LEON ROCH
A ROMANCE

BY
B. PÉREZ GALDÓS
Author of “Gloria,” etc.

From the Spanish by CLARA BELL

—AUTHORIZED EDITION—

TWO VOLUMES—VOL. II.

REVISED AND CORRECTED IN THE UNITED STATES

NEW YORK
WILLIAM S. GOTTSBERGER, PUBLISHER
11 MURRAY STREET
1888

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1886
by William S. Gottsberger
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington

THIS TRANSLATION WAS MADE EXPRESSLY FOR THE PUBLISHER

CONTENTS.

VOLUME II.

Leon Roch

LEON ROCH.

PART II.

CHAPTER I.
WHICH TREATS OF THE CASTILIAN NOBILITY, OF THE LAWS OF MORALITY, OF ALL THAT IS MOST VENERABLE, AND OTHER SMALL MATTERS.

The crisis through which the house of Telleria was passing remained unsolved. In fact the catastrophe was so complete that to try to stem it seemed madness; nothing could be done but to conceal it as long as possible. The incorrigible actors in the wretched drama strained every nerve to prolong their reign before abdicating disgracefully and retiring into poverty; and though, behind the scenes, they were forced to soliloquise on the fact that they had no servants, that there was not a shop that would trust them, that they had not the bread of vanity in the form of a carriage, to the world they made it known that they were all ill. The marquis, poor man, suffered terribly from rheumatism; the marquesa—it was most distressing—had sunk into an alarming state of debility; the whole family were depressed and ailing. They received no one, not even their most intimate friends; they gave no dinners, not even to the hungry; they went nowhere, not even to the most interesting first nights.

At church was the only place where they could appear with such rueful countenances. What can be more edifying than to listen to the counsels of religion and to shed a tear at the feet of the Mother of Sorrows. Poor Milagros! The parishioners, who saw her come in and go out with a penitent air that was an example to all, paid her woes the tribute they claimed:

“Poor woman! what a trouble her sons have been to her!”

The evening meetings at the Marquesa de San Salomó’s, which were the only refuge of the distressed family, were very quiet and consisted of one or two poets, a few handsome women, half a dozen models of piety and a half a dozen hypocrites. Rome was the favourite theme of conversation, and “l’Univers” the favourite newspaper; the poets recited verses that exhaled an odour of sanctity, and under the influence of this suffocating literary incense the whole human race was regarded as excommunicated. Gustavo Sudre’s speeches were discussed beforehand; reputations were made for youths just come from the seminary: such a one was a St. Paul, such another a St. Ambrose or a Tertulian, or an Origen—in point of talent, of course; in short the evenings at the San Salomó’s had that club-like character which is a conspicuous feature of modern society. Political prejudices have found their way into the drawing-room and make themselves felt in the perfumed atmosphere of the boudoir, and more conspiracies are discussed there than in the barracks.

The marquesa was young, pretty, tall and shapely, though rather faded looking; her manners were pleasant and she patronised poetry, especially when it was of a pious and mystical tone. A sworn foe to materialism and liberalism and all the evils of modern civilisation, she was both elegant and clever, and the hours of the tertulias never seemed long; she had the art of spicing with wit and grace the anathemas that fulminated from her drawing-room, and she encouraged in her house and at her table a tone of moderation which was equally agreeable to the patriarchs and the poets. The St. Pauls and St. Ambroses no doubt swore to themselves that asceticism was better to preach than to practise.

The Marquis de San Salomó, a man who would sooner have been sawn in slices than have yielded a jot of his opinions—if indeed he had any—was not a frequent figure at these meetings. He more often went to the theatre, the casino, or other even less mentionable places of amusement. By day he sat in his study and received bull-fighters and all the rabble of the arena, and three-fourths of his conversation consisted of the slang inseparable from the lowest type of sport, and stories of the escapades of his boon companions. He was rich and not only made his wife a handsome allowance for pin-money, but granted her a considerable sum for religious purposes, so that a current account with Heaven formed part of his regular household expenses. Of his current account with the ladies of the ballet we need not give the particulars.

On the evening of the day when the marquis had been to see Leon Roch at Carabanchel his wife was conversing eagerly with a stiff old gentleman, decorated with the ribbon of some military order; a most innocent, harmless creature in spite of his calling, and one of those soldiers whose existence seems intended to prove that the army is a perfectly inoffensive body of men.

“It is vain to try to comfort me, General,” she said. “I am broken hearted! You yourself have said in exquisite verses that a mother’s heart is an inexhaustible treasury of endurance; but mine is full to the brim, I can endure no more; it must overflow.”

“Then, my dear madam, of what use is your Christian resignation?” asked the son of Mars, with a look of innocence worthy of a cherub all head and wings. “The Lord will vouchsafe unexpected consolations. And María, is she resigned?”

“What else do you expect from that angel? My poor child! You might crucify her and she would not utter a groan. But Heaven always allows its most saintly children to go through the severest trials. She, like my adored Luis, only prays the Lord to take her to Himself; to him He sent physical suffering; to her, mental anguish.”

“We see every day,” said the general with an expression of horror that sat very funnily on his babyish face framed in white whiskers, “that scandals, infidelities and wickedness are on the increase. All laws human and divine are less and less respected every day. Where will you find a man of upright character, or a trace of chivalrous honour? Turn where you will there is nothing but effrontery and cynicism! Only picture to yourself, my dear Milagros, what the end must be of a society which, day by day and hour by hour, neglects all the principles of religion. But no! I ought not to say that, for there are still saints and martyrs. Your daughter for instance, deserted by her husband for her very virtues, is by those virtues—by those very virtues let me repeat—a shining example, a light, a standard in the battle.”

Yes, that she certainly was. Every group in the room was discussing her. Deserted! and solely for being too good! Such a deed cried to Heaven and clamoured for vengeance—a second deluge, the gulf that yawned to swallow Korah, the fires of Sodom, the flies of Egypt, the sword of Attila—of all these curses the one which seemed most likely to be realised then and there was that of the flies in Egypt, for their buzzing and their sting were not inadequately represented by the spiteful tattle, the commonplace denunciations, and amateur excommunication with which people of a certain way of thinking castigate whatever they disapprove of in their fellow men.

“If the separation had been based on any other pretext,” said a poet to a journalist, “it might pass ... for it is an obvious fact that Leon....” But their voices were lost in a chorus of comments and tittering. Two old ladies put their noses into the group to inhale the atmosphere of scandal—more fragrant to them than the scent of roses.

“I have suspected it for a long time,” said the mistress of the house to a deputy who held the archiepiscopal throne in the ultramontane coterie. “Pepa Fúcar is a hussy. But there was never more than a crumb of principle in all the Fúcar household. It does not do to be too particular in the way you make either money or love. There are some families that are fated to it.”

“I have no doubt that the connection is one of old standing,” replied the deputy, who admired the marquesa’s dinners, and who was wont to improve on her slanderous insinuations.

“From what I know now, and from certain dates,” added Pilar bowing with a reproachful glance to Gustavo who just then entered the room, “I can positively assert that they are of very old standing.” And she continued her remarks in a low tone to the worthy general, who, though fully determined never to be astonished at any wickedness could not conceal his dismay and perplexity.

“Leon’s child!” he muttered.

