The Gonzalvos were unable to go on to Spain, for midway on the journey
Pilar was seized with symptoms so alarming, such sweats, swoons, fits of
retching and exhaustion, that they thought her last hour was at hand,
and that it would be fortunate if she reached Paris alive; in which case
Doctor Duhamel was not without hope that a few days rest there would
restore her strength sufficiently to allow of their proceeding on their
way. Miranda, who had thought himself already rid of the dying girl,
whom, although he did not nurse her himself, it annoyed him to see
others nursing, accepted this change of program with ill-concealed
discontent; Lucía, who could not reconcile herself to the idea of
deserting her friend on the brink of the grave, as it were, with a
lightening of the heart; and Perico, confident as he was that his sister
would lack no attention, with the secret determination to see all there
was to be seen in Paris. As for Pilar herself, possessed by the strange
optimism characteristic of her malady, she manifested great delight at
the prospect of visiting the capital of luxury and fashion, resolving to
make her purchases for the winter there that she might be as good as
“those affected Amézegas.”
They arrived in the great French capital on a dark and foggy morning and
were at once assailed by innumerable runners from the hotels, each
calling their attention to his omnibus and disputing their possession
with his rivals. One of these runners, with a dark face crossed by a
long scar, approached Miranda and said to him in good Spanish:
“Hotel de la Alavesa, Señor--Spanish spoken--Spanish waiters--olla
served every day--Rue Saint-Honoré, the most central situation.”
“It would be well to go there,” said Duhamel, touching Miranda on the
arm. “In a Spanish hotel _a doente_ will receive better attention.”
“Let us go, then,” said Miranda resignedly, giving the check for his
luggage to the runner. “Look here,” he added, addressing Perico, “you
and I will go with the luggage in the hotel omnibus, and we will send
Lucía and Pilar in one of those hackney-coaches--they do not jolt so
much.”
They carried Pilar almost bodily from the railway carriage to the coach.
The runner installed himself on the box after giving many charges and
instructions to the postillion of the omnibus, and the driver whipped up
his sorry-looking nag. After driving through several broad and
magnificent streets they stopped in front of the Hotel de la Alavesa,
and Lucía, springing lightly as a bird to the ground, said to the
runner:
“Do me the favor to assist me in helping this young lady out of the
carriage, she is ill.”
But suddenly recognizing the man’s face, she cried excitedly:
“Sardiola!”
“Señorita!” responded the Biscayan, showing no less joy, cordiality, and
surprise than Lucía had done. “And I did not recognize you! How stupid
of me! But one sees so many travelers at that blessed station, meeting
them there when they arrive, and taking them there when they are going
away, that it is not to be wondered at.”
And after looking at Lucía for a few moments longer, he added:
“But the truth is, too, that you yourself are greatly changed. Why, you
don’t look like the same person as when Señorito Ignacio was with
you----”
At the sound of this name, so long unheard by her, Lucía turned as red
as a cherry, and dropping her eyes, she murmured:
“We will go at once to our rooms. Come, Pilar. Here, put your arm around
my neck--now the other around Sardiola’s--don’t be afraid to lean;
there! Shall we carry you in the queen’s chair?”
And the Biscayan and her valorous friend, crossing hands, raised the
sick girl gently in the improvised throne, on which she sank like an
inert mass, letting her head fall on Lucía’s shoulder. In this way they
went up-stairs to the _entresol_, where Sardiola showed the two women
into a large and airy room, containing the customary marble
mantle-piece, the immense beds with hangings, the _moquette_ carpet,
somewhat soiled and worn in places, the wash-stand and the traditional
clothes-rack. The windows of the room looked out into a small garden, in
the center of which was a light kiosk constructed of wood and glass,
which served as a bath-house. They placed Pilar in an arm-chair and
Sardiola stood waiting for further orders. His eyes, dark and brilliant
as those of a Newfoundland pup, were fixed on Lucía with a submissive
and affectionate look truly canine. She, on her side, had to bite her
lips to keep back the questions which crowded impatiently to them.
