I can swear that no anger entered into the agitation that I experienced.
My pride did not resent her preference. I only felt a mortal sadness as
if the last illusion left to me in life had flown away and escaped. And
more, the deep love wherewith she inspired me was not quenched or
lessened. The respect and idolatry of my sentiment were weakened, it is
true, but its tenderness was at the same time increased. The goddess had
fallen from her pedestal and was transformed into a woman. Losing in
majesty, she had gained in charm.
During the days following, I observed that the humble expression of her
face that had so much surprised me grew more marked. From this I judged
that she acknowledged her fault and begged my pardon. Instead of showing
myself troubled, I did everything possible to appear more respectful and
cordial than before. She recognized this, and constantly gave me proofs
of her affectionate friendship. Her heart was noble; if she had fallen
in her own sight, it was owing to fatal circumstance, and not to her
vicious inclination. Such were then my sentiments.
And Marti? Poor Emilio! Every time that I saw him I felt more and more
attracted by his generosity and innocence. I thought that he was a
little thinner, but always cheerful and always confiding. We spent one
afternoon alone at the seaside. As neither he nor I was out of humor our
conversation ran playfully from one subject to another, and we laughed
at the anecdotes we happened to remember. One of those that I told had
better fortune than it deserved. He laughed so much that at the end he
grew pale, put his hand to his chest, and, to the great terror of us
both, threw up blood. I helped him as well as I could, carried him to a
fountain near by, where he drank water and washed himself. I was much
startled by this. I could scarcely speak. I encouraged him, however,
telling him that this was not important, and citing numerous cases of
friends who had had this sort of thing without any serious consequences.
When he had composed himself, he smiled.
"You are right. It is nothing. I am sure that my lungs are perfectly
sound, because until now I have never even coughed. I will take a little
better care of myself, and when summer comes, I will go as a
precautionary measure to Panticosa. But it is necessary to keep all this
from Cristina. You know how women are. Don't say anything to Castell
either. He is very pessimistic, and his affection for me would make him
alarmed. He would be capable, in his anxiety, of revealing it to
Cristina."
My eyes, in spite of myself, filled with tears. Seeing this, he appeared
surprised; there was a moment of suspense; then, laughing aloud, he
embraced me, exclaiming:
"You are very original, Captain! There is some strength to be desired
here too! But I confess that if I had not such a practical temperament,
and were not accustomed to examine every subject coolly, this would make
me apprehensive. Fortunately, I know what to count on in the strength of
my constitution."
"My emotion was caused by surprise," I hastened to say, to mend matters.
"And then I am not very well these days; my nerves are upset. But, as I
have said, this means nothing, especially for you, who seem to be such a
robust man."
"The most robust of men! I have nothing more than a rather weak stomach,
and sometimes a little kidney trouble. Except for this, I am an oak. If
this were not so, how could I endure all the work loaded on my
shoulders, the frequent journeys, and all that I have to carry?"
"Exactly. I have no doubt of it. And you have never before felt any pain
in your lungs?"
Marti took a few steps, looked at me closely, and in a voice made to
seem strong by a special effort, answered:
"My lungs are those of an athlete!"
"Indeed?"
"Those of a gladiator," he insisted, shaking his head with an air of
unquenchable conviction.
Upon this he launched into a panegyric of his respiratory apparatus with
much enthusiasm and warmth. He could not have been more eloquent if he
had been a commercial traveller and was offering it as a sample to a
great commercial house. I congratulated him with equal enthusiasm on the
possession of such a perfect example. Inspired by his own eulogies, he
struck his chest, taking deep breaths, then sang the last aria of
"Lucia." After that, who could have any doubts of his organs?
We returned to the house, he in an excellent humor, but not I; for in
spite of his weight of testimony, I was not able to dismiss certain
apprehensions. Indeed, as our pathway narrowed, and he walked ahead of
me, his narrow shoulders, his long neck and drooping ears, did not
remind me of the figure of Milon of Crotona nor any other winner in the
Olympian games. It seemed to me that such magnificent lungs as he said
he had would not have chosen such a poor lodging.
It was the hour of twilight. The park began to be filled with darkness
and mystery. Although we were in the last days of September, the fresh
blossoming flowers of that fortunate region filled the air with
fragrance. The trees were as green and leafy as in early spring; the
turf shone in eternal freshness. But mingled with the luxurious,
romantic scent of heliotrope, roses, and violets came from surrounding
orchards other heavier breaths of ripe fruits. The fruitful earth filled
the air of heaven with the perfume of grapes and melons, pears and
apples, drying hay and Indian corn.
