Oh, yes, Maria felt an intense delight.
The brilliant rose bloom of her cheeks told the same story; the unnatural glitter of her eyes likewise proclaimed it. Her lips were dry, and her nostrils pink and more dilated than usual. Her white brow was marked by a long, slight furrow, telling of the quick desire, the restless, sensual eagerness hidden in her heart. It was the cheerful eagerness of the epicure, who finds himself face to face with his favorite food after a long fast. Over her excited brilliant face passed a throng of warm flushes, in a vague, intricate confusion of dismay, dread, and voluptuous desires. She was going to be the bride of Jesus Christ and shut herself forever between four walls, passing her whole life in a mysterious union, whose sweet delight she had not as yet enjoyed in full. A great curiosity overwhelmed her, stirred her unspeakably. The choir of the Convent of San Bernardo, where the half light pouring in through the lofty windows slept in mystic calm upon the gray oaken chairs, had always fascinated her. How many times she had trembled, when she saw a silent white figure cross the floor and sit down there in the body of the church. It was a sweet voluptuous trembling, which made her eagerly long to enter that fantastic retreat. The nuns, with their tall white figures, seemed to her like supernatural beings,—angels come down to earth for a while, who would soon mount up to heaven again. She was particularly attracted by one who was young and beautiful; when she saw her enter the choir, she could not take her eyes from her. The stern, classic beauty of that sister, and her clear, steady gaze made an impression upon her, which she could not explain. In her breast sprang up a certain extravagant attraction toward her, and a quick, eager desire to be her friend, or rather her disciple; to kneel before her and say: "Teach me, guide me." Oh, if she would permit me to give her a kiss, even though it were the briefest! One evening a tremendous temptation assailed her to ask her for it. The church was empty; she looked back and saw that the beautiful nun had made her way into the choir and was kneeling near the grating. And, without further consideration as to what she was doing, she went to her and said in trembling voice: "Señora, give me your hand, that I may kiss it." The nun made a graceful sign that it could not be, but rising, she offered her the crucifix of her rosary, with a smile so sweet and assuring, that Maria, when she kissed it, felt deeply moved.
Always when she entered the church of the convent she felt the same rapture, a species of voluptuous somnolence penetrating her whole being like a caress. From that choir came languorous, sweet murmurs, calling her, inviting her to leave the pleasures of the world for others more sweet and mysterious, which she had already begun to enjoy without full knowledge of them. Jesus had granted her already rich enjoyments in her prayers, but He would not abandon himself completely,—certainly would not lose consciousness of self in the arms of the bride; would not give His all to her with the infinite, immortal love which she eagerly desired, except within that silent poetic retreat where no sound could disturb them.
At last the day had come for her to satisfy her desire; within an hour she would be within that mysterious choir which had caused her so many dreams, and would cross with floating tunic the warm sunlight falling through the lofty windows. She felt impatient for the moment to arrive. She was nervous, restless, but smiling. Never had she been so self-satisfied. Her friends were not weary of exalting her virtue and heroism; the town regarded her with surprise, and around her she heard only praise and words of admiration. Maria really found herself upon a pedestal. And like every one who is under the public gaze, our heroine succeeded in hiding the emotions of her soul, and showed a serene and joyous face. It was her day; it was the day of the great battle, and she smoothed her brow and composed the expression of her face, like a general when the hour of the attack has come.
Nevertheless, from time to time she gazed with anxiety at one of the corners of her boudoir. In that corner sat her sister, with her face in her hands, sobbing. At last, not being able to control herself longer, she suddenly left her maids of honor and went to Marta, and bending down her face so that it touched her, she said:—
"Do not weep, dear, do not weep more; ... there is no misfortune here to make you so sorrowful. On the other hand, think of the great favor which God has shown in calling me to be his bride.... You ought to rejoice, my little pigeon;[70] come, don't weep any more, darling [monina].... Consider that you are taking away my strength."
And as she said that, she kissed her pretty little sister's smooth rosy cheek. The girl replied amid her sobs,—
"Ay! Maria, I lose you forever!"
"No, monina, no ... you will often see me ... and you will speak with me...."
"What does that amount to?... I am going to lose you, my sister."