CHAPTER XIII.
THE park, wrapped in the shades of night, seemed like a forest; it was more grand and mysterious. The magnolias, cypresses, and araucarias that half covered the ground might be imagined cavaliers wrapped in their cloaks, silent and threatening. The foliage did not stir; the gravelled roads scarcely showed their whiteness; the footpaths were submissive to the darkness. We followed the first of these in a sort of vague disquiet, exchanging few words. The same emotion seemed to seal our lips and oppress our hearts. When I recall those first moments of that night and the overwhelming melancholy that oppressed me, I cannot help being a bit superstitious.
But if the darkness inspired sadness and a vague dread, the fragrances, some sweet, some keen, that filtered through the silent leaves, invited us to go farther. We inhaled, as we went on our way, a thousand delicious odors, from the scarcely perceptible breath of violets to the strong, dominating perfume of the magnolia.
On arriving at a certain place, a sort of little opening where the languorous, sensuous perfume of heliotrope dominated all others, Matilde made a gesture of pleasure. It was her favorite fragrance. She would not let us go any farther, and made us sit down on a rustic bench so that she could get her fill of it, as she said. But, unluckily, that perfume, subtle with Oriental love, immediately recalled to her memory the poetical image of her spouse. And, fascinated by this recollection, she entertained us for some time by relating the most interesting particulars of his domestic life—at what hour this extraordinary being got up in the morning, how soon afterwards a glass of water with lemon in it was introduced into his precious organism, how many slices of toast he took with his coffee, how many pipes he smoked, how he walked about the house, and even how, every Thursday, he took magnesia to cleanse and purify this splendid work of nature.
As if in sympathy with her enthusiasm, and desiring to give testimony to the admiration that such a rare and beautiful subject inspired, a gentle light suddenly shone over the place. We turned our eyes towards the sea, and saw the moon coming up above its quiet waves. The waters smiled; in the park the silver, smooth leaves of the magnolias, the silky-whiteness of the roses, the tops of the cannas and laurels glittered in luminous points of light. The darkness fled away into the depths of the thickets, forming dense, impenetrable masses. Soon the moonlight began penetrating these also, as the moon rose higher in the azure vault, scattering golden rays.
Matilde, who was reminded by everything in heaven or on earth of Sabas, thought that it was now time to get his bed ready for him, and asked us to come into the house. Isabelita did not wish to go so soon. The night was delicious; she would stay alone with me. I did not wish to say anything about the unusualness of this, to disturb her angelic innocence. We sat for some moments on the same bench, chatting about indifferent matters.
I was not long, however, in bringing the conversation to our projected marriage. It interested her immensely. She must have six dozen of chemises, and four of petticoats, and three of this, and eight of that. I could not help her much in all that. I was absent-minded or critical, and, without knowing why, responded but poorly and with little tact when she consulted me. But my attention was held when the child began to talk about our house, and the expenses it would occasion, and the expenditures we must count upon to furnish it. I was surprised at the ease and capacity wherewith she discussed economic subjects. She not only understood what concerned her father's business, but also exchange, discounting bills, stocks, and so on. For some time I listened with amazement while she discussed the probable rise of certain public stocks that her father had recently bought, of the transferring of others that he held, of the sudden fall of the stock of the tobacco company, of treasury bonds, and a thousand other things of whose existence I scarcely knew. This financial erudition did not impress me agreeably. I understood the necessity of a woman's having some knowledge of affairs in order to rule over her house properly; but so much mercantile knowledge shocked my temperament, which was not at all practical, and, more yet, the idea it gave me of this young creature. It seemed impossible that such old words could issue from such youthful lips.
But this was not the only thing. Going on from one thing to another with strange smartness, the child reached the point of inquiring the amount of my capital. I did not try to hide it from her. At the first hint I told her, with complete clearness, one house, a little land, a few bonds of the company in whose service I had been—about sixty thousand dollars all reckoned.
Isabelita kept silence a moment.
"It isn't much," she said at last, with a certain antagonistic inflection I did not know in her.
And, after another pause, she added, with a forced smile:
"My father thought that you were much richer."
"But you perceive how mistaken he was," I said, with a smile still more forced. "We are almost always deceived about others, sometimes thinking them richer than they are, sometimes more noble."
This was all that I said. I felt an enormous, overwhelming repugnance, almost a nausea. In one instant I had made up my mind. I would not marry this self-hawker, with her angelic profile, for all the treasures of earth.
And, curiously, as soon as I made this resolution, I felt at peace and almost happy. I felt as if I had thrown off a great load. So, to the surprise of Retamoso's daughter, who had remained thoughtful, and a little put out by my words, I began to show myself gay and never more merry.
But the evening was advancing, and as I was not interested in conversation, and wished to be alone and think over the proper method for breaking off with her, I proposed that we should return to the house. As we got up we heard a murmur as of people coming; we did not know any other way except to sit down again. Castell and Cristina sailed into the little open space. From the darkness of the place where we were sitting, we could see them plainly, for the moonlight completely enveloped them. I perceived at once that the conversation was a serious one. He came along smiling, bending his head insinuatingly towards her, to talk close to her ear. Cristina was pale, with frowning brow, her gaze hard, and fixed on space. I wished to get up at once, but Isabelita held me back. They passed before us without seeing us. As for him, we could not hear him, because he spoke very low; but some of her words reached our ears distinctly.
"There is nothing more to be said about that."
This sentence, uttered with unusual energy, impressed us forcibly. Isabelita grasped my wrist with a nervous hand and stood up to follow them. And, truly, if curiosity excited her, my own was no less; but as I knew where that would lead me, and as it seemed to me indecorous to surprise such a secret, I tried to stop her. It was useless. The girl pulled away from me, and was off after them. I followed also, determining to do something to attract their attention in some way. But by this time I could no longer see Isabelita. I went forward in the darkness, which was there very dense, guided only by the sound of their voices. In a few moments I realized that Castell and Cristina had stopped. I still advanced and saw that they were in a glorieta, or arbor, formed by four great laurels, planted a little distance apart, whose branches interlaced. I approached with a cautious step. Isabelita was outside the arbor with her ear glued to the branches. When I came up to her, she flashed one hand over my mouth and the other arm about my neck so hard that she hurt me. I was stupefied by such violence, whose reason I could not imagine. Weakly, and because I thought it would save Cristina's modesty, I remained passive and quiet.
"Perhaps you consider," said Castell, "my patience of several years, my sufferings, the silent, constant service I have given you, a mere caprice. Perhaps you suppose that my self-love is concerned in this rather than a deep, irresistible passion. Have I not an equal right to suppose that the disdain with which you have so many times humiliated me is the work of pride and of obstinacy more than of virtue?"
"You may suppose whatever you like. The way you judge me—"
"I know you," interrupted Castell. "Nobody could be more charming. I have never found a woman whose beauty and whose character appeared to me more interesting and worthy of admiration."
