The aspect of Vichy, in truth, in those last days of October, was well
calculated to inspire sadness. Dead leaves lay everywhere. The park,
formerly so full of animation, was deserted; only a few visitors, who
had come late in the season to drink the waters--and who were really
ill--were to be seen promenading the asphalt pavement lately thronged
with richly-dressed people and enlivened by the buzz of cheerful
conversation. No one hastened now to sweep up and carry away the yellow
leaves that covered the ground like a carpet, for Vichy, so clean and
attractive in the season, becomes neglected-looking and filthy as soon
as its fashionable summer guests have turned their backs upon it. The
whole town looked as if a general removal were taking place; the
adornments of the balconies of the _châlets_, deserted now by their
tenants, had been removed, so that they might not be injured by the
rains; in the streets were heaps of brick and mortar to be used in
building, which no one had ventured to undertake in the summer, not
wishing to mar the beauty of the place during the season. The shops for
the sale of articles of luxury had, one after another, closed their
shutters, and their owners, taking with them their wares, had departed
for Nice, Cannes, or some other wintering place of the kind. A few shops
still remained open, and their show-cases served to divert Lucía and
Pilar when they went out for their leisurely walks. The chief of these
was a shop for the sale of curiosities, antiques, and objects of art,
situated almost in front of the famous “Nymph,” and consequently at the
back of the Casino. The shop being too small to conveniently hold the
_mare magnum_ of objects which it contained, they overflowed its limits
and invaded the sidewalk. It was a delightful occupation to rummage
among its recesses, and to pry into its corners, making at every instant
some new and curious discovery. The proprietors of the shop, having
little business at this season, made no objection to their doing so.
They were a married couple: the husband a Bohemian from the Rastro, with
sleepy eyes, a well worn coat and a torn necktie worthy of a place among
the antiques of his shop; the wife fair, thin, willowy, and agile as a
garret cat, gliding among the precious objects heaped up to the ceiling.
Lucía and Pilar found great amusement in examining the heterogeneous
assemblage. In the center of the shop, a superb table of Sèvres
porcelain and gilt-bronze proudly displayed its splendor. On the central
medallion was represented in enamel, on a blue background of the shade
peculiar to _pâte tendre_, the broad, good-natured, but rather sad
countenance of Louis XVI; around this was a circle of smaller
medallions, representing the graceful heads of the ladies of the court
of the guillotined king--some with powdered hair, piled high on the
head, and surmounted by a large basket of flowers; others with hoods of
black lace fastened under the chin; all with immodestly _décolleté_
gowns, all smiling and richly dressed, with the freshest of complexions
and the rosiest of lips. If Lucía and Pilar had been learned in history,
how many reflections would have been suggested to them by the sight of
all these ivory necks adorned with diamond necklaces or tight velvet
bands, destined, doubtless, like that of the king who presided with
melancholy air over the beautiful bevy, to bow to the executioner’s
knife.
The pride of the collection was the ceramics. There were a number of
Dresden figures, pure, soft, and delicate in coloring as the clouds
painted by the dawn; rosy cupids garlanded with wreaths of sky-blue
flowers; shepherdesses with a complexion of milk and roses guarding
sheep adorned with crimson bows; nymphs and swans who exchanged amorous
compliments in groves of a pale green, planted with roses; violinists
holding the bow with affected grace, advancing the right foot, ready to
take part in a minuet; flower-girls who simperingly pointed to the
basket of flowers which they carried on their left arms. Side by side
with these pastoral fancies, rare products of Asiatic art displayed
their strange and deformed shapes, like idols of a barbarous faith;
across rotund vases, adorned with yellow leaves and purple or
flame-colored flowers, flew bands of unnatural-looking birds or glided
monstrous reptiles; on the dark background of flat-sided vases stood out
boldly fantastic scenes--green rivers flowing over ochre beds; kiosks of
crimson lake, hung with golden bells; mandarins with gorgeous trains
falling in straight lines, sleek, drooping mustaches, oblique eyes, and
heads like pumpkins. The Majolica and Palissy plates seemed fragments
taken from the bed of the sea, pieces of some sunken reef or of some
oozy river-bed. There, among sea-weed and algae, glided the gleaming,
slimy eel, the mussel opened its fluted shell, the silver bream flapped
its tail, the snail lifted up its agate horn, the frog stared with stony
eyes, and the many-clawed crab, looking like an enormous black spider,
moved along with a sidewise motion. There was a dish on which Galatea
reclined among the waves, her coursers, blue as the sea, pawing the air
with their webbed hoofs, while Tritons, with puffed-out cheeks, blew
their winding trumpets. In addition to the porcelain there were pieces
of silver, antique and heavy, such as are handed down from father to
son in honest provincial families; enormous salvers, broad trays, huge
soup-tureens with massive artichokes for handles; there were wooden
coffers inlaid with pearl and ivory; iron chests carved with the
delicacy of filagree-work; china tankards of antique shape, with metal
bands that recalled the beer-drinkers immortalized by Flemish art.