In another part of the room the Marquis de Telleria was enlarging on a new—a perfectly new idea—with a ready flow of hackneyed phrases. This was the theory that we are all monstrously alike; that there are no men of mark left, and that the world is dismally uniform. He—the marquis—was in fact fast losing faith in the traditional chivalry of the Spanish nation.

“Society is fast rushing on its ruin,” the general agreed, “and though some deluded minds refuse to see it, it is none the less certain. You have only to observe one thing, one most significant fact.”

Every one turned to look at the speaker, awaiting the announcement, which might have been a declaration of war to judge from the grave truculence of his face.

“Observe, I say, one fact. When there is any scandal, or rumour of a scandal, who gives rise to it? Mark, I say, who gives rise to it. It is always a man devoid of religion; one of those conceited and infatuated beings who dare to despise the Christian faith, and who may be seen every day flaunting their insolence, and lifting their heads to defy the stars.”

This speech was received with the silence of grave consent; then a question arose between the deputy and the journalist as to whether Leon sinned from indifference or from perversity.

“There is no doubt of it,” said the deputy, “corruption is universal. But while those who cling to the faith are in a position to amend and save their souls, the rationalists are going on straight to ruin. Like Samson, they have pulled the temple about their ears, and, like him, they must perish in the ruins.”

Meanwhile Gustavo and the Marquesa de San Salomó were talking together in too low a voice to be overheard.

“You ought—you must,” she said. “Tell the whole truth to María.”

“The truth? But I cannot trust to appearances. I have not at all made up my mind as to Leon’s guilt. Until I have seen him and talked to him I shall say nothing to my sister.”

“Then I will.”

“No, you will not.”

The lady was fractiously eager; she felt as though she could not breathe freely till she had sent the arrow home to her friend’s heart.

“But I assure you I will,” she said, with dilated nostrils, sparkling eyes and a mounting colour.

“In matters that concern my family the decision must be left to them.”

“Oh! I have a voice too in matters which concern your family,” said the marquesa with an impertinent accent on the words “your family.”

“Never, with my consent,” retorted Gustavo, repressing his indignation. He was pale, and his whole expression was that of a man who had worries of his own. Pilar raised her voice.

“Our friend here—the father of his country—tells me that he cannot make his speech to-morrow on the subject of article twenty-two.” There was a murmur of dissatisfaction. “The president has allowed him to exchange his turn.”

“When will it be then?”

“This sad business of his sister’s,” she went on, looking at Gustavo with assumed sympathy. “Has been too much for his brain.”

Gustavo went across to where his mother was sitting.

“Compose yourself,” she said affectionately, “we are as miserable as you can be, but we have not lost patience.”

“Ah well, I have.”

“But have you made any effort to verify the truth of this report about Leon,” asked the deputy who gave himself the airs of a whole convocation.

“Oh there is no lack of dates. Agustin went to see him to-day ... he tried to bring him to a sense of duty....” And the conversation still ran on this absorbing subject till presently the group was diminished by several persons moving off to hear the mistress of the house read an article by Louis Veuillot. Gustavo and his mother went into an adjoining room.

“Is it true that my father went to-day to see Leon?”

“You heard me say so.”

“I was afraid that his journey to Carabanchel might have had another object. It would be a fresh disgrace....”

“What nonsense! Disgrace! You are a perfect Don Quixote!”

“Yes,” said Gustavo with a glare of wrath in his eyes, “I am afraid he went to throw himself at the feet of our enemy and to beg of him....”

“What shocking things you say! We, we, beg of him!”

“Oh! that would not astonish me; I am accustomed to shocking things. I will go to see Leon and talk to him myself. Who knows but that he may not be so guilty as we think. Horrible lies are invented in the world and it is quite certain that all are not good who are supposed to be. Others on the contrary—if he has really deserted my sister to live with another woman all intercourse between us and him must cease; he must be a stranger to us. Oh! what a shame it is—what misery—to have received from such a man so many favours that we cannot throw back in his teeth!”

“Good heavens! do not speak like that, you will attract attention,” cried the marquesa alarmed by her son’s vehemence. “You are really absurd!”

“Absurd!” repeated Gustavo bitterly. “What do I care; and after all I am the only one of the family who feels the vileness of our existence.”

“Gustavo!”

“I speak for myself, only for myself. This house is as odious to me as my own home. The everlasting babble about morality has deafened me and prevents my hearing the voice of truth—truth, which the more it is felt the less it is talked about. I am equally disgusted with my own part in the world, with the position of my family, and the worldly cynical set who call themselves my friends. I am satisfied with nothing, and the one thing I hope for, is a voluntary exile that may remove me from all who belong to me.”

“And do you wish to add fresh troubles to those I already have to bear?” she said, visibly moved. “You, emigrate, renounce all your future prospects—even the hope of becoming a minister....”

“No, the idea of emigrating is, of course, mere madness; I cannot go. My ambition and my disgrace are one and I am bound to them as the snail is to his shell. Here I must stay—for ever inseparable from my family, my fancy, my class, and my principles!” He accented the last word ironically. “I must live on, seeing what I see, and hearing what I hear. By the way, I have a new disaster to tell you of. This evening Polito was slapped in the face, in a house I need not name, in consequence of a dispute over a game of cards. There was a fight, women screamed—the police interfered....”

“But was he hurt?” asked his mother.

“No—a bruise or two; but the row was heard all down the street—no matter the name of the street;” he groaned and went on: “We live in an evil day, a day of wrath! However, from this time forth I shall insist on managing the affairs of the house, and we shall see whether I can get it out of the present difficulty, and save our credit at any rate—save the honour which is no longer a fact but a fiction. I am deeply vexed that my father should have gone to Leon with the purpose that I suspect.”

“It is an absurd suspicion.”

“Nay—it is a miracle if I am mistaken. But I will know the truth, for I will see Leon.”

“You?”

“Yes I. I must know his guilt from himself. I believe him to be in error, but not in wilful sin; I will talk to him frankly and he will answer me in the same way. If he is such a wretch he will have to confess it ... meanwhile be sure you do not let a word of these reports reach María’s ears.”

“Oh! I shall tell her myself; poor child! It would be a pity that she should not know all the virtues of her loving husband! Fancy if a stranger were to tell her, exaggerating or misrepresenting the facts.”

“Say nothing about it to her.”

“Do not interfere in that matter. I shall, and this very night. You need not teach me my duties as an affectionate and anxious mother; I know perfectly well what I ought to do. María must be informed of everything. How do you know that we may not arrange a reconciliation?”

Gustavo was on the point of replying when their privacy was invaded by a certain poet who was said to be very attentive to the marquesa and one of her favourite followers—a common, clumsy-looking man, but older than he seemed. There was no trace in his features of that lofty refinement which might have entitled him to write, in a dozen different metres, of the perennial founts of gladness and the mystical union of souls, or to proclaim his indignation against those who denied or ignored the existence of God. It was hard to credit so despicable a person with magnanimity.

“It is admirable, unanswerable!” he exclaimed as he came in.

“What is?”

“Louis Veuillot’s article on modern society—on those base and corrupt minds who, to smother their own remorse, wish to abolish faith. Do you want this copy of the Univers, Gustavo?”

“You can take it if you will let me have it to-morrow. I have an article to write on the same subject.”

