An hour, or perhaps an hour and a half, might have passed when Lucía
heard a knock at the door of her room, and opening it she found herself
face to face with her companion and protector, who gave proof, by his
white cuffs and some slight changes which he had made in his dress, of
having paid that minute attention to the business of the toilet which is
a part of the religion of our age. He entered, and without seating
himself, held out to Lucía his pocket-book, filled with money.
“You have here,” he said, “money enough for any occasion that may arise
until your husband joins you. As the trains are apt to be delayed at
this season, I do not think he will be here before morning, but even if
he should not arrive for a week, or even a month, there is enough to
last you till then.”
Lucía looked at him as if she had not understood his meaning, without
making any motion to take the pocket-book. He slipped it into her palm.
“I am obliged to go out now, to attend to some business,” he said;
“after which I will take the first train for Paris. Good-by, Señora,” he
ended ceremoniously, taking two steps toward the door.
Then, grasping his meaning, the young girl, with pale and troubled
countenance, caught him by the sleeve of his overcoat, exclaiming:
“What--what do you mean? What are you saying about the train?”
“What is natural, Señora,” said the traveler, with his former tired
gesture, “that I am going to continue my journey; that I am going to
Paris.”
“And you are going to leave me in this way--alone! Alone here in
France!” said Lucía, in the greatest distress.
“Señora, this is not a desert, nor need you fear that any harm will
befall you. You have money. That is the one thing needful on French
soil; that you will be well served and waited upon, I will guarantee.”
“But--good heavens! Alone! alone!” she repeated, without loosening her
hold on Artegui’s sleeve.
“Within a few hours your husband will be here.”
“And if he does not come?”
“Why should he not come? What puts it into your head that he will not
come?”
“I do not say that he will not come,” stammered Lucía. “I only say that
if he should delay----”
“In fine,” murmured Artegui, “I, too, have my occupations--it is
imperative that I should go.”
Lucía answered not a word to this, but, loosening her hold on his
sleeve, she sank again into her chair and hid her face in her hands.
Artegui approached her and saw that her bosom heaved with a quick,
irregular motion, as if she were sobbing. Between her fingers drops
flowed as copiously as if they had been squeezed out of a sponge.
“Lift up your face,” said Artegui in an authoritative voice.
Lucía raised her flushed, moist countenance and, in spite of herself,
smiled as she did so.
“You are a young girl,” he said, “a young girl who is not bound to know
what the world is. I, who have seen more of it than I could wish, would
be unpardonable if I did not undeceive you. The world is a collection of
eyes, ears, and mouths that close themselves to all that is good and
open themselves eagerly to all that is evil. My company at present is
more to your injury than your advantage. If your husband has not
exceptionally good judgment--and there is no reason to suppose that he
has--it will give him but little satisfaction to find you so protected.”
“Good heavens! and why? What would have become of me if I had not met
you so opportunely? That dreadful official might have put me in prison.
I don’t know what Señor de Miranda will say but, as for poor papa, he
would kiss the ground you walk upon, I am sure of it.”
And Lucía, with a gesture of passionate and plebeian gratitude, made a
movement as if to kneel before Artegui.
“A husband is not a father,” he answered. “The only reasonable, the only
sensible course, Señora, is for me to go. I telegraphed from Ebro to
Miranda, so that if your husband should be there, he may be told you are
waiting here for him in Bayonne.”
“Go, then.”
And Lucía turned her back on Artegui, and leaning her elbows on the
window-sill, looked out of the window.
Artegui remained for a moment standing in the middle of the room,
looking at the young girl, who doubtless was swallowing her tears
silently, undecided what to do. At last he approached her, and almost in
a whisper:
“After all,” he murmured, “there is no need to be so greatly troubled.
Dry your tears, for if you live long enough you will have time and cause
in plenty for them to flow.”
Lowering still more his sonorous voice, he added:
“I will remain.”
Lucía turned round as if she had been moved by a spring, and, clapping
her hands, cried with childish delight:
“Thank you! Thank you, Señor de Artegui. Oh, but will you stay in
earnest? I am beside myself with joy. What happiness! But,” she added
suddenly, as if the thought had only just occurred to her, “can you
remain? Will it be a sacrifice, will it be a trouble to you?”
“No,” answered Artegui, with a gloomy countenance.
“That lady, that Doña Armanda, who is expecting you in Paris--may not
she, too, need you?”
“She is my mother,” answered Artegui, and Lucía was satisfied with the
response, although it failed to answer her question.
Artegui, meanwhile, pushed a chair toward the table, and seating
himself in it leaned his elbow on the cover and burying his face in his
hands, gave himself up to his thoughts. Lucía, from the embrasure of the
window, was observing his movements. When ten minutes had passed, and
Artegui had neither moved nor spoken, she approached him softly, and, in
a timid and supplicating voice, stammered:
“Señor de Artegui----”
He looked up. His face wore its former gloomy expression.
“What do you wish?” he asked hoarsely.
“What is the matter? It seems to me that you are--very downcast and very
sad--I suppose it is on account of--what we were saying--see, if it
annoys you so greatly, I think I prefer that you should go. Yes, I am
sure I do.”