Pilar was enchanted especially with the agate cup-shaped jewel-cases,
with the jewelry of different epochs, from the amulet of the Roman lady
to the necklace of false stones and fine enamels of the time of Marie
Antoinette; but what most delighted Lucía were the church ornaments,
which awoke in her the religious sentiment, so well calculated to move
her sincere and ardent soul. The figures of two of the apostles,
solemnly pointing heavenward, stood outlined in brass on two stained
glass windows, doubtless torn from the ogive of some dismantled
monastery. On a triptych of brownish yellow ivory were represented Eve,
with meager nude figure, offering Adam the fatal apple, and the Virgin
in the mysteries of the Annunciation and of the Ascension; all
incorrectly done, with that divine candor of early sacred art, in the
ages of faith. Notwithstanding the rudeness of the design, the face of
the Virgin, the modesty of her downcast look, the mystic ideality of
her attitude charmed Lucía. If she had had money enough, she would
certainly have bought a crucifix which lay unnoticed among the other
curiosities of the shop. It was of ivory also, and was made in a single
piece, with the exception of the arms. The expression of the dying
Christ, nailed to a rich pearl cross, was painfully realistic, the
nerves and muscles showing the contraction of the death agony. Three
diamond nails pierced the hands and feet. Lucía said a paternoster every
day before it and even kissed the knees when she thought herself
unobserved.
She enjoyed looking at paintings; all the more as she could understand
them, which was not the case with all of the objects of art, some of
which she thought ugly and extravagant enough. It was plain that that
fierce swaggerer, rushing, sword in hand, on his adversary, was going to
cleave his heart in twain at a blow. What a lovely sunrise in that
Daubigny! With what naturalness those sheep of Jacque--valued at a
thousand francs apiece (there were twelve in the picture) were browsing!
How white the feet which that Favorite Sultana of Cala y Mora was
dipping in the marble basin! The head of the young girl, after Greuze,
was a marvel of innocent grace. And that Quarrel in a Flemish Inn--it
was enough to make one laugh to see how the earthenware flew around in
fragments, and the copper saucepans rolled about, and the two plowmen of
St. Oustade, misshapen and clownish-looking, distributed blows and cuffs
on all sides, their ape-like ugliness heightened by the grotesqueness of
their attitudes.
But even more than the bazar of objects of art, where so great a
diversity of forms and colors, styles and artistic ideals, after all
confused her, did one among the many stalls at the edge of the sidewalk
near the Casino, interest Lucía. These stalls represented the modest and
unpretending branches of trade. Here an old German cried his
wares--glasses to drink the waters--engraving on them with an emery
wheel the initials of the purchasers’ names in their presence; there a
Swiss offered for sale toys, dolls, little boxes, and book folders
carved in beech-wood by the shepherds; here lenses were sold, there
combs and writing-materials. Lucía’s favorite stall was one presided
over by a peddler of curiosities from Jerusalem and the Holy Land.