They went into the drawing-room.

“Then it is understood we sing to-morrow,” said the marquesa to her friend.

“Yes, to-morrow, without fail.” There was a rustling of silk dresses, a chorus of: “To-morrow then, to-morrow—” a chirping of kisses and moving of chairs. The company were dispersing. Some left in pairs: some went smiling, others frowning. The Tellerias departed, then the general, and the deputy with his archiepiscopal airs; and with him went Gustavo, discussing church politics but without losing his expression of gloom.

“Good-night, Pilar; to-morrow at San Prudencio.”

“Good-night—I will take your message to Padre Paoletti.”

And when they were all gone the Marquesa de San Salomó retired to pray and to sleep.

CHAPTER II.
A PICTURE WHICH MIGHT BE ZURBARAN BUT IS ONLY BY GOYA.

María de Roch was very early at church next morning. For some time past she had accustomed herself to rise early and perform her religious duties so as to return home by nine o’clock, by which plan she avoided meeting the crowd of worshippers who selected the more convenient hours of the day. On this particular day, being Sunday, she was even earlier than usual and came out of church having fulfilled the duties that most flattered her soul; then, as usual, she spent the chief part of the morning in religious reading. But she did not seek mental nourishment in the rich stores of the older mystical literature of Spain—writings purified in the crucible of the loftiest spiritual faith and which are a real feast for the faithful soul, warming it with a divine flame and edifying it with transcendental poetry and morality. María fed her piety, sad to say, on the worst of contemporary religious literature, the outcome, in many cases, of ecclesiastical jobbery—in style a borrowed medley and in substance not really religious at all, but materialistic in its tendencies—which, with newspapers and prayer-books, forms the staple of the booksellers’ trade. Many of these effusions are translated from the French and bear a “made to sell” stamp which is little short of profane. Their covers do not lack the elegance and finish characteristic of good modern workmanship; within lie prose and verse. But what prose! What verse! There are certain ideas which demand simplicity of expression; it is their natural garb, without which they cease to exist; there are others which require dignity and grandeur, and which, lacking these, degenerate into affectation and rhodomontade. María could not appreciate these subtleties; her favourite works were full of “celestial smiles” and “seraphic fires,” of “virgin souls” and “airs from Heaven.” This sensual terminology appealed to her more directly than any other language; her narrow intelligence would not have understood any other or would have despised it, for her imagination was particularly susceptible to the suggestions of her senses. María admired the character of Santa Teresa because she had been taught to do so, but she could not understand her sublime metaphysics. Seraphic fervour was to her a flow of words or it was nothing. She did not exhaust her brain by trying to conceive of the subtler forms of devotion, nor was she capable of sublime abstractions. Her nature, with its plain common-sense, was coarse, and led her to seek religious fervour by other means. For instance, God’s mercy to his creatures was to her a fact beyond dispute, but it only came home to her personally as associated with some relic; the infinite perfection of the Creator, though she believed in it implicitly, was real to her apprehension only through the æsthetic medium of an image. The Virgin Mary, the ideal which of all others most interpenetrates the heart of a woman, did not fail to appeal to hers; but yet in order to feel her influence in full force, to be wrought to enthusiasm or moved to tears, she would steep—or shall I say dilute? her emotions in water from Lourdes.

Enough has been said to show that María’s religion was that of the lower orders—meaning by low, incapable of thought and feeling, and leading that mechanical existence of eating, digesting and sleeping, which is the crassest and purest materialism. Vulgarity is not a class distinction; it is an element, a component, a chemical constituent of social geology; if a map could be constructed to show its distribution it would appear as a black stain—a foul deposit—in every stratum of humanity. And thus, just as a few elect spirits represent the aristocracy of mind, María was the representative of vulgar credulity. In other times and under other conditions, without ceasing to profess piety or to pray six hours a day, she would have told fortunes by the cards, have worked witchcraft by means of relics and rosaries, and have mixed up her religious exercises with the tricks and arts of a gipsy.

But these are things of the past, though there are still malignant souls in the world and gipsy arts and wiles, differing, it is true from those of the middle ages. María’s aim and end was to belong to every religious society, charitable or otherwise. She was, more especially, what in the jargon of cant is known as a “Josephina,” affiliated, that is to say, to a society named after St. Joseph, whose principal object is to send up prayers for the Pope. It includes a large number of highly respectable persons of whom no ridicule is intended. María was a member of various other associations and sisterhoods; nearly all of them have their periodical reports and tracts, intended to consolidate their existence and to supply a form of light literature which is sometimes extraordinarily droll to the outsider. María accepted it all as unctuous and edifying and would spend hours in reading the stories—would that we could reproduce a few of them!—and addresses; and above all the section which may be called “Mystico-pathological:” the list, that is to say, of the cures effected every month by the wafers and ointments dipped in the famous “Perolito” of Seville—miracles even greater than those wrought by Holloway and other quacks. María had always by her a store of these medicaments for the benefit of her friends and relations, being absolutely convinced of their efficacy on those who employed them in faith. The “Perolito” could never be a paying concern in any country where common-sense and an efficient police were known. Though María constantly aimed at treading in the footsteps of her brother Luis she was free from his extravagant ecstasy, and her ideas and practice were unlike his in many particulars. Her unhealthy pietism was the outcome of a narrow intellect, and kept alive by her senses and the refractory pride of her nature. Her ideas and feelings were absolutely foreign to those of her husband, and we have seen what the character of her affection for him was—the only affection of which she was capable—and in her hours of penitential solitude how she had struggled to eradicate even that! What violence she had done to her imagination in trying to see as evil, what was good, as corrupt, what was worthy, as repulsive, what was noble and attractive! She firmly believed that so long as she allowed her mind to dwell on the image of her husband she was no true saint. Was she right or wrong? None can tell but God who, in his omniscience, saw the aspect that image wore.

“If only he were not an atheist!” was her constant thought; and the response was an implacable determination never to have anything in common with such a man. In thought she referred to that brother whose shade would visit her in the lonely watches of the night and it had been his wish—his will—that she and the atheist should live separated; he had pronounced her free from her matrimonial bondage and released her from the burden of earthly duty, that she might henceforth belong solely to God. And now and again she would start from sleep in an agony of distress, her forehead damp with sweat, and trembling in every limb. “And if he loves some other woman!” she would mutter to herself.

Her ideas had taken this turn. She could even bear to think that her husband might die without loving her, but that he should live and love some one else—that he should give to another that which ought to be hers.—That was her real grief and constant mortification; and when her reflections reached this point her whole being leaped into revolt with an impulse which was the very passion of egotism.

During the period when Leon was gradually becoming estranged from her María took a delight in humiliating him; it was a pleasure to see him come in every evening, ready to receive the lash. Nay, sometimes, from the force of habit and from the sincere regard which he had inspired in her, she was really glad at his coming but she took care to conceal both the gladness and the affection. Merciful Heaven! It would never do to let it be said that she hailed and welcomed the “Atheist.” Secretly she took an interest in everything that concerned him, gave orders for his comfort, and if he were ailing, made him take advice and remedies, only taking care not to give him water from the Grotto at Lourdes or wafer from Seville as these are specific only for those who believe in them.