I heard a slight sniff of disdain and then these words:
"I would prefer you to admire me less, and let me live more at peace. But it is not about this that I wish to talk at present. I consented to come out with you, and find myself here at this improper hour, at the risk of my husband's honor, which is dearer to me than life, because I see a way to solve the problem of my life. Rich or poor, happy or disgraced, I am resolved to live in honor and peace."
Nobody can imagine exactly what went on within me at that moment. The horrible suspicions, almost certainties, which had smeared the image of my idol, fled like black spectres. I saw her again in all her purity, with an aureole of virtue that was her glory and charm. A celestial happiness descended into my heart. All my body trembled, seized with an irresistible emotion.
"You might search everywhere, you might look the wide world over, for one whose happiness concerns me more than your own, and you could not find one," said Castell.
"That is very little to say," replied Cristina with a sarcastic accent.
"Because you think that nothing on earth moves me or interests me, don't you? There you are wrong. Before I gave rein to this disgraceful passion, I lived in a state of perpetual interest in all things. Cities, mountains, rivers, the ocean, society, art, passing affections, everything moved me and attracted me. To-day all these things are objects of loathing in my eyes. Barren boredom, a wearing contempt, and a causeless weariness dog me everywhere, surrounding me like poisonous vapors. All the nerves of my life are parched—except one. When this is stirred, my being trembles, my faculties are roused, the horrible spell that binds me is broken, and daylight breaks upon my spirit——"
"Better say night. A bad conscience has need of night."
"Conscience always stops on the steps of the temple of love. Did you ever know anyone who, truly in love with a woman, devoured by desire for her, has been hindered by conscience? I know nobody. If any human being came to me with a tale like that, I should tell him frankly that he lied. No mouse ever hesitated before cheese; no man before a woman, in fear of his conscience."
"All the worse for men if that is so. But I repeat it is not about this that I wish to speak at this moment. At the risk of your carrying out your half-veiled threats, I am resolved to put an end to this persecution, and it shall be ended. Indeed, it shall be ended!"
"Do you know one thing, Cristina? I have come to think that you enjoy being obstinate rather than virtuous."
"Do you know another thing, Castell? I have always thought that there is no love whatever in your make-up, but, instead, a monstrous vanity that has need of satisfying itself at the cost of the honor and happiness of your best friend."
"If there was nothing in me but vanity, how long would it have taken it to be revenged upon this scorn, these insults? I doubt if there is a woman in the world who knows how better to cut the heart with a gesture, envenom the soul, and fill it with mad anger by a glance. I am persuaded that you cannot love, but only scorn, a man. If you condescend to your husband, it is because he is a poor, miserable thing who doesn't dare hold up his head in your presence."
"Spare your insults! This is well! If you had always talked like this, I should have been saved much pain. Now let us come to the other matter. It is absolutely necessary that from this night henceforth you must cease to mortify me, either with words, looks, or hints of any kind. It is absolutely necessary that, if you cannot treat me with respect as the wife of your friend, I should be to you as any indifferent person. And, further, I am resolved, thinking everything over, to give an account of what has passed to my husband."
"This is decreed?" he asked in a mocking tone.
"This is decreed!" she said angrily.
There was a pause.
"And are you not afraid," he asked at last, speaking slowly, "if following upon the thousand tortures and humiliations that you have made me suffer, and my despair of ever being successful with you, if no compassion follows, that my love might be turned into hate, and that I take means that the event which overthrows me should engulf you and yours in yet more frightful ruin?"
"No, I am not afraid," she replied with fiery pride.
"You do well. I shall not take any revenge whatever."
"You may do it if you choose," she interrupted him impetuously. "Emilio is a man who likes luxuries and comforts, I know, but he cares very much more for his wife and his honor. If the alternative were offered him, he would give his fortune gladly, if not also his life. So you may ruin him as soon as you please. If nothing is left us, we two can go to work. But when he finds himself in somebody's office as a humble clerk, nobody can come up to him and call him a complaisant husband; and when I go through the streets, the people in Valencia may lean out of their balcony windows and say: 'This poor woman that we see there with a basket on her arm used to have her carriage and go dressed in her silks;' but they shall not say, I swear it, 'She who goes yonder is a prostitute.'"
Her voice sank as she uttered the word. I felt my throat constrict.
"Oh, oh! this is too much!" exclaimed Castell.
"Yes." She repeated the word firmly. "And it is all the same whether one sells oneself for fear or to get money."
"Pardon me, Cristina, but it seems to me that you are giving the conversation rather a romantic turn. 'A basket on her arm.' This is folly! I call your good judgment in against such nonsense. Here is a man who loves you with all the strength of his soul, who to win your love would be capable of making any sacrifice, even of his life. You have already taken away all my hope, and, in abandoning the contest, at least don't make me out a seducer in a novel of the kind that stirs up the wrath of dressmakers."
"Let us stop talking. I cannot stay here any longer," she said. I could see that she stood up.
"Yes, let us put an end to it. I give up trying for you, but not loving you. I renounce the idea of vengeance, as I have told you. But understand, however, that this is only a truce. My hopes that you will love me some day will not be banished. Separated from you, I shall wait with patience for a time when our paths shall cross again and I shall offer you the poor heart that you have coldly trampled upon."
"Very well. Good-by."
Castell also stood up. More by Cristina's next words than by what I could really see, I understood that he was holding her.
"Let me go!"
"Before you go, I want the reward that my sacrifice merits. Let me kiss these glorious eyes."
"Let me go!" she repeated forcibly and fiercely.
"I have renounced all," he said as energetically, but lowering his voice; "but I swear to you I will not renounce this kiss, if it costs me my life."
"Let me go, or I shall scream."
"Scream as much as you like. If you want to make a scandal and perhaps kill your husband—his death for one kiss—I am willing."
At that moment I entered the glorieta and put my hand on his shoulder.
"Who is it? Who goes there?" he exclaimed, giving a jump that separated him widely from Cristina.
"There is no need of being alarmed. It's me."
"And who are you?" he replied, drawing a revolver and pointing it at me.
"Keep your gun for thieves, or hold it in readiness for some traitor who, abusing the confidence reposed in him, tries to seize upon honor and happiness. There are no thieves or traitors here."
"If there are no thieves, there are at least persons about devoting themselves to overhearing private conversations. But for such persons a whip would be more suitable than a revolver," he returned in sarcastic tones.
"Keep your sarcasms likewise for a more opportune occasion. Nobody here has tried to overhear conversations. They are heard when they come to one's ears, and I am sincerely sorry that I was here at this time to hear them. If I had been asleep in my bed, I should have avoided the sorrow of entering into the foul and hidden corners of the human conscience."
