned the shapes of mountains, trees, and huts.
Night, retiring, swept away in her train the trembling stars, as a
sultana gathers up her veil broidered with silvery arabesques. The
slender circle of the waning moon grew pale and vanished in the sky,
whose dark blue changed to the opaque blue of porcelain. A chill ran
through the veins of the traveler, who pulled up the collar of his
overcoat and instinctively stretched his feet toward the heater in whose
metallic bosom the water danced with a gurgling sound. Suddenly the door
of the compartment was opened and a morose-looking man, wearing a hat
with a gilt band, and carrying in his hand a sort of tongs, or punch,
entered hastily.
“Your tickets, Señor,” he cried, in short, imperious tones.
The traveler put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and drew from it a
piece of yellow cardboard.
“The other, the ticket of the lady. Eh, Señora, Señora, your ticket!”
Lucía was now partially awake, and throwing down the Scotch plaid she
sat upright and began to rub her eyes with her knuckles, like a sleepy
child. Her hair was disordered and flattened against the flushed cheek
on which she had been lying, a loosened braid hung over one shoulder
and, unbraided at the end, floated in three strands. Her crushed white
petticoat rose rebellious under her cloth skirt, the string of one of
her shoes had become untied and strayed over her instep. Lucía looked
around her with wandering and uncertain gaze; she seemed serious and
surprised.
“The ticket, Señora, the ticket!” the official continued to cry, in no
very amiable tone of voice.
“The ticket?” she repeated. And she looked around again, unable to shake
off completely the stupor of sleep.
“Yes, Señora, the ticket,” repeated the official, still less amiably
than before.
“Miranda! Miranda!” cried Lucía at last, linking together her scattered
recollections of the day before. And she looked anxiously on all sides,
amazed at not seeing Miranda in the compartment.
“Señor de Miranda has my ticket,” she said, addressing the official, as
if the latter must of necessity know who Miranda was.
The official, puzzled, turned toward the traveler, his right hand
extended for the ticket.
“My name is not Miranda,” said the latter quietly. And as he saw the
angry official again turn rudely to Lucía, he said to her.
“Are you traveling alone, Señora?”
“No, Señor,” answered Lucía, now greatly distressed. “Of course I am not
traveling alone; I am traveling with Don Aurelio Miranda, my husband,”
and as she pronounced the words, she smiled involuntarily at the new and
curious sound of the expression, uttered by her lips.
“She seems very young to be married,” said the traveler to himself; but,
remembering the ring he had seen gleaming on her finger, he asked aloud:
“Where did you take the train?”
“At Leon. But is not Miranda here? Holy Virgin! Señor, tell me--allow
me----”
And forgetting that the train was in motion she was going to open the
door hastily when the official interposed, seizing her by the arm with
force.
“Eh, Señora,” he said in a rude voice, “do you want to kill yourself?
Are you mad? And let us end this at once. I want the ticket.”
“I haven’t it. How can I give it to you if I haven’t it?” exclaimed
Lucía, greatly distressed, her eyes filling with tears.
“You will have to buy one at the next station then, and pay a fine,”
growled the official, more angrily than before.
“Don’t trouble the lady any more,” said the traveler, interfering very
opportunely, for tears as big as filberts now began to course down
Lucía’s cheeks. “Insolent!” he continued angrily. “Do you not see that
some unforeseen accident has happened to this lady? Come, take yourself
off or----”
“But you see, sir, we have our duties to consider, our
responsibilities----”
“Say no more, but go. Take this for the lady’s fare.”
As he spoke, he put his right hand into the pocket of his overcoat and
drew from it some greasy-looking papers of a greenish color, the sight
of which at once restored serenity to the frowning brow of the official
who, as he took the proffered bill, lowered by two or three tones the
pitch of his gruff voice.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, placing it in his soiled and well-worn
pocket-book. “Your word would have been sufficient. I did not recognize
you at first, but I recollect your face very well now, and I remember
having often seen both you and your father, Señor de Artegui----”
“Well then,” rejoined the traveler, “if you know me, you know that I am
not in the habit of wasting words. Go.” And pushing the man out of the
compartment, he closed the door behind him. But he opened it again
quickly and calling to the official, who was running with incredible
agility along the narrow ledge beside the steps, he cried to him in
sonorous tones:
“Hist, hist! If you should come across a gentleman called Miranda in any
of the carriages, let him know that his wife is here.”