When they talked to each other it cost her a constant effort to keep herself from gazing with pleasure and sympathy on her husband’s attractive face, and when she was alone, she repented of her weakness, calling herself reprobate and sensual and imploring her brother in Heaven to aid her by the virtue of certain sacred relics.—“But if only he were not an atheist!” And she would weep at the thought.

When Leon left her once for all, María who had clenched the matter by declaring that God forbid her to love him, felt utterly crushed; her hearth was vacant and desolate. She was terrified too—of what? She herself knew not. During one whole night she could not command her mind to a single thought of devotion. She was stunned, but at the same time her brain ached with a swarm of evil visions like the trampling of horses snorting as they charge. She needed much reading and all the counsel and warnings of her spiritual directors before she could fairly bury the fair corpse of her departed happiness; much prayer, much penance, much labour of her fancy to see what she knew to be good and beautiful as evil and hideous. But she was not the first to undertake this odious task of purifying her soul by the instrumentality of the imagination—heaping foulness over the grave of all the joys of love and graces of life; hermits and ascetics had done it before her, and filled up the measure by personal castigation. María laboured in the obscurity of her tortured brain to see the happy days of her honeymoon in the darkest and foulest colours and so threw a lurid light on the sweetest hours of her married life.—It was a frightful revulsion and anarchy of soul.

As has been said, María, when her husband was absent for ever felt a miserable void, anxiety and solitude. Where was he gone? She made various enquiries, but without betraying her disquietude. She profaned even her prayers by thinking of it—San Antonio! but this man was hers—her husband and should belong to no one else!

Logic of this kind comes with fulminating force sometimes to a half-demented brain; and the strange thing was that in spite of what she choose to call Leon’s atheism, she had always recognised in him a basis of honourable feeling in which she had perfect confidence. Still, so narrow was her apprehension, that she had never thought of setting that magnanimity against his disbelief. Why did she trust the honour of an atheist? She did not know, but that she did was beyond dispute. Now, when her husband, her mate, her companion, had left her, she was bereft of all trust. María was going through a strange experience. It seemed to be close to her, a monstrous and hideous presence that gazed at her, that haunted her, that glided with a cold and slimy touch up the pleats of her dress, looked into her heart with its wicked black eyes, poked in its taper head, and then drew in its long writhing body to the very tip of its slender tail—curled itself up in her heart where it lay coiled, radiating an intolerable heat but as still and motionless as death in the nest that it had made there.

CHAPTER III.
THE REVOLUTION.

The Marquesa de San Salomó was talking to María.

“My dear friend,” she began, “I would not be the last to come and condole with you.”

“To pray with me?”

“Yes, to pray; but also to sympathise. I did not see you in church. Padre Paoletti told me that you had come and gone early; and I quite understood it. I long to talk to you and comfort you....”

“Comfort me?” said María much puzzled, “for my loneliness, my solitude ... but I have suffered long in silence, and the Lord has not denied me sweet consolation. What are we here for but to suffer? We have only to get that well into our minds and then no grief can find us unprepared.”

“Oh!” cried Pilar with eager admiration and kissing her friend, “how good you are! What a saint! What a beautiful exception in this wretched world! Folks ought to come and worship you and pray to you as much as if you were canonized.”

“No, no, you are wrong, very wrong. What if I were to tell you that I am dreadfully wicked?”

“You, wicked! you?” said Pilar looking as horrified as if the idea were rank blasphemy. “And if you are a sinner what am I? Tell me that.... What am I?” and she answered the question herself with a deep and prolonged sigh, the pathetic expression of a conscience that was too heavily laden. “It would be a marvel to me that there should be any saints, even if the occasions of sin were rare, and half the world lived in convents or in caves, setting each other a good example; but now, when liberty has multiplied the opportunities of vice, and every one does as he pleases, and there is hardly any one to set a worthy example, it is miraculous. That is why I say that you ought to be canonized; for in Madrid, which is beyond a doubt the wickedest place under the sun—and in this century which, as Padre Paoletti says, is the opprobrium of the ages—you have been able to defy the temptations of the world and are worthy to be compared with the penitents, and confessors, and even the martyrs of the Church.” She emphasised the last words with marked meaning.

“Oh! do not speak so,” said María who though she liked flattery was wont to conceal the fact.

“My dear, I think you admirable, wonderful,” added her friend with affectionate rapture. “For I am miles behind you though I long to be like you. Would that Heaven might grant me to take a single step alone and unhindered in the path of perfection in which you are treading, and on which I have not even started! Do you know what I should like? To be constantly with you, to go to pray with you, if you would allow it, to read what you read, to think as you think; and see whether in that way I should feel better inspired. For the present I will only ask you to give me something belonging to you—anything, a handkerchief for instance, that I may always wear it in my bosom as if it were a relic. I want always to touch something that you have touched. I would never be without it, because when I see your handkerchief it will remind me of you and of your goodness, and that will help me to conquer an evil thought or a bad impulse. Admire you? And ought I not admire you, dear angel? Indeed, ma petite, you do not know your own value. You will see, when you die people will fight for pieces of your garments.”

“Pilar, you are offending Heaven by your adulation!”

“It is only that you are so good that you do not like to hear it. Your brother in glory was just the same, but you are better than he.”

“Pilar, for God’s sake!” cried María, now really horrified.

“Yes, and greater than he; I say so. He was a saint but you are a martyr as well. You have reached the climax of Christian heroism. I know no living creature to compare with you, and I do not know whether to admire or to pity you most.”

María did not understand her.

“The name of saint seems to me too weak—and what name of horror can I give to the man who, having in his house such a treasure of goodness and piety, abandoned it, despised it and covered himself with ignominy by scorning gold for base metal, and filling the place of the angel Heaven had granted him for a wife with a....”

“Pilar! Good God! Are you speaking of my husband?”

“Oh, my dearest friend,” said the marquesa, colouring with excitement, “forgive me for being furious as I speak of it. I really cannot help it!”

“But Leon.... Pilar, you do not know what you are saying; my husband is a strictly moral man.”

It has been said that María was a woman of limited intellect though of fairly strong feelings; her nature lacked delicacy and refinement, but, at the same time, what was best in her was a basis of loyalty and honour and a vein of innate rectitude which is always accompanied by a certain confidence in the honesty of others. Her friend’s reticent insinuations aroused her indignation.

“I see,” said Pilar, “that I have been very rash and indiscreet. You have heard nothing.”

“I have heard nothing? What about?”

“Oh! I cannot tell you; I ought to have held my tongue. I thought that your mother....”

“Speak out—you mentioned my husband....”

“And now I am sorry for it.”

“Then my husband—then you mean to say—he believes in nothing—there is no hope for his soul—he is an atheist, an infidel ... but he is perfectly well conducted and blameless in his life....”

Pilar suddenly burst out laughing; her loud and impertinent mirth, lasting for some seconds, disturbed María beyond measure.

“If you call it blameless to desert his wife, who is a saint, and live with another ...” said her friend, in a sharp rough tone like that of a file on metal. María turned as pale as death, her eyes staring and her lips parted.

“With another!” The idea was not a new one, but the fact was a shock. She had anticipated the revelation by vague and timid suspicions; but a sad truth startles us even when it has been foreseen in a terrible dream. “With another, you said?”

“Yes, with another. All Madrid knows it but you.”

