Ah, yes; he saw all; he understood all.
He sprang up hastily from the sofa, and bringing his face close to Marta's, said to her in sweet, affectionate tones, but with innocent petulance,—
"Don't deny it, Martita; you just gave me a kiss!"
The girl raised her hands to her face, and broke into a passion of tears. A thousand emotions of fear, of penitence, of affection, of doubt, of joy, of anxiety, instantly crossed the heart of the young marquis who bent his knee before her, exclaiming in accents of emotion,—
"Marta, for God's sake, forgive my stupidity.... I am a fool!... I just dreamed such sad things, and they suddenly all ended so well!... I could not resign myself to let happiness escape so ... an absurd idea came into my head, inspired by the very idea of seeing it realized.... But no ... no! I cannot be happy on earth.... I was born to be unfortunate.... Luckily I shall die early, like my father ... and like my mother.... Forgive me that momentary folly, and don't weep.... Do you want to know what I was dreaming?... I am going to tell you, because perhaps it will be the last time that you will see me.... I dreamed ... I dreamed, Marta, that you loved me."
The girl opened her hands a little, and ejaculated with a certain wrathful, but adorable intonation these words, which were immediately cut short by sobs,—
"You dreamed the truth, ingrato!"
The Marqués de Peñalta, beside himself, entirely carried away by his emotions, his heart ready to burst, pressed her in his arms without being able to speak a word. At last, very softly, very softly, with the sublime incoherence of the heart, like a murmur of celestial harmony, he whispered into the ears of his friend the hymn of love. Dios mio! how sweet sounded that hymn in Marta's ears! I do not intend to repeat it: no; the pen cannot reproduce that mysterious language which comes directly from the heart, scarcely touching the lips,—accents escaping from heaven and hastening to take refuge in the breast of virgins,—for the earth does not understand them, notes perhaps lost from the song with which the angels celebrate their immortal bliss.
Marta listened. Tremulous, confused, she hid her head in her lover's breast, shedding a flood of tears. Ricardo pressed her closer and closer to his heart without wearying of repeating the same phrase,—the most beautiful phrase that God ever suggested to man. Once the girl raised her head to ask in low and tremulous voice,—
"You will not go now, will you?"