This done he seated himself again in his corner, and lowering the window
eagerly drew in the vivifying morning air. Lucía, drying her eyes, which
had twice that day shed unaccustomed tears, felt at the same time
extraordinary uneasiness and an inexplicable sense of contentment. The
action of the traveler caused her the profound joy which generous
actions are apt to awaken in souls yet unspoiled by contact with the
world. She ardently desired to thank him, but she could not summon
courage to do so. He, meantime, sat watching the sunrise with as much
intentness as if it were the most novel and entertaining spectacle in
the world. At last the young girl, conquering her timidity, with
trembling lips said the most stupid thing which it was possible, under
the circumstances, to say (as usually happens when one prepares a speech
for any occasion beforehand):
“Señor--I cannot pay you what I owe you until Miranda comes. He has the
money----”
“I do not lend money,” answered the traveler quietly, without turning
around, or removing his gaze from the eastern sky, where dawn was
breaking through light clouds touched with gold and crimson.
“Well, but it is not just that you should--in this way--without knowing
who I am----”
The traveler did not answer.
“But tell me, for Heaven’s sake!” resumed Lucía, in the silvery tones of
her infantile voice, “what can have become of Miranda? What do you think
of the situation in which I am placed? What am I to do now?”
The traveler turned round in his seat and confronted Lucía with the air
of a man who finds himself forced to take part in a matter that does not
concern him but who resigns himself to the necessity. The fresh tones of
Lucía’s voice suggested to him the same reflection as before:
“It seems impossible that she should be married. Any one would think she
was still in the school-room.” And aloud he said:
“Let us see, Señora. Where did you part from your husband? Do you
remember?”
“I cannot tell. I fell asleep.”
“And where did you fall asleep? Can you not remember that either?”
“At the station where we took supper. At Venta de Baños. Miranda got out
to see to the luggage, telling me to rest awhile--to try to sleep----”
“And you tried to some purpose!” murmured the traveler, with a slight
smile. “You have slept ever since--five hours at a stretch.”
“But--I got up so early yesterday. I was worn out.”
And Lucía rubbed her eyes as if they were still heavy with sleep. Then
taking from her hair two or three hair-pins, she fastened back the
rebellious braids with them.
“You say,” questioned the traveler, “that you have come from Leon?”
“Yes, Señor. The wedding was at eleven in the morning, but I had to get
up early to arrange about the refreshments,” said Lucía, with the
simplicity of a girl unaccustomed to social usages. “It was half-past
three when we left Leon.”
The traveler looked at her, beginning to understand the mystery. The
girl gave him the key to the woman.
“I might have known it,” he said to himself. “You traveled together as
far as Venta de Baños?” he asked Lucía aloud.
“Yes, yes; we took supper there. Miranda, no doubt, stayed there to
check the luggage.”
“Impossible. The operation of checking the luggage is always over in
time for the passengers to take the train. Some unforeseen accident,
some mischance must have occurred.”
“Do you think--tell me frankly--that he could have left me on purpose?”
So childlike and real a grief was depicted on Lucía’s countenance as she
uttered these words, that the serious lips of the traveler were once
more involuntarily curved in a smile.
“Just think of it!” she added, nodding her head gravely and
thoughtfully. “And I, who fancied that when a woman married she had some
one to keep her company and to take care of her! Some one to give her
his protection and support! Well, if this can happen before twenty-four
hours have passed--what is to be expected afterward!”
“Undoubtedly--undoubtedly your husband is much more distressed at what
has happened than you are. Believe me, something has occurred of which
we know nothing, and which will explain the conduct of Señor Miranda. Or
have you any reason, any motive to suspect that--that he wished to
abandon you?”
“Motive! Of course not! None whatever! Señor de Miranda is a very
reliable person.”
“You call him _Señor de Miranda_?”
“No--he told me yesterday to call him Aurelio--but as I have not much
confidence with him yet--and as he is older than I--in short, it did not
come to my tongue.”
The traveler closed his lips, forcing back a whole flood of indiscreet
questions which crowded to his mind, and turned again to the window in
order not to lose the magnificent spectacle offered him by nature. The
sun was rising above the summit of a neighboring mountain, dispelling by
his rays the morning mists that sank slowly into the valley in lace-like
fragments, and flooding the clear blue atmosphere with a fresh, soft
light. Down the granite flank of the mountain, glistening with mica,
descended a foaming torrent, and through the dark shadow of the oak
groves could be caught a glimpse of a little meadow in the tender green
tones of young grass, where a flock of sheep were browsing; their white
forms starred the verdant carpet like enormous flakes of wool. Through
the deafening noise of the train one might fancy one could hear, in that
picturesque and sunny spot, distant trills of birds, and the silvery
tinkling of bells.
