They were soon joined by the Marquis Joaquín de Onésimo whom Fúcar had invited to discuss, without loss of time, a grand project for a national loan.
Leon found the marquis unusually grave and thoughtful, with gleams however of good spirits; a most unaccountable state of affairs, for the most precarious business never seemed to affect the serenity of his perfectly artificial exterior. When he spoke of Monina’s illness and marvellous recovery, Don Pedro, who was devoted to his little grandchild, was quite happy; but his eyes fell again and he frowned—he smiled—then he was solemn; and at length, putting his arm through Leon’s and taking him aside, he said:
“We must prepare Pepa for some bad news.”
“Bad news?”
“Yes, and I say bad news because.... Well, I hardly know why. Still, the news of a death, whoever the victim may be, is in a way bad news.” And the marquis fumbled in his pockets which were full of cards, letters and papers, covered with notes in pencil scribbled in his carriage, in the train, in his office.
“Here is the message. It is a frightful catastrophe—the wreck of an American steamer between Puerto-Cabello and Savanilla.... The papers here have not mentioned it, but my Havana correspondent telegraphs this.... Do you see? The steam packet City of Tampico....”
Leon turned pale as he read the message.
“So that Pepa....” he murmured.
“Hush, not a word; she might hear you and she is quite unprepared. Yes, my daughter is a widow.”
Leon Roch was speechless.