“You said—with another ...” repeated María who had half lost her wits and stood stunned and paralysed as though those two terrible words were a mass of stone that had fallen on her head.

“Yes, with another,” said Pilar, with another burst of laughter, which did not argue any very great reverence for the saint of her adoration.

“And who is it?” asked María with a flash of vehemence, her bewilderment suddenly changed to passionate excitement. “Who, I say, who?”

“I thought you knew, poor martyr! It is Pepa Fúcar, the daughter of the Marquis de Fúcar; the man whom all the papers call ‘the eminent Fúcar,’ because he has made a fortune by paving streets, laying down railroads, poisoning the country with his tobacco—which is made they say of dead leaves swept off the roads, and finally lending money to the government during the war, at two hundred per cent; a specimen man of the century, with a Haytian title; a product of parliamentary influence and work done by contract. He cannot bear the sight of me because, one evening at the Rioponces’, he began paying me compliments and I turned my back on him, and whenever I see him within hearing in a drawing-room I begin talking of the adulteration of tobacco, of the increase of asphalt pavements, of the nuisance of gas, and of the shoes with brown paper soles that he supplied to the troops.” And Pilar laughed sharply for the third time.

But María had not listened to her spiteful sketch of the Marquis de Fúcar. She heard nothing but the tumult in her own soul, the storm of a rebellion, of a revolution, like the stormy rousing of a sleeping crowd. The serpent that lay brooding in her heart suddenly brought forth a swarm of others that started into life, alert and vicious, gnawing, and vomiting fire. Her jealousy took the form of a legion of invisible reptiles, stinging and scorching her on every side; this was in fact the guise under which it presented itself to her imagination, which always conceived of mental experiences as analogous to physical sensations; to her a pleasure was actually a caress, and a pain a blow or a pinch or a stab. The poor saint and martyr had never in her life before felt anything like this, and she did not know what it meant. Her grief was compounded with terror and surprise, and the shock was so great that she forgot to turn to God, as might have seemed natural, or to pray for patience or resignation.

What was this? It was the Real suppressing the Artificial; the woman’s heart asserting its supremacy through the agency of a revolt of its imprisoned, but genuine, emotions. It was an entire revolution of woman’s nature claiming its rights, and throwing off all that was false and assumed to raise the triumphant standard of truth and of that nobler part which—whether she be lover, wife, or mother, good or bad—makes her a true woman; makes her the other half of man—the Eve to Adam—whether faithful or faithless, a heroine or a baggage. This revolution is sometimes occasioned by the passion of love; but not invariably, because love in its innocent simplicity yields to the sophistries and treacherous blandishments of its brother mysticism. What never fails to stir it up is the brutal and overwhelming passion of jealousy, so well painted by Calderon as the hydra whose double nature, diabolical and seraphical, betrays its birth as the hybrid offspring of Love, which is divine, and Envy, the daughter of all the devils. The sudden frenzy that had sprung up in María’s soul was more akin to its mother Envy than to its father Love. It was an instrument of torture and torment, a rack without respite, a fire that grew fiercer each instant. Her bigotry was suddenly shattered like a tower that has been undermined and blown to the winds. At that moment her soul was dark; God utterly eclipsed. With a cry of anguish and clasping her head in her hands she exclaimed: “Wretch! But you shall pay dearly for it!”

Just at this juncture her mother entered the room and perceiving that María had learnt all, she threw herself into her arms. María had no tears; her eyes were dry and sparkling. The marquesa puckered her face up to shed a tear she had ready, as we are prepared with sighs as we enter the house of death.

“Do not suppress your grief, my darling child. I see you know the worst. I would not have told you for fear of agitating your tender soul ... be calm. Pilar has told you? It is horrible, atrocious! but perhaps not irremediable.... For days I have been miserable; but be calm; let me see you resigned.”

Pilar thought it was her turn to speak again.

“The atrocity,” she said, “is all the greater under the circumstances. It is a villainous thing to betray any woman, but a saint like you.... What is society coming to? In its passion for abolishing it will at last abolish the soul! Oh! c’est dégoutant! and then the wretches wonder that a handful of brave men stand forth, determined that God shall not be pensioned off. They are furious because a standard is raised to rally those who are ready to do battle for Religion, the Mother of Duty. If they are conquered through treachery, which nowadays triumphs everywhere, they will return to the charge ... they will return again and again, till at last....”

As she spoke she had risen, and was now standing in front of a mirror that formed the door of a wardrobe and contemplating her interesting person, twisting from side to side to study the fall of her elegant mantle and the effect of her fashionable hat. Her dainty, ungloved hands arranged here a pleat and there a curl; and then she returned to her seat.

“Did you hear that he is living there?” said the marquesa to her daughter and softening the words with a kiss.

“With her?” cried María drawing aside from her mother’s embrace. “Where?”

“At Carabanchel. Leon was so reckless as to take a lodging close to Suertebella. There is a way through the park.”

“I will go there,” said María rising and pulling violently at the bell.

“My dear, be calm. You must not take it so.”

A maid answered the bell and María said: “My black dress.”

“Your black merino frock!” exclaimed her mother. “A pretty object you will look! No, no, if you go at all—and we will talk of that—you must dress as well and look as handsome and as nice as possible.”

“Oh dear!” cried María regretfully. “I have no gowns; nothing pretty or nice; I have given all my good things away.”

“And you think you can go in that merino rag? Foolish child! how little you know of men. Very well; go to find your husband a perfect guy, and you will see how much he cares. Nay, appearances rule the world.”

“But first let us decide whether you had better go at all,” suggested Pilar.

“Yes, I want to go ... I want to go,” María insisted, clasping her hands, and her eyes glared with fury.

“No tragedies, no scenes—eh?”

“I do not think it is safe for you to go there. If he were to offer you some grosser insult, if you were to meet Pepa face to face, or her child—supposing that the child is in its father’s arms—for they say he is devoted to it....”

“Its father?” said María “Why Federico is dead?”

“No, no,” said her friend, with the expression of cruel resolve that she might have put on while thrusting a needle through some wretched insect to add it to a collection. “No, do you not see? Your husband ...”

“Leon ... my husband ... Monina’s father!” exclaimed the poor woman. The fresh blow stunned her as the first had done.

“So the people choose to say,” said Milagros trying to soften the shock.

“And you, Mamma, what do you think? Is it true?” asked María with great anxiety.

These two women were not malicious; their state of mind—analogous to that state of the body which is known to physicians as cachexy—was the result of a lack of sound principle from moral impoverishment, a disease caused by the life they led and the constant infection of an atmosphere full of deceptions and scandal. Still, there was something in them that made them revolt at their own cruelty; horrified at the depth and bitterness of the cup they had put to María’s lips, they now attempted to qualify it.

“No, I believe it is a fable.”

“No, I believe....” But Pilar, who was less generous than her friend, did not finish her sentence.

“The idea arose,” she added, “from a certain likeness....”

“In Monina?”

“To Leon—I do not know what to think. It seems to me beyond a doubt that the connection is of old standing.”

María bounced from her chair; there is no other word for that spring, like a stag’s when wounded in his sleep, and she rushed to seize the black merino gown in order to start at once.

“Do not be precipitate, do not be rash,” said her mother, detaining her. “You cannot go at this time of day. It is quite dusk.”