After gazing for some time at the beautiful view, now fading into the
distance, the traveler sank back wearily into his corner, his arms
dropped powerless by his side, and a faint sigh, which told of fatigue
rather than of sorrow, escaped from his lips.
The sun was mounting in the heavens, and his rays began to dance on the
windows of the carriage and on the brows of its two occupants, seeming
to invite them to look at each other, and, simultaneously, they
furtively measured each other with their glances, whence resulted a
scene in dumb show, represented by the girl with infantile naturalness
and with frowning reserve by the man.
The traveler was a man in the vigor of his age and in the age of vigor.
He might be, at a rough guess, from twenty-eight to thirty-two years of
age. His pale countenance was a degree more pale on the cheeks,
generally the seat of what, in the language of poetry, are called
“roses.” Notwithstanding this, he did not seem to be of a sickly
constitution. His frame was well proportioned, his beard was black and
fine, his hair soft and wavy, straying where it would without regard to
symmetry or art, but not without a certain fitness in its natural
arrangement that gave character and beauty to the head. His features
were well formed, but overshadowed by melancholy and stamped with the
traces of suffering--not the physical suffering which undermines the
health, wastes the tissues, withers the skin, and dulls or glazes the
eye, but the moral, or, rather, the intellectual suffering which only
deepens the circles under the eyes, furrows the brow, blanches the
temples, and concentrates the gaze, at the same time rendering the
bearing careless and apathetic. Apathy--this was what was most apparent
in the traveler’s manner. All his attitudes and gestures expressed
fatigue and exhaustion. Something there was broken or out of order in
that noble mechanism,--some one of the springs, which, when snapped,
interrupt the functions of the inner life. Even in his attire the
languor and despondency which were so plainly visible in his countenance
were perceptible. It was not negligence, it was indifference and
dejection of spirits that were expressed by the dark gray suit, the gold
chain,--out of place on a journey,--the cravat, carelessly and loosely
tied, the new Suède gloves of delicate color, that ten minutes’ wear
would soil. The traveler did not possess that exquisite and intelligent
taste in dress which gives attention to details, which makes a science
of the toilet; in him was revealed the man who is superior to fashion
because, while not ignorant of it, he disdains it--a grade of culture
which belongs to a higher sphere than fashion, which after all is a
social distinction, and he who rises superior to fashion is also
superior to social distinctions. Miranda wore the livery of elegance,
and therefore, before being attracted by Miranda’s person, the gaze was
attracted by his attire, while that which attracted the attention in
Artegui was Artegui himself. The carelessness of his attire did not
detract from, it rather made more evident the distinction of his person;
the various articles composing his dress were rich of their kind: the
cloth was English, the linen of the finest quality, and both shoes and
gloves were of the best make. All this Lucía noted instinctively rather
than intelligently, for, inexperienced and new to the world, she had not
yet arrived at an understanding of the philosophy of dress,--a science
in which women in general are so learned.
Artegui, on his side, regarded her as the traveler, returning from
snow-clad and desert lands, regards some smiling valley which he chances
upon by the way. Never before had he seen united to the grace of youth
so much vigor and luxuriant bloom. Notwithstanding the night spent in
the railway-carriage, the face of Lucía was as fresh as a rose, and her
disordered hair, flattened down in places, gave her the air of a naiad,
emerging bareheaded and dewy from the bath. Her eyes, her features, all
were smiling, and the sun, indiscreet chronicler of faded complexions,
played harmlessly over the golden down that covered the cheeks of the
young girl, imparting to them the warm tones of antique marble.
Lucía waited for the traveler to speak to her and her glance invited him
to do so. But, as he did not seem disposed to gratify her wishes, she
resolved, when some time had elapsed, to return to the charge, and
cried:
“Well, and what am I going to do? You do not tell me how I am to get out
of this difficulty.”
“To what place were you and your husband going, Señora?” he asked.
“We were going to France, to Vichy,--where the doctors had ordered him
to take the waters.”
“To Vichy, direct? Did you not intend to stop at any place on the way?”
“Yes, at Bayonne; we were to rest there for a while.”
“You are certain of this?”
“Quite certain. Señor de Miranda explained it to me a hundred times.”
“In that case I will tell you what my opinion is. There is no doubt that
your husband, detained by some accident, the nature of which we need not
now stop to inquire into, remained in Venta de Baños last night. As a
precautionary measure we will send him, if you wish, a telegram from
Hendaya; but what I suppose is that he will take the first train which
leaves for France to join you there. If we go back you run the risk of
crossing him on the way, and thus losing time, besides giving yourself
unnecessary trouble. If you get out at the first station we come to and
wait for him there----”
“Yes, that would be the best thing to do.”