"You lie!" he cried, coming wrathfully towards me. "You were spying upon us. How can you talk of foulness when you are sunk in filth yourself? You have been spying upon us, I repeat it. I have seen you doing that for some time past. By what right do you follow our steps and pretend to interfere in the affairs of this family, you who are an outsider?"
"An outsider interferes when he sees anyone is in need of help," I replied calmly. "Moreover, I have not the habit of following any path, except those of the ocean currents. I have not insulted you, and you have no right to insult me as you have been doing."
Then he, perhaps taking my calmness for cowardice, or possibly wishing to provoke a violent scene, so as to extricate himself from his difficulty, grabbed me by the lapels of my coat, shook me, and bringing his threatening face up to mine, yelled:
"Yes, señor, you have followed us, and I will not endure it. Do you hear? Yes, I have insulted you, and why? Are you not satisfied with one insult? Then here goes for another."
I caught his arm in air. I caught hold of the other one also, and holding him like a vise, because here my greater muscular strength was of service, gave him several shakings and forced him backwards into the foliage of the arbor.
"Give up, Enrique, give up! Don't risk your life for anybody!"
I paused, stupefied. My fingers relaxed their hold and released their captive. Turning my head, I saw before me the virginal figure of Isabelita. Yes, it was she.
"Thank you very much," I said smiling.
But I was of no consequence. She did not even glance my way. With an agitated countenance, her eyes fixed upon Castell, she took his hand and led him out of the glorieta.
CHAPTER XIV.
CRISTINA was sitting down, her face hidden in her hands. I went up to her.
"Forgive me for coming in here. I was not master of myself."
"You did exactly right; thank you," she murmured, without changing her position.
We remained silent. Presently, rising abruptly, she exclaimed:
"Come, let us go in! let us go in!"
And emerging from the glorieta, she went hastily towards the house. I followed her, and catching up with her, suggested the propriety of not presenting herself in such a disturbed state to Emilio.
She did not reply to me, but she changed her direction, and turned her steps towards a narrow acacia path, where the light of the moon could scarcely penetrate. I soon lost sight of her. I paused a moment, debating whether to go on to the house or follow her. I decided upon the last, because I was afraid she might stumble anew upon Castell.
I followed the path, and saw her as she came out in front of the little pavilion that bore her name. I joined her and advised her to rest there a moment.
The salon, profusely adorned with statues and vases, offered at this hour a mysterious enchantment. The moon shone through the crystalline windows. The polished furniture, the porcelains, the pictures hanging on the wall, reflected the moonlight mournfully. The marble statues threw huge dark shadows upon the walls, tragic and threatening.
Cristina dropped upon a sofa, and I sat down beside her.
We remained silent for some time.
"When, for the first time," I said at last, "I had the pleasure to enter your house, I felt as if I saw a little bit of heaven below—joy, cordiality, serene and innocent happiness, the tender love of a wife who inspires respect, the restful felicity of a husband free from any of the suspicions that embitter existence—a yoke of love and peace; and about you plenty, riches, all the good gifts of life. Shall I surprise you if I say that among the leafage of so many joys I have seen uplifted the head of the serpent?"
"I do not doubt it," she replied pensively, looking out at the heavens through the crystal-clear windows.
"If I could not see your face, I should still be able to divine what you are feeling. Your eyes are not able to conceal what passes in your soul. How happy you would have made me by confiding to me your troubles! I am a new friend, I know, but the affection that you and Emilio inspire in me could not be more sincere."
"Thank you, thank you, Captain Ribot," she murmured, "but it is not possible."
"It is not possible, truly. How could it be when I lack skill to persuade you of the sincerity of my sentiments? I confess that there have been reasons why you should not give me your confidence. I have repented with all my soul, and I beg your forgiveness."
As if these words agitated her, she rose, pushed aside a hanging curtain, went to the piano that stood open, ran her fingers over the keys, then came and sat down again.
"I understand by what I overheard," I said, after a pause, "that Castell has some hold over you—that you are in his debt."
"Our entire fortune is in his hands."
"What!"
"Emilio has been to him for money to use in his business, which was ruined."
"And this was given in the hope of obliging you to accept his devotion?"
"It is possible. Castell is more of a business man than a lover. No matter what he pretends, buying and selling is his business. He has always had the idea of getting absolute control of the steamboat line."
"I suppose that after what has been overheard, he will desist for a little in trying to get possession of it."
"I don't know."
She sat thoughtful for a few moments. Then, as if she were talking to herself, she said in a dull voice:
"The day that Emilio and I were married he was at my house from the hour of the ceremony until I went to change my dress. We were going to Madrid to spend a few days. When I came down, I stumbled upon him waiting for me on the stairs. He made some gallant speeches to me at that time, and begged a spray of my orange flowers, which he put next his heart. I gave it to him against my will, from bashfulness, from timidity. He was repulsive to me from the first moment. Later, when we were at the station, and he came to give me his hand for good-by, he said, almost in my ear, 'If some day it chances that you get tired of him, remember that he has friends who admire you as much or more than he does.'"
"What insolence!"
"I did not like to say anything to my husband then; I have not wished to since. The friendship that united them was strong, and I hesitated to break it. How many times since then I have asked myself if I did right or wrong!"
"And before that he had not addressed you especially?"
"Yes, and no. Once we were at Denia. Castell was there, and I danced with him at a ball at the house of some friends; it was several months before I knew Emilio. That evening he made a little love to me and almost declared himself. I took that for what it was, the diversion of a traveller who does everything he can think of to keep from being bored. And, indeed, he left Denia, and Spain, and spent nearly two years in travelling. When he came back, I was going to be married to Emilio. It was only a fortnight before the wedding."
"Providence has been cruel placing such a man in your pathway, and giving him power to cause you so much trouble."
She did not answer. She remained thoughtful for a while; at last, looking at me with her great eyes full of interest, said:
"But you are so very, very good, Ribot. Don't let us talk any more about my troubles, but think of those that you have to bear."
"Bah! 'tis quite the contrary with me. I should give thanks to God that I have been undeceived in time. Somehow I have always suspected that the girl was in love with Castell, although Emilio and Sabas were so certain of something else. And, to be frank, I also love someone else better."
"Then why don't you marry her?"
"Because, because—I don't know why; that is to say, if I knew and if you also knew—but there are things that I do not care to confess to myself."
These words made her look troubled. I was repentant at once, as the rays of the moon let me see on her forehead that frown dreaded of yore.
"No, Cristina, no!" I hastened to say vehemently, "I beg you not to think that which I read in your eyes. I have been through bitter struggles, despairing conflicts with myself. I have stumbled, and fallen too, but I have risen; and—I can say it without pride—never shall treachery find shelter in my breast. I have not Castell's brilliant qualities. I am far from possessing the advantages that make that man admired and sought after; but if I possessed them all, I swear I would not use them to stab a friend in the back. Far more than the satisfactions of love, more than all the enjoyments of earth—and even those of heaven if they were offered me—I hold the peace of my own conscience."