Mother-of-pearl calvaries with simple carvings in relief, pen handles of
olive-wood terminating in a cross, heads of the Virgin cut on shell,
brooches and trinkets of enamel adorned with arabesques, cups of black
bitumen, aromatic lozenges--such were the contents of the peddler’s
box. All this was sold by an Israelite of not unpleasing appearance,
with black eyes and yellow skin, wearing a dark red Arab fez and wide
trousers, gentle, insinuating, a Levantine in everything, with a
smattering of many languages and a good knowledge of Spanish, which, but
for the use of an occasional archaism, he spoke like a native. In this
man’s conversation Lucía found entertainment in the absence of other
sources of interest. She would question him about the holy village of
Bethlehem, the sacred house of Nazareth, Mount Olivet, and all the other
holy places which she had pictured to herself as situated rather in some
mysterious and remote paradise than on the earth. Between Lucía and the
peddler there was thus established the habit of having a ten minutes
chat every afternoon in the open air, which she enjoyed all the more
when he told her that he was a Christian and a Catholic, catechized and
instructed by the Franciscans of Bethlehem. Lucía bought specimens of
all his wares, even to a rosary of those opaque greenish beads, called,
not without some analogical similitude, Job’s tears.
“I don’t know how you can like that ugly rosary,” said Pilar.
“But just see,” exclaimed Lucía, “they look like real tears.”
But the swallow of the Levant, too, flew away in his turn, in search of
milder climes. One day they did not find Ibrahan Antonio in his
accustomed place; discouraged, perhaps, by a day without a sale, he had
packed up his wares and departed, no one knew whither. Lucía missed him;
but the retreat was a general one; on all sides, closed up and empty
shops were to be seen. On the pavements were mountains of straw, piles
of wrapping paper, packing cases and boxes bearing in large letters the
word “fragile.” The gloom, the disorder, the ever-increasing bareness of
a removal reigned. Pilar thought Vichy in this condition so unattractive
that she planned excursions which should take her away from the
principal streets. One morning she took a fancy to go to the
pastry-cook’s shop and witnessed the manufacture of two or three
thousand cakes and bonbons. On another morning she visited the
subterranean galleries which contain the immense reservoirs of water and
the enormous pipes that supply the baths of the thermal establishment.
They descended a narrow staircase whose lowest steps were lost in the
obscurity of the gallery. The keeper preceded them, carrying in her hand
a miner’s flat-shaped lamp, which emitted a disagreeable odor. Miranda
carried another lamp, and a little street urchin, who made his
appearance among them as suddenly as if he had fallen down from the
clouds, took charge of a third. The vaulted roof was so low that Miranda
was obliged to stoop down in order to avoid striking his head against
it. The narrow passage made an abrupt turn and they suddenly found
themselves in another gallery, which received, as in a yawning mouth,
the pipes that, owing to the perpetual dampness, were here covered with
rust. From the roof exuded a fine white moisture that sparkled in the
light; on either hand flowed a stream of water over a bed of residuum
and alkaline phosphates, white and floury, like newly fallen snow. As
they advanced further into the long subterranean gallery, a suffocating
heat announced the passage of the overflow of the Grande Grille, the
temperature of whose waters was still higher in this confined atmosphere
than it was at its source. From the walls, covered with patches of
mildew and limy scales, hung monstrous fungi, cryptogamous plants full
of venom, whose noxious whiteness gleamed on the wall like a pale and
sinister eye gleaming in a livid countenance. Dusty cobwebs shrouded the
elbows of the pipes like gray winding-sheets shrouding forgotten
corpses. Through the loose stones of the pavement could be caught
glimpses of the black water below. They could hear plainly the steps of
the people passing overhead, and the hard sound of the horses’ hoofs. At
intervals there was an airhole, through the iron grating of which came
the daylight, livid and sepulchral, imparting a yellow tinge to the red
flame of the lamps. The pipes wound like intestines through the damp
passage, now dragging themselves along the ground like gigantic
serpents, now reaching upward to the roof, like the black tentacles of
some enormous polypus. At one time they emerged from the corridors into
a brighter spot--a species of circular cave with a skylight, in whose
far end yawned the open mouth of the Lucas well, disclosing the still,
somber, and unfathomable water within. The urchin held his lamp over the
brink and looked down. The keeper seized him by the arm.
“Eh, my friend,” she said, “take care that you don’t fall in there. It
would not be easy to go down a hundred yards, which is the depth of that
hole, to look for you.”