“What does that matter?”

“No, you really must not.”

The evening had in fact come down on them and the room was almost dark. “Lights—bring lights!” cried María, “I cannot bear this gloom.”

“I think that you ought to go,” her mother went on; “but not to-night, to-morrow.”

“Marquesa, have you fully considered the step?” asked her friend. “Will it not be a humiliation; would not silent contempt be more dignified?”

“Oh!” said the affectionate and anxious mother; “I even hope for a reconciliation.”

In truth her hopes were small, but it was what she most ardently desired.

“A reconciliation! what madness! And you, María, do you believe in a reconciliation?”

“I, I do not know, I cannot tell,” said María, helpless to answer that or any other question. “I do not ask for reconciliation but for punishment.”

“Oh! my dear, we are not acting a melodrama,” cried the marquesa spreading out her hands with the affected solemnity of a white-robed priest on the opera stage. “Peace, peace! be calm María; yes you must go, and go dressed like other folks. That smell of dyed woolen ... pah! it is intolerable.”

The two marquesas laughed at the jest, while Pilar threw the objectionable garment aside. María glanced at it revengefully as much as to say: “Why are you not silk, and well made, and fashionable?”

For the first time since she had renounced worldly things the plain uniform of sanctity, which yesterday she would not have exchanged for royal robes, struck her as ugly.

“The question of dress will be easily solved,” said Pilar, “you and I are much alike in figure; I will bring some of my gowns for you to choose from.”

“And a mantle?”

“Yes, and a hat.”

“At what time will you start?”

“At once.”

“No, to-morrow at noon,” said the mother, “we must not neglect the proprieties—the proper time and opportunity.”

“I must go home to dinner, and I will return afterwards,” said Pilar. “I will bring you what I have that is most suitable, for you to choose from. We will make you quite beautiful. The worst thing that could happen would be for Pepa Fúcar to laugh at you for fun. I shall be back again in an hour and a half; we have no one coming to see us this evening, and my husband is dining out with Higadillos and some other bull-fighters, and a couple of deputies. Au revoir, my dear—good-night, Milagros.” She kissed them both and disappeared.

During her absence the marquesa ate a little dinner; María none, though there was no fast enjoined by the church almanac. Pilar by-and-bye returned with a carriage-load of elegant raiment—beautiful dresses, mantles, parasols, hats; and that nothing might be wanting she even brought boots of the latest make and silk stockings haute nouveauté. This was the sack-cloth worn by this coquettish votary of the faith!

The servants and the maid brought everything up and the sofas and chairs were covered. Pilar, who was a capital show-woman told them to place this gown here, and that hat there, so as to display them to the best advantage. María sat gazing seriously enough at the gay colours, the wonderful shapes and whimsical decorations devised by French milliners. She looked, but she did not seem to see.

“Well what do you think? Which dress will you wear?”

“This is pretty,” said María pointing at one at random. “Who made it for you?” And then again she sat gloomily staring before her. She was like a reveller who has been long absent and is astonished to find the fashions changed.

“What a tight shape!” she said.

“This pearl-grey will suit you.”

“No, I would rather wear black,” she said.

“That black corded silk with pale straw colour. That suits you to perfection; I admire your taste though the season is not far advanced it is hot. Which hat will you have?”

María looked at three hats that Pilar displayed. After long meditation she said: “That black one with—what do you call that colour—cream? and the bird is pretty too with those pale roses.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Pilar admiringly, “if you had not given up the world for more than a single day you could not do better. How well you have chosen. Very well, now you shall try them on. We must see if the gown fits you; it can be taken in, or let out; I brought my maid, and between us ...”

Before María could say a word her mother, Pilar, and the maid had begun to divest her of the coarse grey flannel dress which looked like the gown of some poverty-stricken priestling. But at this proceeding María felt a slight reaction.

“Mercy!” she cried, “what are you doing?”

“Silly, silly child,” said the marquesa, “even at such a crisis can you not forget the follies of your exaggerated devotion?”

María allowed herself to be led into the next room and in front of a looking-glass; but the mirror was covered with a black curtain and looked more like a catafalque. They pulled it aside, and in the glass was born, as one might say, the charming image of María Sudre—a sudden creation as it seemed in her eyes.

“Good Heavens!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, “how thin I am!”

“Yes a little fallen away, but prettier, much prettier than ever,” said her mother enthusiastically.

“Lovely, charmante!... Juana, come and dress this hair,” said Pilar to the maid, who was famous as a hair-dresser.

“Be clever now; something simple. Just a knot that we may judge of the effect of the hat.”

Juana quickly unfastened María’s plaits to begin her work, while María, after looking at herself for a few minutes, fixed her eyes on her lap and seemed to be praying in silence. She had seen her marble shoulders and snowy throat and the sight had filled her with conscientious alarms. Perhaps the reaction might have spurred her to resistance. If an arrow shot from her mother’s well-aimed bow had not diverted her thoughts.

“When I look at you, my darling, it is incredible to me how that red-haired Pepa Fúcar....”

María’s jealousy started her into life again as a jaded horse is roused by the spur. Her eyes flashed as they saw themselves in the glass. “How lovely God has made us!” they seemed to say. She turned her head from side to side, looking out of the corner of her eye to see as much as she could of her profile. Yes, it was a fair vision! her paleness was becoming; she might have been taken for a convalescent love-sick angel.

In no time at all Juana had dressed her hair high, so perfectly becoming to María’s face and shape that the most famous coiffeur could have done no better; it was hailed with an exclamation of surprise, and María herself gazed in admiration, though she could not smile. Then, having induced her to return to the room where stood a large pier glass, they dressed her in a long princess gown, not an easy operation now that her hair was done.

“Oh! how handsome she is! odious creature,” cried the owner of the garment with a pinch of envy. “Now the mantle; we will try this cashmere wrap with embroidery and a fringe. It was made by a disciple of Worth’s.”

María obeyed blindly, allowing herself to be dressed, watching the process in the glass with anxious eyes, and involuntarily giving herself the moods and attitudes which were needed. The maid held up the light to show the charming picture.

“Now for the hat!”

This was the finishing touch, and Pilar would trust no hands but her own with the delicate task. It was like crowning a queen. She lifted the hat and placed it carefully on her friend’s head. What a result! what a success! what a triumph of the æsthetic arts! María was dressed. Complete and perfect in fashion and style! A fashion plate of flesh! Indeed, as she stood, she seemed the ideal and type of good taste; of that perfection of dress combined with the perfection of beauty which produce those distracting charms to which the prudence, the dignity, and sometimes the wealth and salvation of men are sacrificed. Alas! poor Adam! to think that there was a time when for full-dress you had only to pluck a leaf from the first fig-tree!

“Now I am going,” said Pilar. “I have seen the effect; to-morrow I will come back and dress you myself. I leave you everything complete: shoes, stockings—look what pretty ones—take the blue pair. Will my shoes fit you? I think so. Here are a pair of high boots and a pair of shoes.... I have even brought you gloves, for, if I am not mistaken, you have none.—Good-bye till to-morrow.”