The warmth of my tones and the sincerity of expression with which I uttered these words made her lift her head and look at me in a slight amaze. Her brow grew calm, and a sweet smile lingered upon her lips.
"Yes, I have already come to see that you are more original in that way than could at first have been imagined. I think it much better this way."
And saying so, she graciously held out her hand to me, and I pressed it with as much respect as emotion. At this moment a shadow fell across us, then one appeared before us, saying:
"Good-evening."
Both Cristina and I were painfully startled.
"You here, Emilio? I thought you had gone to bed," she said, instantly controlling herself.
"No, no; I didn't go to bed. I felt the heat, like the rest of you, and came out for a turn in the garden. I heard the sound of conversation, so I came in."
In spite of the natural voice he made a point of using, there was something in his manner and a strangeness in his tones that disquieted us immensely.
"It is a very beautiful night," he went on, beginning to walk up and down the place with his hands in his pockets. "The month of September has not fallen behind August. Even in the mornings it is scarcely cool yet. I found I had no desire to go to bed."
I replied to him in words as unimportant as his own. He gave no sign of having heard me. He went on walking up and down in an absorbed manner, and at last he went over to the balcony and stood motionless looking out through the glass. Then he opened one of the windows and stepped outside to get more of the cool night air.
Cristina gazed at him without moving an eyelash. In her eyes a great anguish was visible. She seemed alarmed. Thus several minutes passed in silence. At last, as if unable longer to endure this tension, she rose impetuously, went to her husband and put her hand on his shoulder, saying:
"Come, let us go to the house."
"As you like," he replied dryly.
We went out of the pavilion and along the avenue of acacias that led to it. I tried to walk with Martí and to talk with him. I saw that he shrank from my company, and answered with few words. Before reaching the house he took his wife's arm and went on ahead, leaving me behind. This mute rebuff made my heart ache. I followed with a sadness that presently gave way to decided impatience, thinking with what injustice I was treated. As we went along in this fashion, there came into my mind the strong resolution to enter into a clear and definite explanation with him, and disclose to him all that had passed.
We arrived at the door of the house and paused under the glass portico. Through the opened window of the dining-room I could see Isabelita, Castell, and Doña Amparo.
"Come," I said, with affected indifference, "you two are going to bed and I into the city."
"Won't you wait until we can order the carriage?" asked Cristina timidly.
"No; I have an appetite for a stroll in the light of the moon. Hasta mañana. Good-night."
I offered Emilio my hand.
"No," he said, with an unusual gravity. "I am going with you as far as the farthest gateway. I, too, feel like a stroll."
I gave my hand to Cristina. For the first time in her life she pressed it with singular force, at the same time giving me an anxious look of supplication. I, moved to the depths of the soul, answered her eyes with my own, promising her in that way that she might depend upon me.
We walked away slowly, taking the path that led to the entrance gate. Martí walked with his hat in his hand, and preserved an obstinate silence. I waited for him to break it before we parted, promising myself to be faithful to the silent promise that I had made to Cristina. So it was he who, as we approached the boundary wall, paused and, without looking at me, spoke:
"Married men, Ribot, often have an exaggerated susceptibility. Not only do their own affections torment them, but the fear of becoming objects of ridicule sometimes obliges them to be suspicious even when they are by nature confiding. The friends of such men do well to avoid awakening this susceptibility, conducting themselves on all occasions with care and delicacy. By this means friendship is yoked to gratitude."
"You are right," I replied. "So far in my life I have managed to fulfil this obligation towards all men with whom I have had to do, not merely towards friends, as you say, but towards men of my general acquaintance. An unfortunate accident placed me in a situation that wounds your amor proprio, if not your honor. Understand, however, that Cristina——"
"We will not talk of Cristina," he interrupted, gazing firmly into my eyes. "Every night of the year before going to sleep I give thanks to God for having united me to her. To-night will be the same as the others."
"We will talk about me, then. An unfortunate accident, I repeat, placed me in a situation to hurt the susceptibility that has been mentioned. I deplore this with all my soul, although I do not find myself to blame. In any case, it would have been an indiscretion. However, these matters are of such peculiar delicacy that a recent friendship cannot risk the consequences of the slightest annoyance. If you feel any such annoyance, I am resolved to take myself away from here, and never again set foot in your house."
There was no response. We pursued in silence the remaining distance to the gate. When we reached it, he paused and, without looking at me, said in a trembling voice:
"Although I feel it very much, I cannot do less than accept your resolution. Perhaps I am making myself ridiculous in your eyes and in those of anyone who might know of what has passed; but what would you? I prefer to be considered absurd rather than see disturbed in the slightest degree the tranquillity that until now I have enjoyed."
"You are right," I said. "In your place I should do the same. To-morrow morning early I shall leave Valencia, and it may be that we shall never meet again. I desire you to know, none the less, that this is one of the profoundest griefs of my whole life. I appreciate your friendship more than you realize. I am grateful for your affectionate hospitality, and I shall never console myself for having unintentionally caused you the least trouble. If some day you have need of me, all that I have is yours."
"Thank you, thank you, Ribot," he murmured, moved.
He put one hand on the latch of the gate, and with the other lifted his hat. I did not care to let him see that I knew he did this to avoid taking my hand, so, without extending my own, I went out into the road.
"Adios, Martí," I said, turning my head, "God keep you always as happy as you have been until now."
"Adios, Ribot. Muchas gracias."
CHAPTER XV.
THE gate closed. Through its bars I could see him going farther and farther away, his uncovered head bowed, until he was lost to sight among the trees. I stood alone in the middle of the road. A profound depression filled me; it was as if I had lost something that had been the chief interest of my existence.
With slow step I began my departure from that pleasant place, believing that I should never return to tread this path again. Indeed, these latest events had followed one another so hastily and precipitately that I could scarcely realize them. One moment I had been in that house as the accepted friend about to become a member of the family. The next, I left it as a stranger whose name would soon be forgotten. Yet in the midst of my sorrow, in the mournful night that had fallen upon my heart, shone one consoling star; it was Cristina's look of supplication. In that house, perhaps, my name would now no more be spoken, but she would never forget it. This thought gave me inexpressible consolation. I went on my way with a firmer step, and when I came to the last corner of the walls surrounding the estate, I stopped beside it. I looked at it sorrowfully for a little, then, going up to the stone, I kissed it many times. Then I went on again, blushing as if someone had seen me.
The moon on high bathed the country in luminous purity, transforming it into a sleeping lake. The plain stretched before me, bordered by the mountains whose crests seemed floating in the distance in a white mist. Here and there the little groves of orange-trees and laurel stood out in the fleecy whiteness, or great cypresses rose solitary and still, casting their shadows across the road. Beyond smiled the sea, reflecting the light of the moon.
