The news spread quickly through the village that the daughter of the
fisherman had been assassinated. Thus this egotist, this rustic, this
stupid Momo, thanks to his evil spirit, and his bad instincts, took what
he saw at the theatre for reality, and he not only made a useless
journey, because he had not accomplished his mission, but his folly led
all the good people into an error.
The face of Don Modesto lengthened amazingly. The cura said a mass for
the soul of Marisalada. Ramon Perez put a black ribbon on his guitar.
Rosa Mistica said to Don Modesto--
“God pardon her! I predicted that she would end badly. Do you remember
that the more pains I took to make her go the right way, the more
obstinate she was in going the wrong?”
Old Maria, calculating that this catastrophe prevented the arrival of
Don Frederico, decided to confide the cure of Pedro to a young physician
who had taken the place of Stein at Villamar.
“I do not know much of his science,” she said to Don Modesto, who
recommended this Esculapius to her; “he knows only how to order
medicinal drinks, and there is nothing which more weakens the stomach.
For nourishment he prescribes chicken broth. Will you tell me what
strength such a beverage can give? All is topsy-turvy, my commandant.
But all this will come right in the future, and experience will always
be experience.”
The doctor found Pedro very ill; he declared he was anxious to prepare
for his death.
Maria could not hear this news without weeping bitterly; she called
Manuel, and charged him with the painful mission to announce his
approaching death to Pedro, with every possible precaution.
“Believe me,” she said, “I would never have the courage to do it.”
Manuel set off to visit the patient.
“Hallo! Pedro,” he said to him, “how are you?”
“I am sinking, Manuel,” replied the invalid: “if you have any commands
for the other world, tell me immediately: I am about to weigh anchor, my
son.”
“Come! Pedro, this is not so. You will live longer than I; and, as the
proverb says--”
“Do not finish, Manuel,” replied Pedro without moving. “Say to your
mother that I am ready. It is now a long time since I have felt my last
moment approaching. I think only of that--and of _her_!” he added, in a
broken voice.
Manuel went away with his eyes filled with tears, although he had seen,
during his military life, much bloodshed, and painful agonies.
The following day there was one of those terrible storms which the
equinox usually brings. The wind whistled in every variety of tone. One
could believe he heard the seven heads of the hydra breathing all at
once. It beat against the cabin, which seemed to complain and moan. The
invisible element sent its doleful sounds through the resounding vaults
of the ruins of the fort; it struck furiously across the forest, became
softer in the orchards, and vanished in a long murmur in the deserted
plain, as gradually disappears the shadow of a landscape on the
horizon.
The sea dashed its waves angrily, as fury agitates serpents among the
leaves. The clouds piled themselves up without pause, and their black
flanks opened to emit their torrents on the earth. All was shivering,
all trembling, all complaining. The sun had fled, and the color of day
was dark as the pall of death.
Although the cabin was protected by the rock, the tempest had swept away
a part of the roof during the night. To prevent its complete
destruction, Manuel, aided by Momo, had stayed it with some wood and
some stones of the ruins.
“You do not wish to shelter your host?” said Manuel. “Wait at least for
it to fall down, and then there will be no more need of you.”
If any other look than that of God could through the tempest penetrate
the desert, he would have seen some men following along the margin of
the sea, braving the fury of the storm, enveloped in their mantles,
wrapt and silent, their bodies bent towards the earth, and their heads
bowed down. He would have seen an old man, grave, and wrapt in
meditation, like those who followed him, his arms crossed on his breast,
in the manner of Orientals, and preceded by a child ringing a bell.
There could be heard at intervals, despite the roaring of the tempest,
the tranquil and sonorous voice of this old man, saying, “_De profundis
clamavi ad te, Domine_,” and of the men who responded, “_Domine, exaudi
vocem meam._”
The rain fell in torrents, the wind blew furiously, and the men
continued their onward, impassible march, their step at once grave and
slow.
They were the cura and some pious parishioners, who, conducted by
Manuel, went to carry to the dying fisherman the last consolations of a
Christian.
The priest approached the invalid, whose poor dwelling had been
metamorphosed, thanks to the attentions of old Maria and of brother
Gabriel. They had placed on the table a crucifix, surrounded with lights
and flowers.
“Light and perfume,” said the good old woman, “are the exterior homage
which we ought to offer to the Lord.”
After the ceremony, the priest, Maria, and brother Gabriel alone
remained near the dying man. Pedro was calm. After a few moments he
opened his eyes--
“Is she not come?” he asked.
“My good Pedro,” replied Maria, while streams of tears prevented her
from seeing the invalid, “it is far from this to Madrid. She wrote she
would set out, and we will see her arrive very soon.”
Santalo again fell into a lethargy. An hour passed, and then he came to
himself. He fixed his look for a long time on Maria, and said to her--
“Maria, I have implored of my Divine Saviour that he will deign to come
and visit me; that he will pardon me, that he will make you happy, and
recompense you for all you have done for us.”
Then he swooned. He again revived, opened his eyes, in which already one
could read death, and he murmured--
“She has not come!”
His head fell on the pillow, and he exclaimed--
“Pity, Lord!”
“Let us repeat the _Credo_,” said the priest, taking in his hands those
of the dying man, and approaching his mouth to his ears, to make him
understand the last words of faith, hope, and charity. A majestic and
imposing silence reigned in this humble retreat, which death had come
to penetrate.
Without, the tempest raged in all its terrible power; within, all was
peace and repose: because God takes from death all its fears, and all
its horror, when the soul springs to heaven at the cry of pity!