In front of the house, seated in rocking-chairs, we found Cristina and
her mother, Isabelita, Castell, and Matilde. Her children were running
about the garden, cackling and gabbling like parrots, while their
unhappy mother watched them with a melancholy smile. When we appeared in
front of a close thicket of Indian cannas, Castell was seated beside
Cristina, talking to her in low tones. She cast one glance at her
husband, then at me, and at once lowered her eyes with a serious,
pondering expression on her face; but raising them again, she
scrutinized Emilio carefully, while he sat down, chatting and laughing
with exaggerated volubility. Cristina got up, went over to him, and
said:
"Emilio, you are pale. Do you feel ill?"
"I? What an idea! I never felt better. It is because I have been
laughing all the afternoon. The captain has a stock of delicious
anecdotes. At supper we must tell some of them; not all, though, for
they are all colors."
She was not satisfied; but although she went and sat down, her eyes
never quitted him. Castell made efforts to attract her attention,
talking into her ear. The conduct of that man seemed to me the height of
cynicism.
Soon it was quite dark, and we went into the dining-room, where it was
light and the table ready. Just as we were going to sit down at it, a
servant entered, and calling Marti apart, gave him a letter, with an air
of mystery. He opened it at once and was not able to repress a movement
of annoyance. Pocketing it and excusing himself for a few moments, he
took his hat and went out. Our curiosity was excited, but nobody said
anything. At last Cristina, whose anxiety was evident, asked the man:
"Who gave you the letter?"
"A gentleman."
"Did he wait for an answer?"
"No, senora. He wanted to speak with the senor, and he went across by
the main door to wait for him."
The unusualness of the incident, and the mysterious manner of the
servant, increased our curiosity extraordinarily. We had not long to
wait for its satisfaction. Marti presented himself in a few moments,
and, putting his hat down on a chair, asked jocularly:
"Don't you all know whom I shall have the honor to present to you?"
We all looked eagerly at him.
"A gentleman whose name begins with an S."
"Sabas!" exclaimed Matilde.
Her next act was, with quivering face and violent gestures, to hurry her
children out of their chairs, and, pushing them wildly before her, get
them out of the room, herself following after.
We all stood up in our agitation. The nose of the deserting husband was
promptly stuck in at the garden door, and behind it entered its
interesting proprietor. A groan from Dona Amparo. A convulsive embrace
next, tears in abundance.
Sabas, although in the arms of his mother, cast a wandering and
afflicted glance about the dining-room.
"Matilde! My children!" he cried in a dramatic manner.
"All have abandoned thee except thy mother!" responded Dona Amparo in
most pathetic accents.
Sabas leaned his head, a resigned victim, against the maternal bosom. At
this Dona Amparo hugged him yet more fervently, ready to give her
life-blood for her abandoned son. He freed himself at last, arranged his
cravat, and held out his hand to us solemnly, in the dignified attitude
of a general who concludes a capitulation after a heroic resistance.
He went up to greet Cristina, but she turned her back upon him, and went
out of the room. He shook his head in a sentimental manner, and gave us
a sweet, expressive glance. Then he raised his eyes to heaven, as if
petitioning for the justice that earth denied him.
I was truly alarmed to see that his face was black and the skin peeled
off in some places, especially the nose.
He looked as if he had returned from a scientific and civilizing
expedition into Central Africa, rather than from a romantic expedition
with a young lady to the capital of Catalonia.
Dona Amparo made him drink a glass of orange-flower water to calm him.
There was no need of it. His attitude on that critical occasion, at once
tranquil and resigned, impressed us profoundly. However, when he had
drunk the orange-flower water, he said with astonishing firmness:
"I must see Matilde."
And, joining the action to the word, he proceeded, full of majesty,
towards the door. He went on into the inner rooms. And we all followed
him, we were so fascinated by his noble and severe manner.
We were filled with anxiety concerning the dramatic scene that was going
to take place. Sabas opened two or three doors consecutively, without
being able to find his wife. But his intrepid heart was not cast down.
Without uttering a word he mounted to the upper story. We followed him
anxiously.
Matilde was in her room, and Cristina was with her. At sight of her
husband she groaned wrathfully, and started towards another door to try
to get away again. Cristina tried to detain her.
"Let me go!" she cried madly; "I don't wish to see him."
"Matilde, for heaven's sake!" cried Cristina, embracing her.
"Let me go, let me go! Everything is over between us two!"