The sweetness of that night penetrated my heart, refreshing it. The fields, still abounding in flowers and fragrant with the odors of ripe fruits, soothed my senses and calmed the fever of my thoughts. I went on with a lighter step. Valencia already slumbered lightly upon her couch of flowers. Her street lights shone afar like stars of earth. Those of the heavens formed a rich canopy above, protecting that fortunate city.
When at some distance from the country house, I felt the need of resting a little while. I did not care yet to be among people. It was necessary to get my thoughts together and contrive some plan of life in place of that that had, in one moment, been upset. I sat down on a stone, drew out a cigar, lighted it, and calmly began smoking. I had not been sitting there long when I heard the sound of an approaching carriage. At first I did not know whether it was coming from Valencia or Cabañal. When I was convinced it was from the latter, I felt strangely uneasy, and thought of concealing myself; but instantly changing my mind, I determined to remain where I was. Soon I descried the horses; they drew near. It was Castell's cab, as I feared.
When he was quite close I planted myself in the middle of the road and called to the coachman in an imperative voice:
"Stop!"
He made a gesture of surprise, but stopped the horses almost as they came upon me. As he was pulling them in with the reins, obliging them to stop in time, the man recognized me and said:
"Good evening, Don Julian."
Castell had been leaning half out of the window. When I approached him he looked at me in surprise, then springing up with a fiery gesture he reached for his pocket, crying:
"If this is an attack, take care!"
"No, it is not an attack," I said, lifting my hand in sign of peace; "I wish to speak with you."
"Send me your seconds and I will speak with them," he said haughtily.
"Before doing that, it is necessary to speak with you a moment," I replied.
He stared at me a little while as if trying to discern my intentions. Convinced, doubtless, that they were not bellicose, he opened the cab door and said coolly:
"Get in!"
I sat down facing him. The carriage went onward.
"I desire to know," I said, at the end of a moment, "if it was you who let Martí know that he would find Cristina and me alone in the pavilion?"
He opened his eyes wide in no feigned surprise, and answered in an ungracious manner:
"I don't understand what you are saying to me."
I perceived that this was true, and I went on, modifying my tone.
"After you and I separated, she and I went along the acacia path to the pavilion, for the purpose of giving Cristina time to recover herself before going to the house. She found herself very much upset and did not care to present herself to her husband in that state. After we had been there a little while, Martí came unexpectedly. He was angry, naturally; sought an explanation with me, and in consequence I have left his house never to return."
"I knew nothing of it. Although I feel no obligation to give you any satisfaction whatever, since there is a question between us to be settled on other grounds, I will yet tell you that I did not speak one word to Martí about the affair. It rests with you to believe me, or not. But it certainly surprises me that after having had an explanation with him, you should leave his house and now be talking with me as cordially as ever."
"It is very simple. I did not speak one word about what I had just heard."
"You have allowed him to suspect you of treachery?" he asked in the greatest surprise.
"Yes, señor."
"And why have you done so?"
"For my pleasure."
He cast a hostile, suspicious glance at me, shrugged his shoulders, and remained silent. I broke the silence after a moment.
"The pleasures of men, Castell, are as varied as their physiognomies. However much you may have thought yourself in love with Cristina, I believe I was more. I adored her with all my soul, with all the powers of my heart. But to win her by treacherous means would, far from causing me joy, be the worst misfortune that could befall me upon earth. I should never sleep quietly again. I have made a cruel sacrifice, but I have made it for love of her, for the peace of my conscience. The tears that you see in my eyes now refresh my soul; they do not scorch it. I am going away, going away for good. You will remain, and perhaps time may bring it about that you can gain what I have so much desired; but wandering upon the sea, alone on the deck of my ship, I shall be happier than you. The stars of heaven shining above me will say: 'Be joyful, for you have done right.' The wind whistling through the rigging, the waves breaking against the sides will say: 'Joyful, joyful!'"
The light of the moon illuminated his face. I saw a smile gradually spread over it.
"These same waves that will say such agreeable things to you will think nothing of swallowing you like a fly some day. The winds will help them finish the task, and the stars of heaven will be present with all possible serenity. You are living in a profound error, Ribot. There is no other happiness upon earth except in possessing what one desires."
"Although to get it you stab a friend to death from behind?"
There was a moment of suspense, but he presently said firmly:
"Although to get it 'twere necessary to walk over men."
"There is neither good nor evil, then?"
"In life the good of some is the evil of others, and it will be so to the end of time. You may have seen some time a nest of swallows? The little ones wait anxiously for the arrival of the mother; she comes gently, opens her bill and, with loving care, feeds them one by one. How interesting! How full of tenderness such a sight! But the insects that have been destroyed and fall into the beak of the swallow to serve her in feeding her children—does the spectacle seem so tender and interesting to them? On the other hand, you see a man go stealthily up to another, knock him down with a blow, take the money out of his purse and carry it away to his house to buy bread for his children. How horrible! You shudder and hurry quickly away from such a scene. But why? If you were an insect you would go along there buzzing joyously."
"But we are given a conscience."
"Conscience does not prevent us from being fatally fettered. You find yourself in love with Cristina, the same as I am; both of us desire her. You are held back by fear of remorse, but I pursue my undertaking with no fears whatever. We both follow an instinct. Mine is more sane, because it tends to augment my vitality, while yours tends to diminish your strength. You need not laugh nor be so much surprised. Remorse in a world where necessity rules is absurd. Think you that the heroes of Homer and Aeschylus hesitated at fratricide or incest? Yet they were, nevertheless, the most noble examples of human kind."
"I am far from opposing you in augmenting your vitality," I replied, ironically; "but would it not be better that you seek a wife of your own, rather than another's."
"Another's, another's!" he repeated under his breath. "That is conventional, like all the rest."
He remained thoughtful for several minutes, looking out at the landscape through the window. I watched him with a mixture of curiosity and repugnance. Those blue eyes of his with their steely reflections inspired me for the first time with a sudden dread.
"The virtuous? Draûpadî," he began saying slowly, without taking his eyes from the scene, "one of the most interesting heroines of antiquity had five husbands, all brothers. Those heroes enjoyed her love in common, without dishonor or remorse. If we lived in like simplicity, to aspire to Cristina would be moral and plausible; we should be offering a woman two new protectors. Why does it cause you so much horror to share a woman with a friend? The world began in that way and will end in that way."
"It may end as it chooses!" I exclaimed. "Now and evermore, it will be a sin voluntarily to cause pain."
"Don't be a child, Ribot," he replied with his irritating self-sufficiency. "There is only one undeniable truth in this world, and that is the common impulse of plants and animals, insects and man. In the serene region where life abides, everlasting life, sorrow and death, signify nothing. The one supreme end of the universe is to augment the intensity of this life."