Sardiola, divining her thoughts with the loyal instinct of the domestic
animal, anticipated her words.
“If the ladies should need anything,” he said hesitatingly, as if
fearing to seem intrusive, “let them call upon me at any time. If I am
at the station, Juanilla will come; she is the chambermaid of this
floor--an obliging girl, and quick as lightning. But if ever I can be of
any service--well, it would delight me greatly; it is enough for me to
have seen the Señorita with Señorito Ignacio----”
And as Lucía remained silent, questioning only with the mute and ardent
language of the eyes, the Biscayan continued:
“Because--did the Señorita not know? Well it was the Señorito himself
who got me this place. As the Alavese took Juanilla, who is a cousin of
mine, with her and it made me, well--sad, to see those hills which no
one but us country lads and the wild beasts had, with God’s help, ever
climbed before, overrun by government troops, and, in short, as I was
dying of sadness in that station, I wrote to the Señorito--his mother,
may her soul rest in glory, was still living--and he recommended me to
the Alavesa, and here I am at your service, living in clover.”
Lucía’s eyes continued their mute questioning, more eager than ever.
Sardiola continued:
“But what most pleased me was to live so near the Señorito----”
“So near?” mutely asked the shining eyes.
“So near,” he said in response, “so very near that--why it is
delightful!--you have only to cross the garden there to reach his
house.”
Lucía ran to the balcony, and, as pale as wax, looked with wild eyes at
the building opposite. Sardiola followed her to the window and even the
sick girl turned her head around with curiosity.
“Look there,” explained Sardiola. “Do you see that wall there and that
other wall which joins it at a right angle? Well, those are the walls of
the hotel. Now look at that other wall, which forms the third side of
the square--that is the wall of Don Ignacio’s house; it opens on the Rue
de Rivoli. Do you see those steps leading into the garden? You ascend by
those into the corridor on the first floor, into which the dining-room
opens--a very handsome room! The whole house is handsome. Don Ignacio’s
father accumulated a great deal of money. Do you see that little tree
there at the foot of the steps, that sickly-looking plane tree? That is
where the Señorito used to take his mother to sit to breathe the air;
she died of a disease the name of which I don’t remember, but which
means--well, that the heart becomes greatly enlarged--and as she had
dreadful fits of oppression at times so that she could scarcely breathe,
just like a fish when it is taken out of the water; she had to be
brought down into the garden, and even then there was not air enough for
her, and she would sit for an hour trying to get her breath. If you had
seen the Señorito! That was what might be called devotion! He supported
her head, he warmed her feet with his hands, he kissed her a thousand
times in an hour, he fanned her--well, it was a sight worth seeing! A
purer soul God never sent into the world nor shall we see another like
her in our time. After death the blessed saint looked so smiling and so
natural and so handsome, with her fair hair! He it was that looked like
a dead person; if he had been lying in the coffin any one would have
taken him for the corpse.”
“Silence!” the eloquent eyes suddenly commanded.
And Sardiola obeyed. Duhamel, Miranda, and Perico were entering the
room. Duhamel examined the apartment minutely and declared it, in his
Lusitanian-French jargon, to be sheltered, convenient, not too high, yet
well ventilated, and in every way suitable for the patient. Miranda and
Perico retired to the adjoining room to wash themselves after the
journey, and tacitly, without debating the question, it was decided that
patient and nurse should room together, and that the two men should
occupy together also the room in which they were. Miranda interposed no
objection to this sacrifice on Lucía’s part; for Duhamel, calling him
aside, informed him that the disease was rapidly nearing its fatal
termination, and that he thought the sick girl could hardly live a month
longer, in view of which fact Miranda silently resolved to depart with
his wife in eight or ten days’ time under some pretext or other. But
fate, which had ordained that these events should have a very different
_dénouement_, disposed matters in such a way, employing Perico as her
instrument, that Miranda very soon began to find himself contented,
diverted, and happy in this Parisian Babylon; this gulf among whose
reefs and shoals the artful Gonzalvo piloted him with more skill and
dexterity than singleness of purpose.
