"Is it necessary that you should see them?" the chambermaid asked me.
That was my desire, but I hardly ventured to say so. I told her it was not necessary, but I should like to know how they had passed the night. I was told that Doña Amparo (the old lady) had rested fairly well and that the doctor, who had just gone, found her better than he had expected. Doña Cristina (the young lady) was perfectly well. I left my card and went down stairs somewhat depressed. But I had no sooner reached the street floor than the chambermaid came after me and asked me to come back, saying that the ladies wished to see me.
Doña Cristina came out into the corridor to meet me. She wore an elegant morning-gown of a violet color, and her black hair was half-imprisoned by a white cap with violet ribbons. Her eyes were beaming with delight and she held out her hand most cordially.
"Good morning, Captain. Why were you avoiding the thanks we wished to give you? I had just finished a letter to you in which I expressed, if not all the gratitude we feel, at least a part. But it is better that you have come—and yet the letter was not wholly bad!" she added, smiling. "Although you may not believe it, we women are more eloquent with the pen than with the tongue."
She took me into a parlor where there was an alcove whose glazed doors were shut.
"Mamma," she called, "here is the gentleman who saved you, the captain of the Urano."
I heard a melancholy murmuring, something like suppressed sighing and sobbing, with words between that I could not make out. I questioned the daughter with my eyes.
"She says that she regrets extremely having caused you to risk your life."
I replied in a loud tone that I had run no danger at all; but even if I had, I was simply doing my duty.
Again there proceeded from the alcove various confused sounds.