Lucía, fascinated, approached the mouth of the well. The mephitic gases
it exhaled made the smoky flames of the lamps flicker. Here the
temperature was not warm, but cold--a dense, airless cold, which made
breathing difficult. An iron door opened into another gallery, on
entering which they all drew back in alarm, with the exception of the
keeper, at finding themselves surrounded by a vast expanse of water, a
sort of subterranean lake. They were standing on a narrow plank, thrown
like a bridge across the reservoir. The water, lying in its stone tomb,
had a stillness and limpidity that had something lugubrious in them. The
flame of one of the lamps, that had been left on the opposite bank to
show the extent of the deposit, threw long lines of wavering light over
the gloomy transparence of the lake, and looked, in the distance, like
the torch of a hired assassin in some Venetian prison. So fantastic was
the aspect of this lake, overhung by a granite sky, that one might fancy
it peopled with floating corpses. Lucía and Pilar experienced a vague
terror, and like children, or rather, like women, they were especially
horrified at the idea that in some one of the narrow and confused
passages, they might stumble over a rat. They knew that the deposits of
water communicated with the sewers, and two or three times already they
had turned pale, fancying they had seen a black shadow pass by, which
was only the wavering shadow of some parasites cast by the light of the
lamps upon the wall. Suddenly both women uttered a cry; this time there
was no room for doubt, they heard the sharp, shrill squeal of a rat.
Lucía stood for an instant motionless, with dilated eyes; it was
impossible here to run away. But the street urchin and the keeper burst
out laughing; they were both familiar with the sound, which was produced
by the corking of the bottles of mineral water on the other side of the
wall. The two women breathed more freely, however, when they emerged
from the gloomy labyrinth, and saw once more the light of day and felt
the fresh air blowing across their perspiring brows.
One place only did Lucía visit unaccompanied--the church of St. Louis.
At first the Leonese, accustomed to the grandeur of the superb basilica
of her native place, was not greatly pleased with the edifice. St. Louis
is a poor mediæval rhapsody conceived by a modern architect; the
interior is disfigured by being painted in tawdry colors; in a word, it
resembles an actress masquerading as a saint. But Lucía found in the
temple a Virgin of Lourdes, which charmed her exceedingly. It stood in a
grotto of blooming roses and chrysanthemums, and above its head was the
legend: I am the Immaculate Conception. Lucía knew very little about the
apparitions of Bernadette, the shepherdess, or the miracles of the
sacred mountain; but notwithstanding this, the image exercised a
singular fascination over her, seeming to call to her with mysterious
voice that floated among the grateful perfumes of the flowers, and the
flickering of the tall white tapers. The image, gay, smiling, and
simple, with floating robes and blue mantle, touched Lucía’s soul more
than the stiff images of the cathedral of Leon, clad in their pompous
garments, had ever done. One afternoon, as she was going to the church,
she saw a funeral procession pass along and she followed it. It was the
funeral of a young girl, a Child of Mary. The beadle, dressed in black,
a silver chain around his neck, walked with official gravity at the head
of the procession; four young girls, dressed in white, followed him,
their teeth chattering with cold, their cheeks violet, but proud of
their important rôle of carrying the ribbons. Then came the priests,
grave and composed, their rich voices swelling at intervals on the still
air. Inside the hearse, adorned with black and white plumes, was the
coffin covered with a snow-white cloth starred with orange-blossoms,
white roses, and heaps of lilacs that swayed with every movement of the
car. The Children of Mary, the companions of the deceased, walked along
almost gayly, lifting up their muslin skirts to keep them from touching
the muddy ground. The civil commissary, in his robes, headed the
mourners; behind him came a crowd of women dressed in black, in the
midst of whom walked the family of the dead girl, their faces red and
their eyes swollen with weeping. The church bells tolled with melancholy
sound while the coffin was being taken out of the hearse and placed on
the catafalque. Lucía entered the nave and piously knelt down among
those who were mourning for one whom she had never seen. She listened
with a melancholy pleasure to the office for the dead, the prayers
intoned in full and mellow voices by the priests. Those unknown Latin
phrases had for her a clear signification; she did not understand the
words, but she could comprehend without difficulty that they were
laments, menaces, complaints, and at times ardent and tender sighs of
love. And then, as had happened in the park, there came to her mind the
secret thought, the desire to die, and she said to herself that the dead
girl lying there in her coffin, covered with flowers, calm and
peaceful,--seeing nothing, hearing nothing of the miseries of this
wretched world, that goes round and round, and yet in all its countless
revolutions never brings a good day nor an hour of happiness,--was more
to be envied than she who was alive and obliged to feel, to think, and
to act.
