"Then go to sleep, darling."
And now nothing was to be heard in the compartment, except Don Nazario's
snoring, in which he was a specialist. He usually began to snore in a
deliberate and solemn manner, in decided, full pulsations; gradually it
increased in energy, the periods became shorter and more energetic, and
at the same time a sort of guttural note was introduced, which was
scarcely perceptible at first; from the nostrils the voice descended
into the gullet, rising and falling alternately for a long time. But,
when least expected, within that apparently invariable rhythm, would be
heard a sharp and shrill whistle, like the bugle blast of an on-coming
tempest. And, in fact, the whistle would find an answer in a deep and
ominous rumble, and then another still louder, and then another; ...
then the whistling would be repeated in a more terrific fashion, and
that would be drowned in a confused murmur of discordant notes fit to
inspire the soul with terror. And this conflict of sounds would go on
increasing and increasing, until at last, some way or other, it would be
suddenly changed into an asthmatic and blatant cough. Then Don Nazario
would heave a deep sigh, rest a few short moments, and continue his
reverberant oration in measured and dignified tone.
Miguel dozed with his eyes open. His imagination was thronged
tumultuously by radiant visions, a thousand foregleams of happiness:
life presented itself in sweet and lovely aspect before him, such as it
had never hitherto assumed. He had amused himself, he had enjoyed the
pleasures of the world; but ever behind them, and sometimes in the midst
of them, he perceived the bitter residuum, the wake of weariness and
pain which the demon of passion traces across the lives of his
worshippers. What a difference now! His heart told him: "Thou hast done
well! thou wilt be happy!" And his intellect, weighing carefully and
comparing the value of what he had left behind with what he had chosen,
likewise gave him its approval.
For a long time he remained awake, feeling the weight of his wife's head
resting on his shoulder. From time to time he looked down at her, and
though he saw that her eyes were shut, he was inclined to think that she
was not asleep.
Finally sleep overcame him. When he opened his eyes, the compartment was
already full of the early morning light. He looked at his wife, and saw
that she was wide awake.
"Maximina," said he, in a low voice, so as not to disturb the others,
"have you been awake long?"
"No; only a little while," said the girl, sitting up.
"And why didn't you sit up?"
"Because I was afraid of disturbing you if I moved."
"But how much I would rather have had you wake me! Don't you know that I
have been wanting to talk with you?"
And the young couple began to converse in such low voices that they
divined rather than heard each other's words; all the time, the Cuervo
sisters, their brother, and Juana were sleeping in various and original
positions. What did they talk about? They themselves did not know: words
have a conventional value, and all of theirs, without a single
exception, expressed the same idea.
Miguel, cautious of speaking about themselves, because he noticed that
it embarrassed Maximina, turned the conversation to some pleasing
subject and tried to make her laugh, so that her natural bashfulness
might wear away. Nevertheless, he took the risk of once asking her, with
a keen glance:--
"Are you happy?"
"Yes."
"Aren't you sorry that you are mine?"
"Oh, no! If you only knew!..."
"Knew what?"
"Nothing, nothing!"
"Yes; you were going to say something: tell me!"
"It was nonsense."
"Tell me, then! I have the right now to know even the most trifling
thing that passes through your mind."
He was obliged to insist long and tenderly before he succeeded in
finding out.
"Come now; whisper it in my ear."