“What the deuce, what the deuce are you going to bury yourself in Leon
for now?” exclaimed Perico. “You will have time enough, time enough to
bore yourself there! Take my advice and avail yourself of the
opportunity. Why, you are well enough now! Those waters have made you
look ten years younger.”
The sly fellow knew very well what he was about. Neither her father nor
her aunt had manifested any very great desire to come and take care of
Pilar, and he foresaw that on him would devolve the disagreeable office
of sick nurse. His mind, fertile in wiles, suggested a thousand
artifices by which to charm Miranda in that magical city that of itself
turns the heads of all who set foot in it. Lucía’s husband made
acquaintance with the refinements of the French _cuisine_ in the best
_restaurateurs_, (close your eyes, ye purists!) and the experienced
_gourmet_ of middle age came to take a profound interest in the question
as to whether the _sauce Holandaise_ were better in this restaurant or
in the one two doors below, and when the stuffed mushrooms had their
richest flavor. In addition to these gastronomic enjoyments he took
pleasure in frequenting the variety theaters, of which there are so many
in Paris. He was amused by the comic songs, the contortions of the
clown, the rollicking music, and the airy and almost Eden-like costumes
of the nymphs, who went disguised as saucepans, violins, or puppets. It
is even stated--but on evidence insufficient to establish it as a
historical fact--that the illustrious ex-beau sought to recall his past
glories and to refresh his dry and withered laurels, and selected for
his victim a certain proscenium-rat, in the high-sounding language of
the stage, called Zulma, although every one was well aware that in less
exalted regions she might be called Antonia, Dionisia, or the like.
This creature sang with inimitable grace the refrains of certain
_chansonnettes_, and it was enough to make one split one’s sides
laughing to see her when, with her hand on her hip, her right leg in the
air, a wink in her eye, and parted lips she uttered some slang
expression--a cry from the fish-stands or the market, repeated by her
rosy mouth for the delectation and delight of the audience. Nor were
these the only graces and accomplishments of the singer, for the
choicest part of her repertory, the quintessence of her art, she kept
rather for her hours of dalliance with those fortunate mortals who
succeeded in obtaining access, well-provided with gold-dust, to this
Danaë of the stage. What feline wiles did she employ with her adorers;
calling grave men of sixty her little mice, her little dogs, her little
cats, her _bébés_, and other endearing and delightful names, sweeter to
them than honey. And what shall I say of the incomparable humor and
grace with which she held between her pearly teeth a Russian pipe while
she sent into the air wreaths of blue smoke; the contraction of her
lips, accentuating the curves of her _retroussé_ nose and the dimples of
her puffed-out cheeks? What of the skill with which she balanced herself
on two chairs at once without sitting, properly speaking, on either of
them, since her shoulders rested against the back of the one and her
heels on the seat of the other? What of the agility and dexterity with
which she swallowed in ten minutes ten dozen of raw oysters, accompanied
with two or three bottles of Rhine wine, so that it almost seemed as if
her throat had been annointed with oil to let them slip down smoothly?
What of the smiling eloquence with which she proved to some friend that
such or such a diamond ring was too small for his finger while it fitted
hers as if it had been made for it? In short, if the adventure that was
then whispered in the corridors of a certain variety theater and at the
_table d’hôte_ of the Alavesa seems unworthy of the traditional splendor
of the house of Miranda, at least it is but just to record that its
heroine was the most entertaining, cajoling, and dangerous of the feline
tribe that then mewed discordantly on the Parisian stage.