I did not respond. I remained thoughtful and silent in my turn for some time, gazing out of the other window at the road. At last I saw the first houses of the suburbs.
"Will you have the kindness to ask the man to stop?" I said; "I wish to get out here; and to-morrow I leave Valencia without fighting with you. Attribute this to cowardice if you like. It will be a new sacrifice for me to make on the altar of my love, and to the friendship that I owe Martí. I do not aspire to be a Homeric hero like you, nor dream of leaping triumphantly upon the bodies of my enemies. Will you stop?"
He gave me a big, contemptuous stare, and pulled the cord, saying coldly:
"I don't know whether or not you are a coward; but I can tell you on the spot that you are one of those people who are self-deceived, and live in delusions concerning themselves and the world about them."
The cab stopped. I opened the door and stepped out upon the ground.
"Adios, Castell," I said, without giving him my hand. "You may seek that happy region which I do not desire to know. I will remain in this other that is more sorrowful yet more honorable."
He shrugged his shoulders without answering, and turned his eyes away from me disdainfully, as he again pulled the cord. Then he leaned back comfortably. The carriage departed, and I began walking slowly towards my hotel. I followed the white highroad whereon scattering houses now cast shadows, until I reached the city's streets, and lost myself in their labyrinth.
In the Calle del Mar I found myself in front of the house of Cristina. On her bedroom balcony grew a rose-mallow. I made sure that nobody saw me, then I climbed up to it and picked some of its leaves. I went to the hotel, and up to my room, and was soon sleeping sweetly with those leaves held fast in my hand.
CHAPTER XVI.
ONCE more the sea! Port traffic, the noise of loading and unloading, troublesome business in the consignees' office—afterwards lonely, tranquil hours lulled by the songs of the sailors and the murmur of waters against the keel! I did not let my dream of love weigh down my soul. At the end of several months, it remained a tender and poetic impression which gave reality to my existence. Yet when one night we passed Valencia, and I saw the lights of Cabañal shining in the distance, I was surprised to find myself singing on the bridge in a low voice the farewell from "Grumete"—
| "Si en la noche callada |
| Sientes el viento!" |
And, without being able to help it, my eyes filled with tears like a sentimental female. But that soon passed, and I soon recovered the joyous mood which seldom, thank heaven, forsook me.
I heard from a friend in Barcelona that Castell had married Isabelita Retamoso. Much good may it do! I learned from the same man that the steamship company, Castell and Martí, had gone to pieces, and that both partners were involved in a ruinous lawsuit. On hearing that, I could not refrain from exclaiming with exquisite delight:
"Ruined, it may be! but dishonored, no!"
My friend stared at me surprised, and it cost me not a little to evade an explanation. Did not some self-satisfaction enter into my pleasure? I am almost sure it did. I do not give myself out for a saint, and not even the saints are able to get rid of self-love entirely. At last, on my return from Hamburg, after one of my voyages, I found in Barcelona a letter that had been waiting for me several days. It was from Martí, although written in another hand. He told me that he was very ill, and in trouble, and invited me in extremely affectionate terms to come and make him a visit if it were possible. He did not explain what his troubles were, nor allude in the least to the misunderstanding that had been between us, perhaps not to let his amanuensis into our secrets; but the whole letter breathed of his hearty desire to be all right with me again, and to make me forget my unhappy departure from his house.
I took the train immediately for Valencia. I entered the city at nightfall, one year and three months after leaving it. I went to the hotel where I had then stayed. The hotel-keeper received me with cordial demonstration, and told me, without my asking, many details of the lawsuit between Castell and Martí. Martí was ruined. He had lost his directing share in the steamboat line, in which his partner still remained. Following that, to reimburse himself for capital loaned, Castell transferred Martí's credit. The creditors sold all his property at auction, including that at Cabañal and the house in the Calle del Mar.
"If, in spite of all this," said my host, "Don Emilio enjoyed good health, he could easily get up again, for he is young and he has a great head for business. But the poor man is very ill, very ill. I have not seen him for some time, but by all that I hear it is his last sickness."
These words made me very sad. It was dinnertime; but, although I went and sat down at table, I could scarcely take a morsel of food. I went out afterwards, intending to go to the house of Martí—he was living now in an apartment in the Calle de Caballeros. Before arriving I turned about, fearing to disturb him at that hour, or cause him any emotion that might hinder him from resting well. I directed my steps to the residence of his brother-in-law, Sabas, that he might prepare Martí, or at least advise me when it would be best for me to go to see him. Sabas's plump wife, as lively, busy, and sweet as ever, received me with her usual affability. Her idolized husband had gone out.
"He is at Emilio's house?" I said, as the natural thing.
"No, I believe—" she hesitated. "You had better go to the theatre. Maybe he is there. As the doctor found Emilio better to-day, he said that he would go and celebrate."
She blushed as she uttered these words. I showed no surprise, in order not to increase her confusion. After kissing my old friends, her children, I went off to the theatre that she named in search of their elegant papa.
When I entered, the play had already begun. I took up a position in a corner behind the stalls and scrutinized the theatre. I was not long in seeing him in his place in a proscenium box. These boxes in the provinces, as in the capital, are the sacred spots, whence the superior beings of each locality radiate their splendors. Accustomed to lay down the law for the multitude, the gilded youths who meet there, converse, argue, smoke, and yawn, firmly convinced that they have no duties to fulfil towards the masses, those who listen placidly from the stalls. They dwell separate like the gods of Olympus, in conscious enjoyment of their perfections and their power, grinning at the actors, tossing compliments to the actresses, and from time to time talking in loud voices with their kind in the opposite boxes, over the heads of the rabble of the unfashionable.
Sabas belonged to the ruling caste, although his face showed none of the marks that characterize it, neither the flabby flesh, the pallid skin, nor the loose mouth, signs of the life of self-indulgence.
His dark, sunburned face, peeled in places, offered rather an extremely industrious aspect. It would not have been strange if he had arrived that same night from Madagascar or Java, after enriching himself in a caoutchouc expedition. This was doubtless the opinion of the contralto of the company (much richer in avoirdupois than in voice), to judge by the timid admiration and the blushes wherewith she received his ardent compliments every time that the exigencies of the piece obliged her to go near his box. I sat down in one of the butacas and waited for the fall of the curtain. I confess that I was less interested in what was going on on the stage than in the play that was revealed between the box and the footlights. Sabas, leaning his chin in his hand with a purely Oriental languor, fixed his gaze of serpent-like fascination upon the contralto. She, overcome with an irresistible terror, made efforts to flee from that glance and escape. In vain. In spite of herself, even in the most important scenes and against all the demands of the play, she would break abruptly away from the tenor in a love duet and turn towards that tropical and fascinating man of the quivering nostrils. She listened with eagerness to his voice vibrating like a cry in the desert, hoping ever that he would end by offering her fifty elephants, a necklace of pearls, and the heads of three rajahs, his enemies.