“No, because he would not know you had done so; and as several hours
have already elapsed, and he will be on his way to join you, and we have
no means of letting him know, and the train stops only for a moment at
those stations, I do not think it would be best. Besides, you might both
have to remain for a considerable time in some wretched railway station
waiting for another train. That course is not advisable.”
“Well, then, what do you suggest?” said the young girl eagerly, and with
the greatest confidence, encouraged by the “if we go back” of the
traveler, which tacitly promised her assistance and support.
“To go on to Bayonne, Señora; it is the only course to pursue. Your
husband will probably take the first train for that place. We shall
arrive in the afternoon, and he will arrive in the evening. Since he has
not telegraphed to you to return (which he could have done), it is
because he is on his way to join you.”
Lucía interposed no objection. Ignorant of the route herself, she felt a
singular relief in trusting to the experience of another. She turned
toward the window in silence and followed with her gaze the broken line
of the sierra, which stood sharply defined against the clear sky. The
train began to move more slowly. They were nearing a station. “What
place is this?” she asked, turning toward her companion.
“Miranda de Ebro,” he answered laconically.
“How thirsty I am,” murmured Lucía. “I would give anything for a glass
of water.”
“Let us get out; you can get some water at the restaurant,” responded
Artegui, whom this unexpected adventure was beginning to draw from his
abstraction. And springing down before her he offered his arm to Lucía,
who took it without ceremony, and, urged by thirst, hurried toward the
bar, where some half-empty bottles, half-eaten oranges, jars of fruit
syrups and flasks of orange-flower water, disputed with one another the
possession of a zinc-covered counter and some yellow painted shelves.
The water was served, and, without waiting for the sugar to dissolve,
Lucía drank it quickly, in gulps, and then shook the moisture from her
fingers, drying them with her handkerchief.
Artegui paid.
“Thank you,” she said, looking at her taciturn companion. “It was
delicious--when one is thirsty--Thank you, Señor--What is your name?”
“Ignacio Artegui,” he answered, with a look of surprise.
Ingenuousness sometimes resembles boldness, and it was only the innocent
look of the clear eyes fixed upon his that enabled the traveler to
distinguish between them in the present instance.
“Is there anything else you would like?” he said. “Some breakfast? a cup
of coffee or chocolate?”
“No, no, at present I am not at all hungry.”
“Wait for me in the carriage, then, I am going to settle about your
ticket.”
He returned shortly, and the train soon started on its way, the motion
that by night had seemed vertiginous, now seeming only tiresome. The sun
mounted toward the zenith, and warm, heavy gusts of wind, like fiery
breaths, stirred the atmosphere. A cloud of coal dust from the engine
entered through the window and settled on the white muslin covers that
protected the backs of the seats. At times, contrasting with the
penetrating odor of the coal, came a puff of woody perfume from the oak
groves and the meadows stretching on either hand. The landscape was full
of character. It was the wild and beautiful scenery of the Basque
provinces. All along the road rose frowning heights crowned by massive
casemates and strong castles, recently constructed for the purpose of
holding in subjection those indomitable hills. On the sides of the
mountain could be discerned broad trenches and lines of redoubts, like
scars on the face of a veteran. Tall and graceful poplars girdled the
well-cultivated, green and level plains, like necklaces of emerald.
Above the neat, white houses rose the belfry towers. Lucía crossed
herself at sight of them.
Passing by Vitoria a thought of home came to her mind. It was suggested
by the long rows of elms that surround and beautify the city.
“They look like the trees in Leon,” she murmured with a sigh.
And she added in a lower voice, as if speaking to herself:
“I wonder what poor papa is doing now?”
“Does your father reside in Leon?” asked Artegui.
“Yes, in Leon. If he were to know of what has happened, he would be
terribly distressed. After all the charges and the advice he gave me! To
beware of thieves--not to get sick--not to go in the sun--not to get
wet. When I think of it----”
“Is your father an old man?”
“He is getting on in years, but he is strong and well-preserved, and
handsomer in my eyes than gold. I have the good luck to have the best
father in all Spain--he has no will but mine.”
“You are an only child, perhaps?”
“Yes, Señor, and I lost my mother when I was but that high,” and Lucía
held out her open hand, palm downward, on a level with her knee. “Why, I
was not even weaned when my mother died! And see! that is the only
misfortune that has ever happened to me; for, except in that, there may
be plenty of happy people in the world, but no one could be happier than
I have been.”
