It was very cold in the darkness of the hall which had been unoccupied since five o'clock, but Franco did not notice this. He threw himself upon the sofa, giving himself up entirely to his grief, to his anger, to an easy and violent mental defence of himself against his wife. As Luisa had rebelled against God and against himself—though indeed she had made a distinction—he now found it convenient to make common cause in his heart with that other mute and terrible One whom she had offended. At first astonishment, bitterness, rage, good reasons and bad, formed a whirling tempest in his brain. Then he found relief for his feelings in imagining Luisa's repentance, her prayers for forgiveness, and his own magnanimous answers.
Suddenly he heard Maria screaming and crying. He rose to go and see what had happened, but he was without a light. He waited a moment thinking Luisa would go out, but he did not hear her move, and the child was screaming louder than ever. Very softly he went towards the parlour, and looked in through the glass door.
Luisa had hidden her face in her arms, which were crossed on the table, and the light of the candle revealed only her beautiful dark hair. Franco felt his anger cooling, he opened the door, and called softly, his tone still gently severe: "Luisa, Maria is crying." Luisa raised her face, which was very pale, took the candle and went out without a word. Her husband followed her. They found the child sitting up in bed bathed in tears; a dream had frightened her. When she saw her father she stretched out her arms to him. "Not go away, papa, not go away!" she entreated, her voice big with tears. Franco pressed her in his arms, covered her with kisses, soothed her, and then put her back into her little bed. But she clung tightly to one of her father's hands, and could not be prevailed upon to let it go.
Luisa took another candle from the table and tried to light it, but her hands shook so she did not succeed. "Are you not coming to bed?" Franco asked. "No," she said, trembling more violently than ever. Franco thought he divined a supposition, a fear in her, and was offended. "Oh, you can come!" he said angrily. Luisa lighted her candle and said, more calmly, that she must work on the little shoes. She went out, and only on the threshold did she murmur: "Good-night." "Good-night," Franco answered coldly. For a moment he thought he would undress, but he presently relinquished his intention because his wife was still up, and at work. He spread back the coverlet and lay down in his clothes, on the side of the bed next to the child, that he might hold Maria's little hand—she had not yet gone to sleep—and put out the light.
What sweetness in the touch of that dear, tiny hand! Franco felt her the little child she was, his daughter, the innocent, loving baby, and then he imagined her a woman, her heart all his, united to him in every thought, every sentiment, and he fancied the little hand that pressed his was striving to compensate him for all that Luisa had made him suffer, and was saying: "Papa, you and I are united for ever!" Good God! he shuddered at the thought that Luisa might wish to bring her up in her own way of thinking, and that he, being far away, would be powerless to prevent this. He prayed to God, to the Virgin Mary, to the saintly grandmother Teresa, to his own mother, who, he was well aware, had been so pure and so pious. "Watch over my Maria, watch over her!" he murmured. He offered to sacrifice his whole being, his earthly happiness, his health, even life itself, that Maria might be saved from error.
"Papa," said the child, "a kiss."
He leaned out of bed, and, bending down, sought the dear little face in the dark, and told her to be quiet, to go to sleep. She was silent for a moment, and then called—
"Papa!"
"What is it?"
"I haven't got the mule under my pillow, you know, papa."