"In the name of religion also, I beg you to pardon me."
He bowed, opened my _Don Quixote_, and sat down.
This little incident disturbed me more than the harvest of compliments,
gazing and pretty speeches on my most successful evening. During the
lesson I watched him attentively, which I could do the more safely, as
he never looks at me.
As the result of my observations, I made out that the tutor, whom we
took to be forty, is a young man, some years under thirty. My governess,
to whom I had handed him over, remarked on the beauty of his black hair
and of his pearly teeth. As to his eyes, they are velvet and fire; but
he is plain and insignificant. Though the Spaniards have been described
as not a cleanly people, this man is most carefully got up, and his
hands are whiter than his face. He stoops a little, and has an extremely
large, oddly-shaped head. His ugliness, which, however, has a dash of
piquancy, is aggravated by smallpox marks, which seam his face. His
forehead is very prominent, and the shaggy eyebrows meet, giving a
repellent air of harshness. There is a frowning, plaintive look on his
face, reminding one of a sickly child, which owes its life to superhuman
care, as Sister Marthe did. As my father observed, his features are a
shrunken reproduction of those of Cardinal Ximenes. The natural dignity
of our tutor's manners seems to disconcert the dear Duke, who doesn't
like him, and is never at ease with him; he can't bear to come in
contact with superiority of any kind.
As soon as my father knows enough Spanish, we start for Madrid. When
Henarez returned, two days after the reproof he had given me, I remarked
by way of showing my gratitude:
"I have no doubt that you left Spain in consequence of political events.
If my father is sent there, as seems to be expected, we shall be in a
position to help you, and might be able to obtain your pardon, in case
you are under sentence."
"It is impossible for any one to help me," he replied.
"But," I said, "is that because you refuse to accept any help, or
because the thing itself is impossible?"
"Both," he said, with a bow, and in a tone which forbade continuing the
subject.
My father's blood chafed in my veins. I was offended by this haughty
demeanor, and promptly dropped Senor Henarez.
All the same, my dear, there is something fine in this rejection of
any aid. "He would not accept even our friendship," I reflected, whilst
conjugating a verb. Suddenly I stopped short and told him what was in
my mind, but in Spanish. Henarez replied very politely that equality
of sentiment was necessary between friends, which did not exist in this
case, and therefore it was useless to consider the question.
"Do you mean equality in the amount of feeling on either side, or
equality in rank?" I persisted, determined to shake him out of this
provoking gravity.
He raised once more those awe-inspiring eyes, and mine fell before them.
Dear, this man is a hopeless enigma. He seemed to ask whether my words
meant love; and the mixture of joy, pride, and agonized doubt in his
glance went to my heart. It was plain that advances, which would be
taken for what they were worth in France, might land me in difficulties
with a Spaniard, and I drew back into my shell, feeling not a little
foolish.
The lesson over, he bowed, and his eyes were eloquent of the humble
prayer: "Don't trifle with a poor wretch."
This sudden contrast to his usual grave and dignified manner made a
great impression on me. It seems horrible to think and to say, but I
can't help believing that there are treasures of affection in that man.