When the act was ended I went without delay to the box. Sabas received me with the grave indifference which, in all perfectly cultivated countries, expresses elegance. I explained my wishes at once. He accepted them benignly; disdaining his conquest, secure like all heroes of arriving always in time to conquer, he took his hat and we left the theatre. We walked for some time in silence. I felt my heart oppressed with sadness wherein I perceived with alarm a certain anticipation of something pleasant. This something could be nothing else than the presence of Cristina. Yes, I recognized it with shame; yet in that sad hour it absorbed me more than anything else in the world.
Sabas stopped after a time, took his pipe from his mouth, and, looking at me attentively some moments, remarked solemnly:
"You see how it is, friend Ribot. The madness of my brother-in-law has carried him to the extreme that I have prophesied so many times."
"Poor Emilio!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, poor indeed. At present he hasn't a peseta, nor anybody who will lend him one."
"The worst of all is, according to what has been told me, his illness is very serious."
He found nothing to answer to this. After a while he again took out his pipe and paused.
"Does it seem to you, friend Ribot," he exclaimed in indignant accents, "as if a man with a family has the right to throw away his capital according to his own caprices and reduce that family to destitution?"
I shrugged my shoulders, without knowing what to answer, suspecting that Sabas included himself among the most important members of that suffering family.
He put his pipe back between his teeth, and having, doubtless, thus got himself in connection with his electric current, contrived to move onward. He was not long in interrupting it, by taking out the pipe again, spitting, and going on talking.
"I understand perfectly how a bachelor can dispose of his means as he pleases; how, getting up some morning out of humor, he could go out on the balcony and toss over everything that he owns. At most there is only himself to pay for the consequences of his whims. But when a man who is not alone in the world, who has assumed sacred obligations to fulfil, throws himself into senseless speculations and wastes an important property, his conduct seems to me not merely imprudent, but also immoral."
I did not doubt that Sabas included among these sacred obligations that of providing him with means to submit to his own fascinations all the sopranos and contraltos who presented themselves on the Valencian horizon; and not to say anything impertinent, I determined to hold my peace. In this manner, using his pipe like a manipulator of an electric machine to retard or hasten his fancy, and slopping over in a torrent of critical wisdom, we reached at last the house where his brother-in-law lived. It was not so sumptuous as that in the Calle del Mar, but new and elegant. We mounted to the apartment on the second floor, which was the one that Martí occupied, and rang. Regina, the old doncella, came out to open for us, and on seeing me could not refrain from a cry of surprise.
"Oh, Don Julian!"
"Silence!" I exclaimed, putting my finger on my lips.
Next, I seized upon my god-daughter, taking her in my arms and silently covering the child with warm and tender kisses. But she did not receive them in the silence that was to be desired. Frightened by my beard, and perhaps pricked by it, she began at once crying to heaven.
I heard the voice of Cristina.
"Who is there?"
And she appeared from the end of the corridor. On seeing me, she paused for an instant, then immediately came on to me, holding out both hands with an affectionate gesture.
"Oh, Captain! My poor Emilio is dying!"
I saw her eyes cloud with tears. I pressed those beautiful hands that I held, and murmured some words of hope. Perhaps her fears were exaggerated. Emilio had always enjoyed good health; but this sort of temperament bore disease for many years. I asked if it were possible to see him at that hour, and, having been answered affirmatively, made ready to go in. Cristina would not let me enter until she had first prepared him. He was very nervous, and a sudden emotion might injure him. While she was gone to perform this gentle duty, Sabas improved the opportunity to give me his hand, dark as an Asiatic colonial's, in good-by and departed with his energetic characteristic importance. Through the door that still stood open I saw him go down the stairs carrying in his ardent glance desolation and tears for the contralto.
"Come in, come in this minute!" It was the voice of Emilio, a little hoarse, but as vigorous as ever. I hastened towards the place whence came the sound, and entered a room where the luxury of the furniture was in contrast with the modesty of the things in the rest of the place. He was reclining in an arm-chair with two cushions at his back, wearing an elegant dressing-gown. The light of a candle fell on his face, where I could see very clearly the fatal signs of tuberculosis. But that face was beautiful, more beautiful and more interesting than any I had ever seen. The hair of head and beard was longer; this with the whiteness of the skin and the great, black, melancholy eyes made him look like the Nazarene. Those eyes shone at sight of me with a frank and cordial expression. He took my hand and, pressing it affectionately between his own, said several times in a low voice:
"Captain! Captain! Captain! How good you are!"
I found myself too much moved to speak.
"How do you find me? In a very bad way, don't you?" he asked at last, after a long silence.
"I hope I shall see you better soon," I answered, making an effort to control myself and hide the emotion that mastered me.
At the same time I took the candle, and bringing it nearer his face, pretended to examine it with close attention.
"Do you know what ails you?" I asked. "It's morriña!"
"What is that?" he asked, opening his eyes wide.
"It is an illness that attacks the Galicians when they lose an amount exceeding fifty centimos."
I saw a smile steal over his lips and, glancing gayly at his wife, he exclaimed:
"The same as ever! He doesn't seem to me a bit changed—no!"
I understood that the kindest thing I could do at that moment was to go on joking. I plucked up my courage and unlocked my stock of buffooneries, although they can't be called very witty. Soon I had the pleasure of hearing him laugh heartily. His face brightened, his eyes shone; in a few minutes we were chatting together with the same gayety as if he were perfectly well and had not lost a centimo of his capital.
Cristina watched us with a melancholy smile. She was happy in seeing her husband so cheerful, although she knew that this could not last long.
And, indeed, a violent attack of coughing soon came to interrupt most sadly our chat. He became livid and half-stifled, holding his head between his hands.
"The chill of the night air is bad for you. It is the chill of night that brought it on, Emilio," said Cristina. "It is time for you to go to rest."
He lifted his hand, making lively signs of negation with it. When the attack subsided, and he could speak, he exclaimed:
"No, don't take him away from me! I feel much better. The captain is a mouthful of oxygen. He brings me the good sea air."
I stayed half an hour longer, to please him. At last I went, not before promising to return early the next day. I did not wish to go in that night to pay my respects to Doña Amparo. I had already had notice from Sabas that she had taken up a fashion lately of fainting away at sight of any friend whatsoever. As the hour seemed to me unseasonable for such an organic phenomenon, I deferred it until another more suitable.
Cristina came with me to the door.
"How do you find him?" she asked, fixing an anxious look upon me.
"I don't find him well. But while there is life, who knows? who knows?"
Nobody could help knowing. She also knew; but the unhappy lady sought some way to hide the truth from herself.