She kissed her noisily and whispered in her ear: “To-morrow will be a day of trial for you. I will order tapers to be lighted before the Holy Picture in San Prudencio—but the Lord will uphold you, poor dear saint and martyr! By the way, my dear, the ceremony at San Lucas’ to-day had all that aspect—that veneer, so to speak—of vulgar display that sticks to everything that Antoñita de Rosafría takes in hand. You should have seen the hangings and the flags! It was like a political demonstration. If they had struck up Riego’s hymn, I should not have been astonished. And, oh, my dear, what a sermon! You should hear that man’s squeaky voice! As for edification!—Well, I must not stay any longer; it is growing late. Good-bye. But one thing strikes me: shall I have tapers lighted before Our Lady of Sorrows?”

“Yes,” said María eagerly, “Our lady of Sorrows.”

“Good-bye Milagros; to-night I have my place at the opera; I shall be in time for two acts of The Huguenots.... To-morrow then, at noon.”

“At noon, and bring Juana—I will bring my dressing-case, for in this house there is not even a powder puff.”

“Good-night—good-night.”

CHAPTER IV.
SUING OR DEFIANT?

The marquesa begged her daughter to go to bed, and María gladly obeyed, for she was very weary. She slowly divested herself of the handsome garments which had so unexpectedly resuscitated the beautiful young woman she had once been, and retired to her alcove. She was shivering with cold and had sunk into a fit of deep melancholy. After a long silence, during which she lay watching her mother with anxious eyes, she turned her face to the images, pictures, and relics which made her alcove a sort of oratory, and began to pray. The marquesa, who could also on great occasions make a due display of fervour, knelt kissing the feet of a crucifix.

“Give me my rosary, mamma,” said María; and the marquesa took her the beads which hung at the foot of the cross.

“Now you can leave me,” said her daughter. “I am sleepy, and when I have said my prayers I shall fall asleep.”

The marquesa fixed the hour at which they were to set out next day. It was agreed that they should both go and that the mother should remain in the carriage while María went in to see her husband.

“My heart tells me that we shall do great things, perhaps effect a reconciliation,” said the marquesa, kissing her daughter. “Now go to sleep and do not worry yourself with matters of conscience. You see the consequences of your obstinacy; honestly, my dear child, I put myself in a husband’s place—any husband’s; it is not that I wish to blame devotion, true devotion. Am not I a pious and sincere Catholic, though an unworthy one? Do I fail in my religious exercise? You should have thought of this mania for sanctity before you married and took up other duties.”

“One thing strikes me,” said María showing clearly that she was not worrying herself about matters of conscience, “I ought to have some jewelry to-morrow—a brooch, bracelets, earrings—you can bring me anything you think proper out of the case I gave you to take care of.”

“Very well,” said her mother with some embarrassment. “But almost all your trinkets wanted mending—I sent them to Ansorena. But I will see....”

“Rafaela tells me that you took away all the plate yesterday.”

“Yes, all of it. My dear child, I am always in a fright at your living alone in this great house. There are so many robberies.”

“I do not want the plate—but tell me, did you not take the silk curtains too, and my lace, and the inlaid ink-stand and card case—oh! and those two vases, and the Sêvres jars, and the fan painted by Zamacois and the water-colour by Fortuny, and several other things?”

“You have a remarkably good memory,” said the marquesa, laughing to conceal her annoyance. “Yes, I took them away. Such treasures ought not to be left in danger of robbery. Do you know that Madrid is swarming with burglars?”

“Then bring me my watch,” said María turning over in bed, “I had better know the time to a minute.”

“Very well—but I remember it is gone to be mended. It did not go.”

“Then I must do without it; goodnight, mamma.”

“To-morrow at ten. I will be here in time to dress you. Goodnight, my darling.”

But María could not sleep. For the first time in her life she realised one of her earliest dreams of pious mortification; she had imagined the possibility of lying on a bed of brambles, so that her body being tormented to the great edification of the soul, she might the better emulate the penitent saints whose lives she had read with such enthusiasm. That night her bed was a bed of thorns, till it became a bed of burning coals, and seemed to scorch her limbs. She felt like St. Laurence on his gridiron, or St. John in his cauldron; she could generally get to sleep by repeating her prayers, but to-night they hung buzzing on her lips, like bees at the door of a hive, while her brain seemed on fire, writhing like some soul in the depths of hell, nipped and stung by Satan’s ministers. She could bear it no longer; in her ears was a continual hissing like frying; it bewildered her brain; her very eyes ached in the dark. She sprang out of bed and struck a light.

“Now,” she said to herself, as she slipped some clothes on. “Now, this minute!”

Without stopping to put on her shoes and stockings she went to look at the clock in her boudoir, her heart sank when she saw that it only marked one. Still so early! She calculated how long it would be till sunrise; then she shut herself into her boudoir. Who can tell what she did there? In the silence of the night and of empty rooms the clocks, with their regular ticking, like breathing, seem to live and watch. Perched on the chimney-shelves, these bronze personages, with faces like masks with twelve eyes, would make us believe that they can hear and understand by the same internal organs which produce that ceaseless and rythmical beat. The clock in María’s boudoir was the only witness to her proceedings; the portrait of Leon even knew nothing about them, for it hung with its face to the wall. The clock heard her, then, as she opened and shut various trunks; heard the pleasant splash of water as it flowed into the marble bath and over the rounded limbs of a human statue, dancing and rippling like the waters of a fountain in which alabaster tritons and nymphs disport themselves among translucent jets, cascades, and clouds of spray. The impudent rogue of a clock chuckled to itself as it steadily snapped its hundred teeth; it was long since it had heard such music. Then it smelt the faint, sweet savour of perfumes—it was long since that scent had been used there.

María returned to the boudoir carrying the light with her, and her first glance was at the dial near which she placed the candle. A quarter past two. Oh, what a bore is a clock that insists on telling you that it is very early! She had wrapped herself in an ample white sheet like a cloak, which helped to produce a reaction after the cold bath; her face was a little blue, but none the less charming, and her small hands clutched the wrapper to gather it round her, as a dove folds her grey wings over her white breast. The reaction from cold water is rapid and complete. She soon felt warm again, and then, as the reversed portrait caught her eye, she raised her arms to take it down—but it was too high. She mounted on a chair to reach it, and we have it on the authority of the clock that his mistress in her light attire was a charming figure which he opened his twelve eyes wide to gaze at.

María unhooked the portrait and, turning it round, set it upon a chair. There, as if he were present in the flesh, were the manly bust, the clever head, the deep honest eyes of Leon Roch; it was like the sudden entrance of a living person. María was strangely startled; all her blood rushed to her heart, leaving her veins empty and chill; breathless and rigid, she looked at the picture as though it were the apparition of some one long dead, or the embodiment of a face in a dream. It did not frown at her but gazed with a serene and kind expression—the natural expression of a warm and loyal nature. María stooped forward; her face was close to the portrait—then she drew back; with her hand she wiped off a little dust, and having done this, she kissed her husband—once, twice, thrice, on different parts of his face. At that instant she heard a dull, smothered chuckle—it was the clock, taking a deeper breath with the hoarse effort that is preparatory to its striking.

Three o’clock! the creature was growing more amiable and was getting the better of its mania for asserting that it was early. The house, as has been said, was on the outskirts of the city, and she could hear the cocks crowing to proclaim the end of this miserable, dreary, never-ending night.

“It will soon be day,” thought María. “As soon as it is day I will set out.”

