Doña Carmen kept silence, but shook her head in negation. Her husband rose as though emotion were quite too much for him.
"Oh, yes! I understand! You cannot forgive me some little errors of caprice and folly. You are taking advantage of this opportunity of revenge. Very well, very well. Indulge your vengeance; but believe me when I say that I have never loved any woman better than you. The heart cannot be made to obey orders, Carmen; if I desired to tear your image out of mine, my heart would answer: 'No, I cannot give it up without breaking.' It is sad, very sad, to meet with so cruel a disenchantment at the end of our lives. If you were to die to-morrow, which God forbid! what worries and troubles must await me, besides the grief of losing the wife I adore. Why I, a poor old man, might be compelled to quit the house where I have lived so many years, which I built and beautified in the hope of dying under its roof in your arms!"
Requena's voice broke at judicious intervals, and his eyes filled with tears. When he ceased speaking he sank into his armchair as though quite crushed, pressing his handkerchief to his eyes.
But Doña Carmen, though tender-hearted and sensitive, showed no signs of emotion. On the contrary, she replied in a steady voice:
"You know perfectly well that there is no truth in all that. I am not capable of taking any revenge, nor, if I were, could there be any such vengeance in leaving all I can to your daughter, who is mine solely by the affection I bear to her."
The Duke changed his tactics. He looked at his wife compassionately for a few minutes, and then he said:
"The greatest happiness you could confer on Clementina to show your affection would be to get out of her way as soon as you can. Poor Osorio is up to the ears in hot water. Now I understand why his creditors have been so long-suffering. You no doubt have said something to his wife of this will of yours, and as you are somewhat ailing they are looking for your death like showers in May. Make no mistake about that."
Doña Carmen at these cruel words turned even paler than she always was. She clutched the arms of her chair with an effort to keep herself from fainting. This that her husband had said was horrible, but only too probable. He saw her agitation, and at once brought forward facts to confirm his hypothesis. He drew a complete picture of Osorio's position, pointing out how unlikely it was that his creditors should still give him time if they had not some definite hope to count on; and this could only be her own death.
The unhappy woman at last spoke. Her words were almost sublime:
"If, indeed, Clementina desires my death," she said, "then so do I, with all my heart. Everything I can leave is for her."