While Perico and Miranda kept off the blues in this way, Pilar’s
remaining lung was gradually being consumed, as a plank is consumed with
dry-rot. She did not grow worse because that was now impossible, and her
existence, rather than life, was a lingering death, not very painful,
disturbed only by an occasional fit of coughing which threatened to
choke her. Life was in her like the flickering flame of a candle burned
to the socket, which the slightest movement, the least breath of air
will suffice to extinguish. She had lost her voice almost entirely, so
that she could speak only in soft, low tones, such as a drum stuffed
with cotton might emit. Fits of somnolence, frequent and protracted,
would overpower her, periods of profound stupor, of utter exhaustion,
which simulated and foreshadowed the final repose of the tomb. Her eyes
closed, her body motionless, her feet side by side as if she already lay
in her coffin, she would lie for hours and hours on the bed, giving no
other sign of life than a faint, sibilant breathing. It was generally at
the noonday hour that this comatose sleep took possession of her, and
her nurse, who could do nothing for her but leave her to repose, and who
was oppressed by the heavy atmosphere of the room, impregnated with the
emanations from the medicines and the vapor of the perspiration--atoms
of this human being in process of dissolution--would go out on the
balcony, descend the stairs leading into the garden, and seating herself
in the shade of the stunted plane tree, would pass there the hours of
the _siesta_, sewing or crocheting. Her work consisted of diminutive
shirts, bibs equally diminutive, petticoats neatly scalloped. In this
sweet and secret occupation the hours passed by unnoticed, and
occasionally the needle would slip from her skillful fingers and the
silence, the solitude, the serenity of the heavens, the soft rustle of
the sickly looking trees would tempt the industrious needlewoman into a
pensive revery. The sun darted his golden arrows through the foliage
across the sanded paths at this hour, and the air was dry and mild. The
walls of the hotel and of Artegui’s house formed a sort of natural
stove, attracting the solar heat and diffusing it through the garden.
The railing which shut in the square bordered the Rue de Rivoli, and
through its bars could be seen pass by, enveloped in the blue mists of
evening, coaches, light victorias, landaus, whirled rapidly along by
their costly teams, equestrians who at a distance looked like puppets,
and workmen who looked like shadows cast from a Chinese lantern. In the
distance gleamed at intervals the steel of a stirrup, the gay color of a
gown or of a livery, the varnished spokes of a swiftly revolving wheel.
Lucía’s attention was attracted by the many varieties of horses. There
were Normandy horses with powerful haunches, strong necks and lustrous
coats, deliberate in pace, that drew, with a movement at once powerful
and gentle, the heavy vehicles to which they were harnessed; there were
English horses with long necks, ungraceful, but stylish, that trotted
with the precision of marvelous automatons; Arabian horses, with
flashing eyes, quivering and dilated nostrils, shining hoofs, dry coats,
and thin flanks; Spanish horses--although of these there were but
few--with luxuriant manes, superb chests, broad loins, and forefeet that
proudly pawed the air. As the sun sank lower in the west, the carriages
could be distinguished in the distance by the scintillation of the
lamps, but their forms and colors all blending together confusedly,
Lucía’s eyes soon wearied of the effort of following them, and with
renewed melancholy she fixed her gaze on the puny and
consumptive-looking plants of the garden. At times her solitude was
broken in upon, not by any traveler, either male or female--for visitors
to Paris as a general thing do not spend the afternoon under a plane
tree working--but by Sardiola, _in propria persona_, who, under pretext
of watering the plants, plucking up a weed here and there, or rolling
the sand of the path, held long conversations with his pensive
compatriot. Certain it is that they were never in want of a subject on
which to talk. Lucía’s eyes were no less tireless in asking questions
than Sardiola’s tongue was eager to respond to them. Never were matters
insignificant in themselves described with greater minuteness of detail.
