"Very well, very well. Don't you be troubled."
An hour passed, and, worn out by his incessant walking up and down, he went to the parlor and threw himself upon a sofa. He sat there for some time, with his eyes wide open, trying to conquer the drowsiness that was taking possession of him in spite of himself. But at last he yielded: he stretched out his feet, settled his head comfortably, yawned tremendously, and soon was sleeping like a log.
It was broad daylight when three or four women precipitately invaded the parlor, shouting at the top of their voices:—
"Don Miguel!... Rivera!... Señorito!"
"What is the matter?" he cried, looking up in alarm.
"Nothing, except that you have a son! Come, come!"
And they pulled him with them to the chamber, where he saw his wife, still seated in an easy-chair, her face pale, but beaming with celestial happiness. At the same instant he saw Juana in one corner with a something in her hands that was squalling horribly! He could not bear to look at it for an instant, but turned his face to his wife and kissed her tenderly.
When Miguel left the room, his heart was in his mouth.
When he found himself alone he began to weep like a child.
"Poor little wife!" he murmured. "She suffered without a complaint, and there I was sleeping like a brute! I shall never forgive myself for such selfishness as long as I live!... Still, it was the fault of those women," he added, with a sudden wrath; "those meddlesome persons who drove me out of the room."