Artegui fixed on her his deep and imperious eyes.
“You were happy?” he repeated, as if echoing the young girl’s thought.
“Yes, indeed; Father Urtazu used sometimes to say to me, ‘Take care,
child, God is paying you in advance; and afterward, when you die, do you
know what he is going to say to you? That there is nothing owing to
you.’”
“So that,” said Artegui, “you missed nothing in your quiet life in Leon?
You wished for nothing?”
“Yes, sometimes I had longings, but without knowing precisely what for.
I think now that what I wanted was change--to travel. But I was never
impatient, because I always felt that sooner or later I should obtain
what I wished. Was I not right? Father Urtazu used to laugh at me
sometimes, saying, ‘Patience, every autumn brings its fruit.’”
“Father Urtazu is a Jesuit?”
“Yes, and so learned! There is nothing he does not know. Sometimes, to
vex Doña Romualda, the directress of the seminary I attended, I used to
say to her, ‘I would rather have Father Urtazu for my teacher than
you.’”
“And now,” said Artegui, with the brutal curiosity that prompts the
fingers to tear apart the bud, leaf by leaf, until its inmost heart is
laid bare, “and now you are happier than ever before? I should say so!
Just think of it--to be married, nothing less!”
Lucía, without perceiving the ironical accent in which her companion
uttered these words, answered frankly:
“Well, I will tell you. I always wanted to marry to please my father. I
did not want to torment him with all that nonsense about lovers with
which other girls torment their parents. My friends, that is some of
them, if they chanced to see an officer of the garrison pass before
their window--lo! on the instant they were dying in love with him, and
it was nothing but sending and receiving letters. I used to be amazed at
their falling in love in that way, just from seeing a man pass by in the
street--and as I had never felt anything for any one of those men, and
as I already knew Señor de Miranda, and father liked him so much, I
thought to myself, ‘It is the best thing I can do; in this way I shall
have no trouble about the matter,’--was I not right?--‘I have only to
close my eyes, say yes, and the thing is done. Father will be pleased,
and I also.’”
Artegui looked so fixedly at her, that Lucía felt her cheeks burn
beneath the ardor of his gaze, and blushing to the roots of her hair,
she murmured:
“I tell you all the nonsensical thoughts that come into my head. As we
have nothing else to talk about----”
He continued to search with his gaze the open and youthful countenance
before him, as the steel blade probes the living flesh. He knew very
well that frankness and candor are often more truly the signs of
innocence than reticence and reserve, and yet he could not but marvel at
the extreme simplicity of the young girl. It was necessary in order to
understand it, to consider that the vigorous physical health of the body
had preserved the spirit pure. Fever had never rendered languid the gaze
of those eyes with their bluish cornea; the excitation that wastes the
strength of the growing girl, in the trying age between ten and fifteen,
had never paled those fresh and rosy lips. Lucía might be likened to a
rosebud with all its petals closed, raising itself proudly in the midst
of its brilliant green leaves upon its strong and graceful stem.
The heat, which had been steadily increasing, was now overpowering. When
they arrived at Alsásua, Lucía again complained of thirst and Artegui,
offering her his arm, conducted her to the dining-room of the
restaurant, reminding her that as several hours had passed since she had
supped, it would be well to eat something now.
“Breakfast for two,” he called to the waiter, clapping his hands to
attract the man’s attention.
The waiter approached, his napkin thrown over his shoulder. He had a
bronzed face and a soldierly air which accorded ill with the patent
leather shoes, and hair flattened down with bandoline, which is the
livery imposed by the public on its servants in these places. A broad
scar, running across the left cheek from the end of the mustache down
the neck, added to his martial appearance. The waiter stared fixedly at
Artegui for a moment, then, giving a cry, or rather a sort of canine
bark, he exclaimed:
“It is either he himself or the devil in his shape! Señorito Ignacio! It
is a cure for sore eyes----”
“You here, Sardiola?” said Artegui quietly. “We shall have a good
breakfast then, for you will see to it that we are well served.”
“Yes, Señorito, I am here. _Afterward_,” he said, laying marked emphasis
on the word, and lowering his voice, “as I found everything belonging to
me destroyed--the house burned to the ground and the field laid waste--I
set to work to earn my living as best I could. And you, Señorito, are
you going to France?”
“I am going to France, but if you keep on chattering we shall have no
breakfast to-day.”
“That would be a pretty thing----”
Sardiola spoke a few words in the Biscayan dialect, bristling with z’s,
k’s, and t’s, to some of his fellow-waiters. Breakfast was at once
served to Artegui and Lucía, the man taking his stand behind the chair
of the former.