Lucía was now familiar with the eccentricities, the tastes and the ideas
of Artegui, and knew by heart his traits of character, and the events of
his life, which were in no wise remarkable. The reader may find matter
for surprise in the fact that Sardiola should be so well acquainted with
all that related to a man with whom his intercourse had been so slight,
but it is to be observed that the Biscayan’s native place was at no
great distance from the family estate of the Arteguis, and that he was
the intimate friend of Ignacio’s former nurse, on whom the care of the
solitary house now devolved. The pair held long and intimate
conversations together in their diabolical dialect, and the poor woman
never wearied of relating the wonderful sayings and doings of her
nursling, which Sardiola heard with as much delight as if he had himself
performed the feminine functions of Engracia. Through this channel Lucía
came to have at her finger’s ends the minutest particulars regarding the
disposition and character of Ignacio; his melancholy and silence as a
child, his misanthropy as a youth, and many other details relating to
his parents, his family, and his fortune. Does fate indeed at times
please herself by bringing together mysteriously and by tortuous ways
two lives that constantly come in contact with and influence each other,
without apparent cause or reason? Is it true that, as there are secret
bonds of sympathy between souls, so there are other bonds connecting
events, which link them together in the sphere of the material and the
tangible?
“Don Ignacio,” said the good Sardiola, “was always so. You see they say
that he never had any bodily ailment, not even so much as a toothache.
But his nurse Engracia says that from the cradle he suffered from a kind
of sickness of the soul or the mind, or whatever it may be called. When
he was a child, he was subject to strange fits of terror when night
came, without any known cause for them. His eyes would grow larger and
larger like that” (Sardiola traced in the air with his thumb and
forefinger a series of gradually widening circles) “and he would hide in
a corner of the room, huddled up like a ball, and stay there without
budging until morning dawned. He would never tell his visions, but one
day he confessed to his mother that he saw terrible things--all the
members of his family, with the faces of corpses, bathing and splashing
about in a pool of blood. In short, a thousand wild fancies. The
strangest part of the matter was that in the daytime the Señorito was as
brave as a lion, as everybody knows. At the time of the war it was a
pleasure to see him. Why bless you! he would go among the balls as if
they were sugar plums. He never carried arms, only a hanging satchel
containing I don’t know how many things--bistouris, lancets, pincers,
bandages, sticking-plaster. Besides this he had his pockets stuffed with
lint and rags and cotton batting. I can tell you, Señorita, that if
promotion were to be earned by showing no disgust for those
good-for-nothing liberals, no one would be better entitled to it than
Don Ignacio. On one occasion a bomb fell not two steps away from him. He
stood looking at it, waiting for it to explode, no doubt, and if
Sergeant Urrea, who was standing beside him at the time, had not caught
him by the arm---- Why, he would not retire even when the enemy charged
on us with the bayonet. In one of these charges a guiri[B]
soldier--accursed be every one of his race--charged at him with his
bayonet. And what do you suppose Don Ignacio did?--it would not have
occurred even to the devil himself to do it--he brushed him aside with
his hand as if he had been a mosquito, and the barbarian lowered his
bayonet and allowed himself to be brushed aside. The Señorito gave him a
look. Heavens! such a look, half-serious, half-smiling, that must have
made the boor blush for shame.”
[B] Government.
Then followed an account of the attentions lavished by the son upon his
mother during her last illness.
“I fancy I can see them now. There, there where you are sitting, Doña
Armanda; and he just here where I am standing, be it said with all
respect. Well, he would bring her down into the garden and he would
place her feet on a stool and put a dozen pillows of all sizes and
shapes behind her head, to help the poor lady to breathe easier. And the
potions! and the draughts!--digitalis here, atropina there. But it was
all of no use--at last the poor lady died. Would you believe that Don
Ignacio showed no extravagant grief? He is like a well; he keeps
everything inside, so that, having no outlet, it suffocates him. But he
did not deceive me with his calmness, for when he said to me, ‘Sardiola,
will you watch by her with me to-night,’ I thought of--see what a
foolish fancy, Señorita--but I thought of a cornet in our ranks who used
to play a famous reveille, that was so clear and full and beautiful; and
one day he played out of tune, and as we laughed at him he took his
cornet and blew it and said, ‘Boys, my poor little instrument has met
with a misfortune, and it has cracked.’ Well, the same difference of
sound that I noticed in the cornet of that fool, Triguillos, I noticed
in the voice of the Señorito. You know what a sonorous voice he has,
that it would be a pleasure to hear him give the word of command; but
that day his voice was--well, cracked. In short, he himself arrayed Doña
Armanda in her shroud, and he and I sat up with her, and at daybreak off
to Brittany in a special train,--with the body in a lignum-vitæ coffin,
trimmed with silver,--to the old castle, to bury the poor lady among her
parents, her grandparents, and all the rest of her ancestors.”
