I regretted the very first word I mentioned to her regarding my
feelings. She became a block of ice, and I lost at once all that I
might have gained in her good graces. Still she answered me very
kindly: "It is not because it is you, sir, who speak to me of love, but
love itself is something which I hold in horror."
"But why, dear lady?" I inquired.
"Because my heart is dead. Because I have loved to the point of
delirium, and I have been deceived."
I felt that I should talk to her in a philosophic way and there were a
lot of platitudes on the tip of my tongue, but I refrained. I knew that
she meant what she said. When we arrived at Malaga, she said to me in a
tone I shall never forget as long as I live: "I thank you a thousand
times for your kind attention during the trip, and hope you will
forgive me if I do not tell you my name and address."
"Do you mean then that we shall not meet again?"
"Never! And you, especially, should not regret it." And then with a
smile that was utterly without joy she extended her exquisite hand to
me and said: "Pray to God for me."
I pressed her hand and made a low bow. She entered a handsome victoria
which was awaiting her, and as it moved away she bowed to me again.
* * * * *
Two months later I met her again.
At two o'clock in the afternoon I was jogging along in an old cart on
the road that leads to Cordoba. The object of my journey was to examine
some land which I owned in that neighborhood and pass three or four
weeks with one of the judges of the Supreme Court, who was an intimate
friend of mine and had been my schoolmate at the University of Granada.
He received me with open arms. As I entered his handsome house I could
but note the perfect taste and elegance of the furniture and
decorations.
"Ah, Zarco," I said, "you have married, and you have never told me
about it. Surely this was not the way to treat a man who loved you as
much as I do!"
"I am not married, and what is more I never will marry," answered the
judge sadly.
"I believe that you are not married, dear boy, since you say so, but I
cannot understand the declaration that you never will. You must be
joking."
"I swear that I am telling you the truth," he replied.
"But what a metamorphosis!" I exclaimed. "You were always a partisan of
marriage, and for the past two years you have been writing to me and
advising me to take a life partner. Whence this wonderful change, dear
friend? Something must have happened to you, something unfortunate, I
fear?"
"To me?" answered the judge somewhat embarrassed.
"Yes, to you. Something has happened, and you are going to tell me all
about it. You live here alone, have practically buried yourself in this
great house. Come, tell me everything."
The judge pressed my hand. "Yes, yes, you shall know all. There is no
man more unfortunate than I am. But listen, this is the day upon which
all the inhabitants go to the cemetery, and I must be there, if only
for form's sake. Come with me. It is a pleasant afternoon and the walk
will do you good, after riding so long in that old cart. The location
of the cemetery is a beautiful one, and I am quite sure you will enjoy
the walk. On our way, I will tell you the incident that ruined my life,
and you shall judge yourself whether I am justified in my hatred of
women."
As together we walked along the flower-bordered road, my friend told me
the following story:
Two years ago when I was Assistant District Attorney in ----, I
obtained permission from my chief to spend a month in Sevilla. In the
hotel where I lodged there was a beautiful young woman who passed for a
widow but whose origin, as well as her reasons for staying in that
town, were a mystery to all. Her installation, her wealth, her total
lack of friends or acquaintances and the sadness of her expression,
together with her incomparable beauty, gave rise to a thousand
conjectures.
Her rooms were directly opposite mine, and I frequently met her in the
hall or on the stairway, only too glad to have the chance of bowing to
her. She was unapproachable, however, and it was impossible for me to
secure an introduction. Two weeks later, fate was to afford me the
opportunity of entering her apartment. I had been to the theater that
night, and when I returned to my room I thoughtlessly opened the door
of her apartment instead of that of my own. The beautiful woman was
reading by the light of the lamp and started when she saw me. I was so
embarrassed by my mistake that for a moment I could only stammer
unintelligible words. My confusion was so evident that she could not
doubt for a moment that I had made a mistake. I turned to the door,
intent upon relieving her of my presence as quickly as possible, when
she said with the most exquisite courtesy: "In order to show you that I
do not doubt your good faith and that I'm not at all offended, I beg
that you will call upon me again, _intentionally_."
Three days passed before I got up sufficient courage to accept her
invitation. Yes, I was madly in love with her; accustomed as I am to
analyze my own sensations, I knew that my passion could only end in the
greatest happiness or the deepest suffering. However, at the end of the
three days I went to her apartment and spent the evening there. She
told me that her name was Blanca, that she was born in Madrid, and that
she was a widow. She played and sang for me and asked me a thousand
questions about myself, my profession, my family, and every word she
said increased my love for her. From that night my soul was the slave
of her soul; yes, and it _will be forever_.
I called on her again the following night, and thereafter every
afternoon and evening I was with her. We loved each other, but not a
word of love had ever been spoken between us.
One evening she said to me: "I married a man without loving him.
Shortly after marriage I hated him. Now he is dead. Only God knows what
I suffered. Now I understand what love means; it is either heaven or it
is hell. For me, up to the present time, it has been hell."
I could not sleep that night. I lay awake thinking over these last
words of Blanca's. Somehow this woman frightened me. Would I be her
heaven and she my hell?
My leave of absence expired. I could have asked for an extension,
pretending illness, but the question was, should I do it? I consulted
Blanca.
"Why do you ask me?" she said, taking my hand.
"Because I love you. Am I doing wrong in loving you?"
"No," she said, becoming very pale, and then she put both arms about my
neck and her beautiful lips touched mine.
Well, I asked for another month and, thanks to you, dear friend, it was
granted. Never would they have given it to me without your influence.
My relations with Blanca were more than love; they were delirium,
madness, fanaticism, call it what you will. Every day my passion for
her increased, and the morrow seemed to open up vistas of new
happiness. And yet I could not avoid feeling at times a mysterious,
indefinable fear. And this I knew she felt as well as I did. We both
feared to lose one another. One day I said to Blanca:
"We must marry, as quickly as possible."