I went away with my head in a whirl, and my heart torn and rent. The force I had used to appear cheerful upset my nerves, and I could not sleep. Poor Martí! Never had he seemed to me more hearty, more innocent, more worthy to be beloved. Not one word, not the most insignificant allusion to the treacherous actions of his friend Castell, nor the inhuman manner in which he had ruined him. And in the days following it was the same. His soul not only knew how to avoid filth like the feet of ladies, but did not believe in it.
I wrote to our shipping house to say that, for reasons of health, I wished to stay on land during the next voyage, and constituted myself companion and nurse to my unfortunate friend. I was seldom away from him. When I left him I saw a sadness in his eyes so sincere that I wished to stay. Every day he lost strength; I saw that he grew constantly weaker. He began to have cruel stiflings that threatened his life. While they lasted I fanned him, and Cristina bathed his temples. But when he came out of these attacks like a man who has succeeded in escaping an imminent peril and unexpectedly finds himself safe and sound, he would be talkative and gay, assuring us that very soon he would be able to go out into the streets and take up his business again.
His business! Neither illness nor ruin had been able to uproot his passion for projects and his liking for great industrial enterprises.
"If you could guess, Captain, the idea which I have had for days in my head!" he said to me once, looking at me with his candid eyes and pushing back his hair. "A grand project, and sensible, too, at the same time. At fifteen kilometres from Valencia there is a river that can be made to produce a waterfall of a thousand horse-power. Suppose that two hundred are lost in harnessing it, there would still be eight hundred, which, well distributed, would move almost all the industries of the city and give light to it all. Manufacturers and the city would save an enormous amount, and to become the owner of that waterfall would be a brilliant stroke of business. Because, as you can see——"
Here he took a paper, drew out a pencil, and set himself to scheming with figures with as much enthusiasm as if the operatives were already installing the great electric machine that was to distribute power to all the factories of Valencia, with so many horse-power and such and such qualities as if he had the magazine in the house.
Cristina and I exchanged a look over his head, and we knew not what to say. Formerly this passion had been his peril. Now it seemed to console him. So, not to go against him, we followed his fancy, and praised his project to the skies. This made him so happy that his cheeks burned and his glassy eyes shone with pleasure. Cristina could not control her emotion, and hastily left the room. I went on admiring the project warmly, so that he would not notice her going, and went so far as to promise to invest my small capital in the enterprise. With this his gayety came to an end. Quickly changing his expression, he pressed my hand, and, looking at me sorrowfully, exclaimed:
"No, Ribot, no! Although the affair is all plain enough, there might be some bad luck. I will not risk your capital!"
"There would not be any risk," I replied; "I would gladly put it in, because it seems to me that this is a sure thing."
"Absolutely sure!" he said, with the accent of unquenchable conviction, which at another time would have made me smile. "But I won't give you any shares in it until it is under way and has begun to pay dividends."
Poor Martí! He was going fast. His cheeks fell in, the circles under his eyes grew deeper; he passed his nights in coughing and his days in torment between pain and choking.
The fainting fits of Doña Amparo grew constantly more frequent and prolonged. Her sensibility became so over-excited by this, that the fluttering of a butterfly was enough to throw her into a convulsion, from which she could only recover by covering everybody's face, as of old, with tears and kisses. As for me, being the friend most often at hand, I received the greater part of these inundations.
Sabas came every day at eleven o'clock, before going for his usual promenade to the café where he took his vermouth. If the doctor had said that the invalid had less fever (and he often said it to encourage him), this gave our dandy so much satisfaction that he could not do less than celebrate by going to breakfast at the café, and then go off on an excursion with friends of both sexes.
We saw the end approaching. As the fatal hour drew near, Emilio showed himself less and less apprehensive, occupying himself constantly with making calculations and planning out new schemes. Even in the middle of the night he would beg for paper, and scratch down figures.
"Next week I think I shall be able to be out," he said to me one morning. "There is nothing ailing me now. The pain in the kidneys is all gone; my tongue is almost clean. If this cough that keeps me awake would only leave me, I should be quite well. To-day I feel just like walking, like taking a good long walk."
And he proved his words by getting up from his chair and taking several steps.
"I am going to the dining-room," he said, opening the door; "see what a surprise I am going to give Cristina."
And he walked down the passage. I stood looking at him from the threshold of his room. When he had got about half-way, the poor fellow toppled, and before I could get to him, fell his length upon the floor. Several years have passed since then, and yet they have not been able to obscure in my soul the shamed and melancholy smile he gave me as I came to him.
"That's bad, Captain!"
I lifted him and carried him in my arms back to his chair. He weighed no more than a child. Cristina, as well as I, reproved his imprudence, but we readily convinced him that his weakness came from lack of nourishment. If he would eat more his strength would increase rapidly, and we should soon see him able to walk out in the garden as of old.
Although Cristina knew the seriousness of his condition, and made herself no illusions regarding the outcome, I observed in her a sort of ignorance or disregard which, at such a time, could not fail to make me anxious. She thought certainly that his illness was unto death, but by every word that came from her mouth I perceived that she judged the end to be very far off. I could see that it was very near. And yet it was nearer than even I supposed. On the day following his fall in the passage, I went to see him between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning. Contrary to his custom, he had not dressed. He said he found himself a little fatigued from coughing. I cheered him up by calling him only lazy, and sat down beside him. I found him indeed very feeble, and looking very much discouraged. In spite of this he was chatty and cheerful as always. At last he decided to get up, but before doing so we decided that he should take a little cup of broth to give him strength. Cristina went out to prepare it. A few moments after, the sick man had an attack of coughing and choking that nearly overcame him. I did not call Cristina, not wishing to alarm her, and began to fan him, as usual, to give him air, hoping that he would quickly recover. Yet, without knowing why, I felt more disturbed than usual. My heart beat violently, seeing that pallid face, with its closed eyes and the opened mouth struggling for breath. As the seconds went by, my anxiety increased in like measure, and I reached my hand towards the bell-button. But at that moment Martí opened his eyes and smiled sweetly. I calmed myself and said:
"Now you are better! It has passed."
"Open the shutters. I can't see well," he answered me. These words brought back my alarm. The shutters were open. Yet I made a movement to go, to please him; but as I tried to leave him, he seized one of my hands.
"Ribot, Ribot!" he cried, gazing at me with sightless eyes. "Do not leave me! I am dying, do not leave me!"
He raised up, convulsively grasping my hand. His expression changed quickly, his eyes glazed. His head rolled about as if it would be disjointed, then he fell heavily backward. Horror and stupefaction kept me a moment stunned, gazing at the floor. But recovering myself, I took his head between my hands and held it against my breast, crying:
"Martí! my friend, my brother! Canst thou hear? In this world of treachery there are few men left like thee!"
And I kissed that brow where had never fallen the shadow of a sinful thought.
At that moment a hand touched my shoulder. I turned as if it had stabbed me and saw her eyes straining wide with terror and her trembling form that fell prone upon the ground.