“So you are going to France?” he went on. “And the Señora Doña
Armanda--is she well?”
“Not very well,” answered Ignacio, the cloud deepening on his brow. “She
suffers a great deal. When I left her, however, she was feeling slightly
better.”
“When she sees you at home once more she will be quite well again.”
And looking at Lucía, and striking his forehead with his clenched hand,
Sardiola suddenly cried:
“The more so as---- How stupid I am! Why of course the Señora Doña
Armanda will get well when she sees joy entering her doors! What a
pleasure to see you married, Señorito, and to so lovely a girl! I wish
you every happiness!”
“Dolt!” said Ignacio, gruffly and impatiently, “this lady is not my
wife.”
“Well, it is a pity she is not,” answered the Biscayan, while Lucía
looked smilingly at him. “You would make a pair that--not if you were to
search the wide world through--only that the Señorita----”
“Go on,” said Lucía, intensely amused, busying herself in removing the
tissue paper from an orange.
“Shall I, Señorito Ignacio?”
Artegui shrugged his shoulders. Sardiola, taking this for a sign of
assent, launched forth:
“The young lady looks as if she were never out of temper, and you--you
are always as if you had just received a beating. In that you would not
be a very good match for each other.”
Lucía burst into a laugh and looked at Artegui, who smiled indulgently,
which encouraged her to laugh still more. The breakfast proceeded in the
same cordial manner, animated by Sardiola’s chatter and by the infantile
delight of Lucía. On their return to the cars the waiter accompanied
them to the very door of the compartment and, had Lucía been owner of
the arms of Artegui, she would have thrown them around Sardiola’s neck
when the latter repeated, raising his eyes to heaven, and in the tone in
which one prays, when one prays in earnest:
“The Virgin of Begoña be with you, Señorito--God grant that you may find
Doña Armanda well--command me as if I were a dog, your dog. Remember
that I am here at your service.”
“Thank you,” said Artegui, assuming once more his habitual look of
gloomy reserve.
The train started and Sardiola remained standing on the platform waving
an adieu with his napkin, without changing his attitude, until the smoke
of the engine had vanished on the horizon. Lucía looked at Artegui and
questions crowded to her lips.
“That poor man is greatly attached to you,” she said at last.
“I was so unfortunate as to render him a service at one time,” answered
Ignacio, “and since then----”
“Hear that! and you call that a misfortune. Well, then, you have been
very unfortunate ever since this morning, for you have rendered me a
hundred services already.”
Artegui smiled again as he looked at the young girl.
“The misfortune does not consist,” he said, “in rendering a service, but
in the recipient showing so much gratitude.”
“Well, then, I too suffer from the same disease as Sardiola, and I am
not ashamed of it,” declared Lucía; “you shall see by and by.”
“Bah! all that is wanting is that I should have people grateful to me
without cause,” responded Artegui, in the same festive tone. “It is not
so bad when there is some motive for gratitude, as in the case of that
poor Sardiola.”
“What did you do for him?” asked Lucía, unable to keep her inquisitive
lips closed.
“Not much. I cured him of a wound--a rather serious one.”
“The wound that left that scar on his cheek?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“An amateur one, and that by chance.” Artegui relapsed into silence, and
Lucía did not venture to ask any more questions. The heat continued to
increase. Although it was autumn the weather was suffocating, and the
dust from the engine, diffused through the heated atmosphere, was
stifling. The scenery grew wilder as they proceeded, the country growing
more and more mountainous and rugged. Occasionally they entered a
tunnel, and then the darkness, the rush of the train, the damp,
underground air, penetrating into the compartment, mitigated to some
extent the intense heat.