“I am not annoyed. I am--as I always am. It is because you know me so
little that you are surprised at my manner.”
And seeing that Lucía remained standing with a remorseful expression on
her countenance, he motioned to the other chair. Lucía drew it forward
and sat down in it, facing Artegui.
“Say something,” continued Artegui, “let us talk. We must amuse
ourselves, we must chat--as we did this afternoon.”
“Ah, this afternoon you were in a good humor.”
“And you?”
“I was suffocated with the heat. Our house at Leon is very cool; I am
much more susceptible to the heat than to the cold.”
“You found it pleasant, no doubt, to wash off the dust of the road. It
is so refreshing to make one’s toilet after a journey.”
“Yes, but----” Lucía stopped. “I missed one thing--a very important
thing,” she added.
“What? Cologne water, perhaps. I forgot to bring you my _necessaire_.”
“No, indeed,--the trunk which contained my linen--I could not change my
things.”
Artegui rose.
“Why did you not mention this before?” he said. “We are precisely in the
place where Spanish brides purchase their wedding outfits!--I will be
back directly.”
“But--where are you going?”
“To bring you a couple of changes of linen; you must be in torture with
those dusty garments.”
“Señor de Artegui! for Heaven’s sake! I am imposing on your good nature;
wait----”
“Why do you not come with me to choose them?”
And Artegui handed Lucía her toque.
The scruples that at first presented themselves to the young girl’s mind
vanished quickly like a flock of frightened quail, and a little
confused, but still more happy, she hastily took Artegui’s offered arm.
“We shall see the streets, shall we not?” she exclaimed excitedly.
And as they went down the waxed and slippery stairs, she said, with a
remnant of provincial scrupulousness and shyness:
“Of course, Señor de Artegui, my husband will repay you all you are
spending.”
Artegui tightened his clasp on her arm with a smile, and they walked on
through the streets of Bayonne, as much at home with each other as if
they had lived all their lives together. The night was worthy of the
day. In the soft blue sky the stars shone clear and bright. The
gas-lights of the innumerable shops, which in Bayonne trade upon the
vanity of the wealthy and migratory Spaniards, encircled the dark blocks
of houses with zones of light, and in the show-cases gleamed, in every
tone of the chromatic scale, rich stuffs, porcelains, curious bronzes,
and costly jewels. The pair walked on in silence, Artegui accommodating
his long manly stride to the shorter step of Lucía. The streets were
filled with people who walked along quickly, with an air of animation,
like people engaged in some business that interests them; not with the
languid air of the southern races, who walk for exercise or to kill
time. The tables standing in front of the cafés were crowded with
customers, for the mild atmosphere made it pleasant to sit in the open
air, and under the bright light of the gas lamps the waiters hurried
about serving beer, coffee, or chocolate _bavaroise_; and the smoke of
the cigars, and the rustling of newspapers, and the talk, and the sharp
ring of the dominoes on the marble made the sidewalk full of life.
Suddenly Artegui turned the corner of the street and led the way into a
rather narrow shop, whose show-case was almost filled by two long
morning-gowns adorned with cascades of lace, one of them trimmed with
blue, the other with pink ribbons. Inside the shop were numberless
articles of underwear for women and children, coquettishly
displayed,--jackets with extended sleeves, wrappers hanging in graceful
folds. The ivory white of the laces contrasted with the chalky white of
the muslins. Here and there the brilliant colors, the silk and gold of
some morning cap resting on its wooden stand, rose in contrast from
among the white masses lying around on all sides like a carpet of snow.
The proprietress of the establishment, like most of the shopkeepers of
Bayonne, spoke Spanish; and when Lucía asked her for two suits of linen
she availed herself of her knowledge of the language of Cervantes to
endeavor to persuade her to launch into further purchases. Taking Lucía
and Artegui for a newly married couple she became flattering,
insinuating, importunate, and persisted in showing them a complete
outfit, lauding its beauty and its cheapness. She threw on the counter
armfuls of articles, floods of lace, embroidery, batiste. Not content
with which, and seeing that Lucía, submerged in a flood of linen, was
making signs in the negative with head and hands, she touched another
spring, and took down enormous pasteboard boxes containing diminutive
caps, flannel, swaddling-clothes, finely scalloped cashmere and piqué
cloaks, petticoats of an exaggerated length, and other articles which
brought the blood to Lucía’s cheeks.
Artegui put an end to the attack by paying for the suits selected, and
giving the address of the hotel to which they were to be sent.
This done, they left the shop; but Lucía, enchanted with the beauty and
serenity of the night, expressed a wish to remain out a little longer.
They retraced their steps, passing again before the brilliantly lighted
cafés and the theater, and took the road to the bridge, at this hour
almost deserted. The lights of the city were tremulously reflected on
the tranquil bosom of the Adour.
“How bright the stars are!” exclaimed Lucía; and suddenly pulling
Artegui by the sleeve, to arrest his steps. “What star is that,” she
said, “that shines so brightly?”
“It is called Jupiter. It is one of the planets belonging to our
system.”