Then the fugitive, standing in the middle of the room, showed that his
strength was leaving him. He put his hand feebly to his forehead, his
legs doubled under him, and, taking just enough steps towards a sofa to
reach it, he fell across it in a swoon.
We all ran to his aid, and his offended wife was not the last one. On
the contrary, it was she who, grieving and trembling, bathed his temples
with water, and unfastened his waistcoat and shirt to help him breathe,
exclaiming wildly:
"Sabas, my Sabas! Forgive me!"
Meanwhile, Dona Amparo applied to his nostrils various chemical products
of a stimulating nature. The rest of us helped on the restorative work
more or less modestly, bringing a carafe of water, uncorking bottles, or
giving air to the fainting man by means of a fan.
The only one who remained inactive, seeming indisposed to offer any
hygienic aid to her brother, was Cristina. Standing erect near us, she
looked strangely severe. Doubtless her behavior might seem to some
persons cruel and unnatural; but not to me, for my deep, unreasoning
love for this woman made all that she did seem right and proper, her
every movement adorable.
At last Sabas returned to the world of consciousness, and asked of his
mother, who was in front of him, that which has been asked so many
times:
"Where am I?"
"With your wife!"
"With your mamma!"
"Who adores you!"
"Who idolizes you!"
Four feminine arms embraced him, and four lips were pressed almost at
the same time above his skinned nose.
His eyes wandered about the room at all of us as if he did not know us,
and were fixed at last upon his wife; then he groaned frightfully:
"Matilde! Matilde! Matilde!"
Then he hugged her and fell back in an attack of convulsive laughing.
His loud laughter joined to the sobbing of his wife and the wails of
Dona Amparo made a terrifying mixture that would have melted the hardest
heart. More, by virtue of the contagion that all the world knows lies in
this sort of an attack, I felt a shocking desire to laugh also. By hard
work I managed to stifle it. I left the room and went down again to the
dining-room. The others were not long in following me, leaving Sabas
restored and at peace with his wife and his mother. Ten minutes later
they came down also. Cristina gave the order to serve the soup, and I
observed with some astonishment that Sabas dined with an excellent
appetite, and during dinner showed himself as gay and disputatious and
smart as ever. His wife devoured him with eyes of pure affection, and
devoted herself to waiting upon him.
When we finished, he rose before taking his coffee, lighted a good
cigar, and asked his brother-in-law if he would let him take his cab.
"But are you going out?" his wife asked him with surprise and annoyance.
"Yes; I am going to take my coffee at the Siglo. I haven't seen a single
one of my friends yet. I shall be back soon."
Matilde tried to keep him, begging that he would not go that night,
caressing his hands, with no result except to make him cross. Observing,
however, the bad effect this had upon us, he changed his tone and
embraced her, saying in endearing accents:
"Goosie! Aren't you going to let me go and celebrate our
reconciliation?"
With this the infatuated wife was satisfied and content, brushed the
dust from his shoes, and went with him to the cab door.
We remained in the dining-room some time. Emilio was the first to start
to bed, saying that he felt sleepy. I thought that his hemorrhage had
affected him more than he had acknowledged. Matilde went up to put her
children to bed. We remained chatting, Isabelita and I in one corner,
Cristina and Castell in another, while Dona Amparo embroidered by the
light of a lamp between.
This state of things impressed me uncomfortably. We seemed like two
pairs engaged in courtship, watched over by the mamma; and this idea, so
far as it concerned Cristina and Castell, could not but fill me with
great repugnance. Such was my faith in that woman that I scarcely
believed what I saw. I was absent and melancholy, and with difficulty
kept up the conversation with my intended.
My intended! The winds were driving me upon a coast where I didn't know
whether I was going to be shipwrecked or find a snug harbor. I confessed
to myself with alarm that since my dreadful convictions about Cristina,
my heart was less inclined than ever to admit another woman.
When Matilde came down after getting her children to bed, in order to
get out of this scarcely decent situation, and also to rid myself a
little of the sadness that overpowered me, I proposed that we take a
turn in the park. The proposition met with favor, and Cristina was the
first to accept it, rising from the sofa where she had been sitting. But
Castell said, with his usual decision:
"I don't feel equal to it. It is much too damp in the park at this
hour."
Cristina turned and sat down again beside him.
"We are not so much in fear of dying, are we, Matilde?" I said smiling.
She and Isabelita followed me. Dona Amparo stayed with her daughter and
Castell. We went to the end of the garden, and from there entered the
open spaces of the park, where the balmy air did me a great deal of
good, for my brow had been burning and my heart filled with mournful
presentiments.