Lucía fanned herself with a newspaper, arranged for her by Artegui in
the form of a shell; light, transparent drops of perspiration dotted her
rosy neck, her temples, and her chin. From time to time she dried them
with her handkerchief. The tresses of her hair, uncurled and damp,
clung to her forehead. She loosened her stiff collar, took off her
necktie, which was strangling her, and leaned back languidly in her
corner. In order to soften the light in the compartment, Artegui drew
the little curtains of the low windows, producing a vague and mysterious
bluish atmosphere that gave the place the air of a submarine grotto, the
noise of the train, not unlike the roar of the ocean, contributing to
the illusion. Insensible to the heat, Artegui raised the curtain
slightly and looked out at the landscape--the oak groves, the sierra,
the deep valleys. Once he caught a glimpse of a picturesque train of
pilgrims. The scene vanished quickly, but he had time to distinguish the
forms of the pilgrims, their scapulars hanging around their necks,
wending along the narrow road on foot or in wagons drawn by oxen, the
men wearing the red or blue flat woolen cap of the country, the women
with their heads covered with white handkerchiefs. The procession
resembled the descent of the shepherds in the Christmas representation
of the Adoration. The bright sunshine, falling full upon the figures of
the pilgrims, bestowed upon them the crude tones of figures of painted
clay. Artegui drew Lucía’s attention to the scene; she raised the
curtain in her turn, leaned out of the window, and gazed at the
spectacle until a bend of the road and a rapid movement of the train hid
the picture from view. It seemed as if the tunnels took a malicious
pleasure in shutting out from their sight the most beautiful views on
the route. Did they catch sight of a smiling hill, a group of leafy
trees, a pleasant meadow, lo! the train entered a tunnel and they
remained motionless at the window, daring neither to speak nor move, as
if they had suddenly entered a church. Lucía, now somewhat accustomed to
the heat, looked with great interest at the various objects along the
road. The tall match factories, with their white-washed walls and large
painted signs, pleased her greatly, and at Hernani she clapped her hands
with delight on catching a glimpse, to the left of the road, of a
magnificent English park, with its gay flower knots contrasting with the
green grass, and its stately coniferous trees, with their symmetrical
pendant foliage. At Pasajes, after the wearisome monotony of the
mountains, their eyes were at last refreshed with a view of the blue sea
that stretched before them, its surface gently rippling while the
vessels anchored in the bay swayed with a gentle motion, and a
sea-breeze, pungent and salt, fluttered the silk curtains of the
carriage, fanning the perspiring brows of the weary travelers. Lucía
gazed in wonder at the ocean, which she had never seen before, and when
the tunnel suddenly and without warning spread a black veil over the
scene, she remained leaning on her elbows at the window, with dilated
eyes and parted lips, lost in admiration.
As the hours went by, and they advanced on their journey, Artegui lost
something of his statue-like coldness, and, growing by degrees more
communicative, explained to Lucía the various views of this moving
panorama. The young girl listened with that species of attention which
is so delightful to a teacher--that of the pupil, enthusiastic and
docile at the same time. Artegui, when he chose to speak, could be
eloquent. He described the customs of the country; he related many
particulars concerning the villages and the hamlets of which they caught
glimpses on their way. Eyes fixed and observant, a countenance all
attention, changing its expression at the narrator’s will, responded to
his words. So that, when the train stopped at Irún, and they heard the
first words spoken in a foreign tongue, Lucía exclaimed, as if with
regret:
“What! Are we there already?”
“In France? Yes,” answered Artegui, “but we have still some distance to
travel before reaching Bayonne. They examine the luggage here; this is
the custom-house of Irún. They will not trouble us much, though; people
coming from France to Spain are the victims of the custom-house
officials, but no one supposes that those who travel from Spain to
France carry contraband articles or new clothes----”
“But I carry new clothes!” exclaimed Lucía. “My wedding outfit. Do you
see that big trunk that they have set there on the counter? That is
mine, and that other is Miranda’s, and the hat-box----”
“Give me the check and the keys to have them examined.”
“The check and the keys? Miranda has them--not I.”
“In that case you will be left without luggage. You will have to remain
here until your husband joins you.”
Lucía looked at Artegui with something like dismay, but the next moment
she burst out laughing.
“Left without luggage!” she repeated.
And her silvery laughter burst forth afresh. She thought it a delightful
incident to be left without her luggage; she seemed to herself like a
child lost in the streets, who is taken in charge by some charitable
person until her home can be found. It was a perfect adventure. Child
as Lucía was, she might have taken it either as matter for laughter or
matter for tears; she took it as matter for laughter, because she was
happy, and until they reached Hendaya the burst of merriment that
enlivened the carriage did not cease. At Hendaya the dinner served to
prolong these moments of perfect cordiality. The elegant dining-room of
the railway station at Hendaya, adorned with all that taste and
attention to detail displayed by the French to serve, attract, and
squeeze the customer, invited to intimacy, with its long and discreet
curtains of subdued hues, its enormous chimney-piece of bronze and
marble, its splendid sideboard surmounted by a pair of large round
Japanese vases, ornamented with strange plants and birds, gleaming with
Ruolz silver, and laden with mountains of opaque china. Artegui and
Lucía selected a small table with two covers where, sitting opposite
each other, they could converse together in low tones so that the firm,
grave sounds of their Spanish speech might not attract attention amid
the confused and gliding sounds of the chorus of French accents
proceeding from the general conversation at the large table. Artegui
played the rôle of butler and cupbearer, naming the dishes, pouring out
the wines, carving the meat, anticipating Lucía’s childish caprices,
shelling the almonds and peeling the apples for her, and dipping the
ruddy grapes into the crystal bowl of water. A cloud seemed to have been
lifted from his now animated countenance and his movements, although
calm and composed, showed less weariness and listlessness than before.