“How bright and lovely it is! Some of the stars seem to be cold, they
tremble so as they shine; and others are motionless, as if they were
watching us.”
“They are, in effect, fixed stars. Do you see that band of light that
crosses the sky?”
“That looks like a wide silver gauze ribbon?”
“That is the Milky Way; a collection of stars, the number of which is so
great as to be inconceivable even to the imagination. Our sun is one of
the ants of that ant-hill,--one of those stars.”
“The sun--is it a star?” asked the young girl in surprise.
“A fixed star--we whirl around it like mad people.”
“Ah, how delightful to know all those things! In the school I attended,
we were not taught a particle of all that, and Doña Romualda used to
laugh at me when I would say I was going to ask Father Urtazu--who is
always looking at the heavens through a big telescope--what the stars
and the sun and the moon are.”
Artegui turned to the right, following the embankment, while he
explained to Lucía the first notions of that science of astronomy which
seems like a celestial romance, a fantastic tale written in characters
of light on sapphire tablets. The young girl, enraptured, gazed now at
her companion, now at the serene firmament. She was amazed, above all,
at the magnitude and number of the stars.
“How vast the sky is! Dear Lord! if the material, the visible heavens
are so great, what must the real heavens be, where the Virgin, the
angels, and the saints are!”
Artegui shook his head, and bending toward Lucía, murmured:
“How do those stars seem to you? One might fancy they were sad. Is it
not true that when they twinkle they look as if they were shedding
tears?”
“They are not sad,” responded Lucía, “they are pensive, which is a very
different thing. They are thinking, and they have something to think
about,--to go no further, God who created them.”
“Thinking! They think as much as that bridge or those vessels think. The
_privilege_ of thinking”--Artegui laid a bitter emphasis on the word
_privilege_--“is reserved for man, the lord of creation. And if there be
on those stars, as there must be, men endowed with the privileges and
the faculties of humanity, they it is who think.”
“Do you believe there are people on those stars? Do you think they are
like us, Señor de Artegui? Do they eat? Do they drink? Do they walk?”
“Of that I know nothing. There is only one thing I can assure you of,
but that with full knowledge and perfect certainty.”
“What is that?” asked the young girl, with curiosity, watching, by the
uncertain light of the stars Artegui’s countenance.
“That they suffer as we suffer,” he answered.
“How do you know that?” she murmured, impressed by the hollow tone in
which the words were uttered. “Well, for my part, I fancy that in the
stars that are so beautiful and that shine so brightly, there is neither
discord nor death, as there is here. It must be blissful there!” she
declared, raising her hand and pointing to the refulgent orb of
Jupiter.
“Pain is the universal law, here as well as there,” said Artegui,
looking fixedly at the Adour which ran, dark and silent, at his feet.
They spoke little more until they reached the hotel. There are
conversations which awaken profound thoughts and which are more
fittingly followed by silence than by frivolous words. Lucía, tired,
without knowing why, leaned heavily on the arm of Artegui, who walked
slowly, with his accustomed air of indifference. The last words of their
conversation were discordant--almost hostile.
“At what hour does the morning train arrive?” asked Lucía suddenly.
“The first train arrives at five or thereabouts.”
The voice of Artegui was dry and hard.
“Shall we go to meet it to see if Señor de Miranda is on it?”
“You may do so if you choose, Señora; as for me, permit me to decline.”
The tone in which he answered was so bitter that Lucía did not know what
to reply.
“The employees of the hotel will go,” added Artegui, “whether you do or
not, to meet the trains. There is no need for you to rise so early--at
least, unless your conjugal tenderness is so great----”
Lucía bent her head, and her face flushed as if a red-hot iron had
passed close to it. When they entered the hotel the landlady approached
them; her smile, animated by curiosity, was even more amiable and
obsequious than before. She explained that she had forgotten a necessary
formality--to enter the names of the lady and gentleman, and their
nationality, in the hotel register.
“Ignacio Artegui, Madame de Miranda; Spaniards,” said Artegui.
“If the gentleman had a card----” the landlady ventured to say.
Artegui gave her the desired slip of pasteboard, and the landlady was as
profuse in her courtesies and thanks as if she were excusing herself for
complying with the required formality.
“When the morning train arrives,” said Ignacio, “give orders to inquire
for Monsieur Aurelio Miranda--don’t forget! Let him be told that Madame
is in this hotel, that she is well, and that she is waiting for him to
join her. Do you understand?”
“_Parfait_,” answered the Frenchwoman.
Lucía and Artegui bade each other good-night at the doors of their
respective rooms. Lucía, as she was about to undress, saw the purchases
she had made, lying on the table. She put on the fresh linen with
delight, and lay down thinking she was going to sleep profoundly, as
she had done the preceding night. But she did not enjoy the repose she
had anticipated: her sleep was restless and broken. Perhaps the
strangeness of the bed, its very softness, produced in Lucía the effect
which unaccustomed luxuries produce in persons habituated to a monastic
life, of whom it may be said with truth, paradoxical as it may appear,
that comfort makes them uncomfortable.