“Yes, but--the soul!” Lucía said to herself.
Thus curiously did a simple and ignorant girl repeat the thought
expressed in the philosophical soliloquy of the Danish dreamer!
“Ah, and how good it must be to be dead,” thought Lucía. “Don Ignacio
was right in saying that--that--well, that there is no such thing as
happiness. If one only knew what fate awaited one in the other world!
Where now is the soul of that body that lies there! And what would be
the use of dying if after all one does not cease to exist, and to be
conscious of what is going on around one.”
Certain it is that these wild imaginings, aided by the sleepless hours
passed at the sick girl’s bedside, and perhaps by another cause, also,
dimmed the freshness of Lucía’s complexion, and tinged with gloom her
once happy and tranquil disposition. Miranda, who, cut off from all
other society, now sought that of his wife, was struck by the melancholy
expression of her countenance, and thoughts, never fully set at rest
since the unfortunate mishap of the wedding journey, sprung up again in
his mind. This thorn, which pierced his vanity, the keenest of his
feelings, to the quick, could never cease to rankle. Had Miranda’s
nature been more amiable, he might have won by love the open and
generous heart of the young Leonese, but it would seem as if some demon
inspired him always to do exactly the opposite of what he ought to have
done. He acquired the habit of speaking harshly to Lucía, and of
treating her with a certain scorn, as if he never forgot her inferiority
of station. He reminded her by covert allusions of her social position.
He spied upon her every action, reproached her with the time spent in
taking care of Perico’s sister, and, in short, adopted a system of
opposition and tyranny, admirably adapted to succeed with weak or
perverse women, whom it subjugates and charms. Lucía it brought to the
verge of desperation.
A few days before the one fixed for Perico’s return, Pilar received from
him a letter which she handed to Lucía to read. He announced in it his
near return and gave at the same time some details of the fashionable
life he was leading at the Castle of Ceyssat, and, among other pieces of
news, mentioned the death of the mother of Ignacio Artegui, which
Anatole had communicated to him, thinking it would interest him as
concerning a compatriot. He added that the son had taken the body to
Brittany, to the same old castle of Houdan, at which his childhood had
been passed, for interment. Miranda was present when this paragraph was
read, and noticed the rapid glance of intelligence that passed between
Pilar and Lucía and the sudden pallor that overspread the face of his
wife. Lucía left the house that afternoon and went to the church of St.
Louis, in which she spent half an hour or so. She went back to the
_châlet_, entered her room, where there were writing materials, wrote a
letter, which she hid in her bosom, ran down-stairs and walked rapidly
in the direction of the main street. Night was falling, the first lamps
were being lighted, and the street urchins, the choirboys of
civilization, were standing about on the pavement, crying out the names
of the Paris papers which had just arrived. Lucía went straight toward
the red lamp of the shop and dropped her letter into the wooden
letter-box. At the same instant she felt her arm seized in a vise-like
grip and turned around. Miranda was beside her.
“What is the meaning of this,” he cried, in a voice of suppressed anger.
“You here, and alone,--what are you doing?”
“Nothing,” she stammered.
“Nothing! why, have you not just dropped a letter into the letter-box?”
“Yes, a letter,” she answered.
“Why did you lie, then?” exclaimed the husband, in furious accents, his
mouth and chin trembling with jealous rage.
“I don’t know what I may have said when you hurt my arm,” answered
Lucía, recovering her self-possession. “What is true is that I dropped a
letter there just now.”
“And why did you not give it to me to post? Why did you come here
yourself--alone?”
“I wished to post it myself.”
Some passers-by turned around to listen to the dialogue carried on in
angry tones and in a foreign tongue.