Then she proceeded to dress. All the things that Pilar had brought were lying on the chairs, and, but that there were on the walls three several pictures of St. Joseph, the room might have been taken for that of a woman of the world after a night of dissipation.

María examined the colours of the silk stockings and finally selected the blue pair which she pulled over the rosy feet. Shoes were a more difficult matter; she tried the boots and shoes—happily her friend’s foot seemed to be the twin brother to her own—but she doubted as to the particular pair—boots or shoes? A question as important as the greater alternative: Heaven or Hell?

After much hesitation the boots were definitely discarded and she decided on the shoes—high shoes of bronze kid, Louis XV. shape, and embroidered with steel—gems in their way. María looked at them for a long time and then put them on. She had very pretty feet—prettiest of all when bare—still, she must have shoes on as a social necessity, though it was not de rigeur in the days of Venus; and María looked down with satisfaction at the artificial beauties of feet with which not Daphne herself could have run, but which, nevertheless, were pretty enough to behold. She placed her foot firmly on the ground, contemplating the ankle; she turned on her heel and moved the pointed toe, almost like a thimble; the foot as well as the face has an expression of its own. María was satisfied and gave her mind to other matters.

Stays; coiffure; two important matters which could not be attended to together. The first is sometimes a question of strength; the second a sublime work of art. María began with the more serious matter, and it needed no hydraulic pressure to imprison her slender waist. The hair-dressing was a greater difficulty. She seated herself at the dressing-table in a meditative attitude, with her hands raised like a priest who pauses to pray before touching some sacred object, and at length, after various attempts she succeeded in restoring to some extent the structure that Juana had achieved the previous evening—a perfectly simple knot, as it had to be in the absence of various articles of the toilet. But it was becoming, and that was the main point. No puffs or padding.

The rest of her toilet was on the lines of last night’s rehearsal: the black silk dress, with its linings and trimmings of straw colour; the hat, which might have been the creation of fairy hands.... Nothing could be better or more bewitching. María gazed at herself in astonishment; she was a different woman! It could not be she who was so beautiful. It was magic. Nay, a good Catholic could not believe in magic! It was a special mercy of Heaven, a providential interposition, to enable her to carry out a meritorious purpose. It could be none other than God who had lent her such exceptional beauty and such brilliant and becoming attire. Superstition clung to her soul as a limpet sticks by suction to a rock.

“God consents, it is God’s will—” she said to herself, eagerly seizing on the idea.

Then she looked at herself once more—in front, in profile—yes, she looked well. How slender and well-formed she was, how gracefully her head was poised on her shoulders! The misty veil slightly shaded her pale face, as it might be the shadow of a bird flying by and pausing to admire so sweet a picture. There was a sort of symbolical passion in the depths of the black velvet with lights of straw-coloured silk; in that sombre nimbus with sulphurous gleams framing her delicate complexion there was a perfect harmony; and in those melancholy sea-blue eyes, that looked as if a threat lurked under their sadness, a revenge under their pain, under their tenderness a dagger.

“Gloves!” she exclaimed, “where are they? How provoking if Pilar should have forgotten to leave them.”

She found them however, and put them on.

“I have no trinkets, but that is of no consequence—I have my virtue,” she added to herself, “that is the only thing that really matters.”

After another glance in the mirror she went on: “Yes, I am handsome—if only I can say just what I feel.... If I can find the right words....”

She pulled the bell, startling all the household. The servants were some time getting up, but at last they appeared. Her maid, who came sleepy and stupid into her room, was astounded at seeing her mistress ready dressed—and so beautifully dressed! María desired her to send Señor Pomares to her at once. The worthy man, who had been recalled after Leon’s departure, presently made his appearance, with a puffy, stupid face and tottering with the bewildered air of a man who has been roused from his deepest and sweetest slumbers. But María did not look at him.

“Order the carriage to be got ready at once,” she said. The steward looked blank with astonishment.

“But—you forget,” he said, “you forget...?”

“What?”

“That the carriage is gone.”

“To be sure, very true,” said María. “I had forgotten. Well, send for a hired carriage, a landau.”

“At this hour?”

“Is it not daylight?”

“Dawn is only just breaking.”

“What has that to do with it? It seems to me that you want to make difficulties ... you are of no use at all—”

Pomares was dumbfounded. So hasty ... so violent.... His mistress must be mad.

“Well, why do you not stir, in Heavens name?” she exclaimed, “why do you stand staring at me? A carriage, and at once, at any cost!”

“Very good, Señora; I will go and see.”

“At once; as quickly as possible. I want to be off as soon as it is light.”

After infinite trouble Pomares, dragging his weary limbs from one place to another, succeeded in hiring a carriage; but not till the day was somewhat far advanced. María burning with impatience, waited in her room. She took a cup of black coffee, and then alternately paced the room and paused to pray, or sat sunk in thought.

When at length the landau was announced she started up, and going straight to a pretty little cupboard she took out a bottle of not remarkably pure water. Her lips moved, muttering no doubt a prayer, while she poured part of the contents into a silver cup; then, carefully lifting her veil she drank that water which was from the sacred Grotto at Lourdes.

CHAPTER V.
THE ICE GIVES WAY.

María had not gone more than half a mile when a terrible reflection occurred to her—a thought at once so serious and so obvious that she was on the point of turning back. It struck her that her dress, having been chosen with a view to an afternoon drive, was unsuitable for so early a visit—nay, ridiculous not to say “loud.” How could she have overlooked this when she was dressing? Why had she not chosen other and simpler things, more suitable according to all the accepted laws of society for morning wear? She was really upset and distressed; however, there was now no remedy; so, though she was vexed to think that on such an occasion she should not be a model of good taste, she consoled herself with the reflection that beauty lays down the laws of fashion and has never been its slave. Other and more important matters soon put all thoughts of dress out of her head. As she drove along she tried to compose and remember appropriate phrases and speeches. She knew exactly what her husband would say, and how she, as the outraged wife, ought to reply. Sentence after sentence surged up in her brain as readily as if it were the crucible of the Spanish Academy. Now and then an adjective seemed too weak and she substituted a stronger one; here and there a statement of fact gave way to a hypothesis; and thus anticipating the utterance of her wrath and injuries, she grew so excited that she spoke aloud to herself.

She paid no heed to the road along which she was being carried, nor to any object she passed. At the same time, as frequently happens when the mind is full of a fixed group of ideas, María, while she took no conscious note of the more important details, involuntarily absorbed certain trivial and minute ones. She observed a dead bird lying by the road, and a tavern sign-board in which the letter A was missing; as she passed the tram-car she perceived that the driver was blind of one eye. This is one of the commonest and oddest of mental phenomena.

At length she reached the hamlet, or rather detached suburb—neither town nor country, but an irregular medley of mansions and dung-hills. Not knowing precisely which way to go, she enquired of some women who civilly directed her; the man drove on. Now she was near the house—it must be quite close. Her heart throbbed wildly, and all the speeches she had so laboriously prepared deserted her at once.

The carriage stopped ... she could hardly stand. She saw a gate leading into a large court-yard, full of furniture cases, and an iron bed packed for moving. There was a woman too, talking to some one she could not see. María went in and approached her; then, to her horror, she saw that she was talking to herself; was she mad? But María asked for Don Leon Roch.