Lucía, who, her work fallen on her lap, had been listening with all her
faculties, now concentrated them in her eyes to put a mute question to
Sardiola. The quick-witted Biscayan answered it at once.
“He has never come back since and no one knows what he intends to do.
Engracia has not had a word from him. Although, indeed, for that matter,
he never tells his plans to a living soul. Engracia is there alone by
herself, for he dismissed all the other servants, rewarding them well,
before he went away. She attends to the little, the nothing, indeed,
there is to attend to, opening the windows occasionally, so that the
dampness may not have it all its own way with the furniture,--passing a
duster----”
Lucía turned her head and looked intently at the windows, closed at the
time, behind which she could see passing at intervals the figure of an
elderly woman, whose head was covered with the traditional Guipuscoan
cap, fastened with its two gilt pins.
“The house ought to be taken care of,” continued Sardiola, “for that
blessed Doña Armanda kept it like a silver cup--it is handsomely
furnished and very spacious. And now that it occurs to me,” he exclaimed
suddenly, slapping his forehead, “why don’t you go to see it, Señorita?
I will speak to Engracia, she will show us over it. Come, make up your
mind to go.”
“No,” answered Lucía faintly; “what for?”
“Why, to see it, of course. You will see Señorito Ignacio’s room, with
his books and the toys he had when he was a child, for his nurse
Engracia has kept them all.”
“Very well, Sardiola,” answered Lucía, as if asking a respite. “Some day
when I am in the humor. To-day I am not in the mood for it. I will tell
you when I am.”
Lucía was, in fact, greatly preoccupied by a matter which gave more
anxiety to her than to any one else. Duhamel had told her that Pilar’s
end was drawing near, and Pilar, who had not the slightest suspicion of
this, gave no indication of wishing to prepare her soul for the solemn
change. They talked to her of God, and she answered, in a scarcely
audible voice, with remarks about fashions or pleasure parties; they
wished to turn her thoughts toward solemn things and the unhappy girl,
with scarcely a breath of life left in her body, uttered some jest that
sounded funereal, coming from her livid lips.
All Lucía’s pious eloquence was of no avail to conquer the invincible
and beneficent illusion that remained with Pilar to the last. She
appealed to Miranda and Perico, but they both shrugged their shoulders
and declared themselves altogether inexperienced in such duties and but
little adapted for them. The very day on which it occurred to her to
speak to them of the matter, they had a supper arranged with Zulma and
some of her gay companions in the snuggest and most retired little
dining-room at Brébant’s--a fit time this to think of such things.
Lucía, however, found some one to help her out of her difficulty, and
this was no other than Sardiola, who was acquainted with a Jesuit, a
compatriot of his, Father Arrigoitia, and who brought him in a trice.
Father Arrigoitia was as tall as a bean-pole, with stooping shoulders;
and was as gentle and insinuating in his manners as his compatriot,
Father Urtazu, was harsh and abrupt. He made his first visit with the
pretext of bringing news from Pilar’s aunt; he returned to inquire, with
a great appearance of interest, about the bodily health of the sick
girl; he brought her some earth from the holy grotto of Manresa, and
some pectoral lozenges of Belmet, all wrapped up carefully together;
and, in short, used so much tact and skill that after a week’s
acquaintance with him Pilar asked of her own accord for what the Jesuit
so greatly desired to give her. As Father Arrigoitia was leaving the
room of the now dying girl, after having pronounced the words of
absolution, he heard behind the door sobs, and a voice saying: “Thanks,
many thanks!” Lucía was there, weeping bitterly.