“We are making a scene,” said Miranda. “Come.”
They turned into a solitary street and for the space of a few minutes
both maintained an eloquent silence.
“For whom was that letter?” the husband at last asked abruptly.
“For Don Ignacio Artegui,” answered Lucía, in a firm and composed voice.
“I knew it!” said Miranda under his breath, suppressing a malediction.
“He has lost his mother. You yourself heard so to-day.”
“It is highly indecorous, highly ridiculous,” said Miranda, whose voice
sounded harsh and broken like the crackling of burning brambles, “for a
lady to write in this unceremonious fashion to a man.”
“I am indebted to Señor de Artegui for services and favors,” said Lucía,
“which compel me to take a part in his griefs.”
“Those services, if there be such, it is my duty to acknowledge. I would
have written to him.”
“Your letter,” objected Lucía simply, “would not have served to console
him, while mine would; and as it was not a question of etiquette but
of----”
“Hold your tongue,” cried Miranda rudely; “hold your tongue and don’t
talk nonsense,” he continued, with that roughness which even men of
culture do not hesitate to display when speaking to their wives. “Before
marrying you should have learned how to conduct yourself in society, so
as not to bring ridicule upon me by committing silly actions, which are
in bad taste. But I have no right to complain; what better could I have
expected when I married the daughter of a retailer of oil and vinegar!”
Miranda walked with long strides, dragging rather than supporting his
wife, and they had now almost reached the _châlet_. At this offensive
speech Lucía, with pale cheeks and flashing eyes, freed herself
violently from his clasp, and stood still in the middle of the road.
“My father,” she cried, in a loud voice, making an effort to keep back
her sobs, “is an honest man, and he has taught me to be honest, too.”
“Well, one would never have known it,” replied Miranda, with a bitter
and ironical laugh. “To judge by appearances he has taught you to palm
off the spurious article for the genuine as he himself probably did with
his provisions.”
At this last stab Lucía rushed forward, passed through the gate, hurried
up the stairs as quickly as she had a short time before descended them,
and shutting herself in her room gave free vent to her anguish. Of the
thoughts that passed through her mind during this long night, which she
spent extended on a sofa, the following letter, assuredly not intended
by its author for publication and still less intended to awaken the
applause of future generations, will give some idea:
DEAR FATHER URTAZU: The fits of rage you warned me about are
beginning to come, and that sooner and with more frequency than I
had thought possible. The worst of it is, that thinking well over
the matter, it seems to me that I myself am in some sort to blame.
Don’t laugh at me, for pity’s sake, for I am trying to keep my
tears back while I write, and this blot, which I hope you will
excuse, is even caused by one of them falling upon the paper. I am
going to tell you everything as if I were in Leon, kneeling before
you in the confessional. The mother of Señor de Artegui is dead.
You already know from my previous letters that this is a terrible
misfortune, for it may bring with it others--which I do not wish
even to think about, father. In short, I reflected that Señor de
Artegui would be very sad, very sad, and that perhaps no one would
think of saying a kind word to him and especially of speaking to
him of our Lord, in whom he cannot but believe--is it not so,
father?--but whom he may forget, perhaps, in the bitterness of his
grief. Moved by these considerations I wrote him a letter,
consoling him as best I could--I wish you could have seen it. I
said a great many things in it that I think were very fine and very
comforting. I told him that God sends us sorrows so as to make us
turn to Him in our grief; that then it is He is most with us--in
short, all that you have taught me. I told him, besides, to be
assured that he was not the only one who mourned for that poor
lady, that saint; that I mingled my tears with his, although I knew
that she was now in glory, and that I envied her. Ah, and that is
the truth, father! Who so happy as she? To die, to go to heaven!
When shall I attain such happiness!
But to return to my story. I went to post the letter and Miranda
followed me and seized me by the arm, and heaped insults upon me,
calling me all sorts of bad names, and, what I felt more than all,
insulting my father. Poor, dear father! How is he to blame for what
I may do? Tell him nothing of all this, Father Urtazu, for the love
of God! I was so indignant that I answered him haughtily, and then
went and shut myself up into my room. I feel as crushed as if the
house had fallen in upon me.