When they re-entered the carriage, night was approaching, and the sun
was sinking in the west with the swiftness peculiar to autumn. They
closed the windows on one side of the compartment and the flickering
light played on the ceiling of the carriage, appearing and disappearing
like children playing hide and seek. The mountains grew black, the
clouds in the distance turned flame color, then faded, one by one, like
a rose of fire dropping its glowing petals. The conversation between
Artegui and Lucía languished and then ceased entirely, both relapsing
into a gloomy silence,--he showing his accustomed air of fatigue, she
lost in a profound revery, dominated by the saddening influence of the
hour. The twilight deepened, and from one of the carriages could be
heard rising above the noise made in its slow progress by the train, a
sorrowful and passionate chorus in a foreign tongue; a _zortzico_,
intoned in deep, full voices by a party of young Biscayans on their way
to Bayonne. Now and then a cascade of mocking laughter interrupted the
song; then the chorus would rise again, tender and melancholy as a sigh,
toward the heavens, black now as ink. Lucía listened, and the train,
slowly making the descent, accompanied with its deep vibration the
voices of the singers.
The arrival at Bayonne surprised Artegui and Lucía as if they had
wakened from a prolonged sleep. Artegui quickly drew his hand away from
the knob of the window on which it had been resting and the young girl
looked around her with an air of surprise. She noticed that it had grown
cool, and she buttoned her collar and put on her necktie. Men with
woolen caps, girls wearing handkerchiefs fastened at the back of the
head, a stream of passengers of diverse appearance and social condition
pushed and elbowed one another and bustled about in the large station.
Artegui gave his arm to his companion so that they might not lose each
other in the crowd.
“Had your husband decided on any particular hotel at which to stop in
Bayonne?” he asked.
“I think,” murmured Lucía, making an effort to remember, “that I heard
him mention a hotel called San Estéban. I remembered it because I have
a very pretty picture of that saint in my missal.”
“Saint Étienne,” said Artegui to the driver of the omnibus, who, seated
on the box, his head turned toward them, was waiting for orders.
The horses set off at a heavy trot, and the vehicle rolled along through
the well-paved streets until it reached a house with a narrow door,
marble steps flanked by consumptive-looking plants in pots, and bright
gas-lamps, before which it stopped.
A fair, tall woman, neatly dressed, wearing a freshly ironed pleated
cap, came to the door to receive them and hastened to give Artegui’s
valise to a waiter.
“The lady and gentleman would like to have a room?” she murmured in
French, in mellifluous and obsequious tones.
“Two,” answered Artegui laconically.
“Two,” she repeated in Spanish, although with a transpyrenean accent.
“And would the lady and gentleman like them connected?”
“Entirely separate.”
“_Tout à fait._ They shall be prepared.”
The landlady called a chambermaid, no less neat and obliging than
herself, who, taking two keys from the board on which were hanging the
keys of the hotel, ascended the waxed stairs, followed by Artegui and
Lucía.
She stopped on the third landing, a little out of breath, and opening
the doors of two rooms adjoining each other, but separate, struck a
match, lighted the candles on the chimney-piece of each and then
withdrew. Artegui and Lucía stood silent for a few moments at the doors
of their respective rooms; at last, the former said:
“You must want to wash your hands and face and brush the dust of the
road from your dress and rest for a while. I will leave you now. Call
the chambermaid if you should require anything; here every one speaks a
little Spanish.”
“Good-by,” she answered mechanically.
When the noise made by the closing of the door announced to Lucía that
she was alone, and she cast her eyes around this strange room, dimly
illumined by the light of the candles, the excitement and bewilderment
she had felt during the journey vanished; she called to mind her little
room at Leon, simple but dainty as a silver cup, with its holy-water
font, its saint, its boxes of mignonette, its work-table, its capacious
cedar wardrobe filled with freshly ironed linen. She thought, too, of
her father, of Carmela and Rosarito, of all the sweet past. Then
sadness overpowered her; fears, vague but none the less real, assailed
her; the position in which she found herself seemed to her strange and
alarming: the present looked threatening, the future dark. She sank into
an easy-chair and gazed fixedly at the light of the candles with the
abstracted look of one lost in deep and painful meditation.