“Give them to God,” answered the Jesuit gently. “Come, there is no
occasion for grief, Señora Doña Lucía; on the contrary, we have cause
for congratulation.”
“No, no; I am weeping for joy,” answered the nurse. And as the black
cassock and the tall belted figure of the Jesuit were receding from
view, she softly called to him. The priest retraced his steps.
“I too, Father Arrigoitia, desire to confess myself, and soon, very
soon,” she said.
“Ah, very good, very good. But you are in no danger of death, thanks be
to God. In San Sulpicio, in the confessional to the right, as you
enter--I am always at your service, Señora. I shall return shortly to
see our little patient. There, don’t cry, you look like a Magdalen.”
That afternoon Lucía went down as usual into the garden. But so
exhausted was she both in mind and body that, leaning back against the
trunk of the plane tree, she soon fell fast asleep. Before long she
began to dream, and the oddest part of her dream was that she did not
imagine she was in any strange or unknown place, but in the very spot
where she sat in the garden, only that this, in the capricious mirroring
of her dream, instead of being small and narrow, seemed to be enormous.
It was the same garden but seen through a colossal magnifying-glass. The
railing had receded far, far away into the distance and looked like a
row of points of light on the horizon; and this increase in its size
increased the gloom of the little garden, making it seem like a dry and
parched field. Casting her eyes around, Lucía fixed her gaze on what
seemed to be the front of Artegui’s house, from one of whose open
windows issued a pale hand that made signs to her. Was it a man’s hand
or a woman’s hand? Was it the hand of a living being or of a corpse?
Lucía did not know, but the mysterious beckoning of that unknown hand
exercised a spell over her that grew stronger every moment and she ran
on and on, trying to approach the house. But the field continued to
stretch away; one sandy belt followed another; and after walking hours
and hours she still saw before her the long row of sickly plane trees
fading into the distance and Artegui’s house further off than ever. But
the hand continued to beckon furiously, impatiently, like the hand of an
epileptic agitating itself in the air; its five fingers resembled
whirling asps, and Lucía, breathless, panting, continued to run on and
on, and one plane tree succeeded another and the house was still in the
distance. “Fool that I am!” she cried, “since I cannot reach it running,
I will fly.” No sooner said than done; with the ease with which one
flies in dreams, Lucía stood on tip-toe, and presto! she was in the air
at a bound. Oh, happiness! oh, bliss! the field lay beneath her, she
winged her way through the serene, pure blue atmosphere; and now the
house was no longer distant, and now there was an end to the
interminable row of plane trees, and now she distinguished the form to
which the hand belonged. It was a form, slender, without being meager,
surmounted by a countenance manly, though of a melancholy cast, but
which now smiled kindly, with infinite tenderness. How fast Lucía flew!
how blissfully she drew her breath in the serene atmosphere! Courage, it
is but a little distance now! Lucía could hear the flapping of her
wings, for she had wings, and the grateful coolness refreshed her heart.
Now she was close beside the window.
Suddenly she felt two sharp pains pierce her flesh as if she had
received two wounds at once, made by two different weapons; hovering in
the air above her she saw an enormous pair of shears, two white dove’s
wings stained with blood fell to the ground, and losing her power she,
too, fell, down, down, not on the soil of the garden, but into an abyss,
a deep, deep gulf. At the bottom two lights were burning, and the
pitying eyes of a woman dressed in white were fixed upon her. It seemed
to her as if she had fallen into the grotto at Lourdes--it could be no
other; it was exactly as she had seen it in the church of St. Louis at
Vichy, even to the roses and the chrysanthemums of the Virgin. Oh, how
fresh and beautiful was the grotto with its murmuring spring! Lucía
longed to reach it--but as generally happens in nightmares, she was
wakened by the shock of her fall.