My health is beginning to suffer from all these things. Tell Señor
Velez de Rada that when he sees me he will no longer be pleased
with my looks. My head is dizzy just now and I often have severe
fits of giddiness. Good-by, father; advise me, for I am bewildered
by all this. Sometimes I think I have done wrong, and again I think
I am not in any way to blame. Is pity a sin? When I look into my
heart I find only pity there; nothing more.
Excuse the writing, for my hand trembles greatly. Write soon, for
charity’s sake, for we are shortly to leave this place, and I
should like to receive a letter from you before we go. Your
respectful daughter in Jesus Christ,
LUCÍA GONZALEZ.
To those familiar with the conversational style of Father Urtazu, and
who desire to have some knowledge of the epistolary style employed by so
learned a man, the following letter will afford satisfaction:
LUCIGÜELA OF MY SINS: Ah, child, how well we know how to represent
things so as to put our dear little selves in the best light! Pity,
eh? I’ll give you pity! You did wrong, and very wrong, to write
that letter without your husband’s knowledge, and I am not
surprised that he should have behaved like a very dragon about it.
You should have asked his permission; and if he had refused
it--patience! Did I not tell you, child, that to be a good wife and
to make the journey in peace you should put a couple of arrobas of
patience in your trunks? We forget to do that, and this is the
result. Go, unlucky child, and buy a supply of patience now where
you are, and feed upon it, for you stand sorely in need of it. Your
husband ought not to have insulted your good, kind father (although
in some respects he deserves it, and I know myself the reason why),
but remember that he was angry, and when one is excited,--I, who
have a hot temper myself, can make allowance for him! As I said
before, patience, patience, and no more clandestine notes. What
call had you to turn preacher? And there is no need to grieve. God
tightens the cord, but he does not strangle; he is no executioner,
and perhaps when you least expect it, he will send you
consolation--as a gift, and not because of your own merits. And
good-by, for the mail is closing; and besides, I have the lungs of
a frog on the slide of a microscope, and I am going to study the
manner in which those little people breathe. Remember to say a few
prayers, eh? And that will take down our pride a little. The
blessing of God and of San Ignacio be with you, child.
ALONZO URTAZU, S.J.
When these counsels reached her, Lucía had already done by instinct what
Father Urtazu advised her to do. Mild and gentle now as a lamb, her
every glance was a mute petition for pardon. Miranda persistently
avoided looking at her, treating her with icy contempt. From the
constant strain on her feelings, and her continued attendance on Pilar,
the roses in Lucía’s cheeks had turned to lilies, and she had grown
noticeably thinner, although her appetite continued good. One morning
Duhamel called her aside, and said to her in his Portuguese-French.
“You must take care of your health, _menina_. _Conservar-se. Vae cair
doente._ Less watching, less fatigue, regular sleep. So much nursing
_altera-the a saude_.”
“Do you think I shall take Pilar’s disease?” asked Lucía, in so tranquil
a voice that Duhamel stared at her.
“No, it is not that.” And the physician, lowering his voice still more,
entered into a long and serious conversation with her.
That night Lucía answered Father Urtazu’s letter in these words:
DEAR FATHER: Blessed be your lips! for it almost seems as if you
had the gift of prophecy, so true were your words when you said
that I should receive consolation. I am wild with joy, and I hardly
know what I am writing.... A child! what happiness, Father Urtazu!
To-morrow I am going to begin working on the baby-clothes, that the
little angel may not run any risk of coming into the world, like
our Lord, without swaddling clothes in which to wrap him. I am
putting a great deal of nonsense in this letter and a few tears,
too, but not like the last--these are tears of joy.
To-morrow or the day after we shall leave Vichy. Miranda and I are
to spend a few days in Paris before returning to Leon. (I am wild
to be there to tell father the news; don’t tell him you, however; I
want to give him a surprise.) Poor Pilar and her brother are going
on to Spain, if the state of her health will admit of it, and she
has not to stop at some place on the road--to die, perhaps. For I
am not deceived by her apparent improvement; she is marked for
death. What I regret most is to have to leave her two or three
weeks before--But I am so happy that I don’t want to think of that.
Offer up a prayer for me.