“But I like your coolness; ‘tell me, tell me,’ you say? But you tell me nothing. It is not that there is any lack of interesting chapters in your history—nay, of grand, not to say poetic passages, but that you are the most reticent soul alive. You can endure the bitterest griefs without any one ever knowing it. But I am very much interested in what goes on in your house; I know that you and María never meet but at meals, and that not every day. You see, though you are so prudent, your mother-in-law is not. She answers those that ask ... and Polito; he tells tales of what occurs—and of what does not occur as well.”
Leon sighed. Pepa hid a smile with her fan and went on:
“You have married into a delightful family!”
There was a long silence during which they both sat gazing at the flowers in the carpet. In this hushed and solitary house, where not a sound was to be heard, a sort of melancholy or sleepiness pervaded the air which was conducive to meditation. Pepa rose and paced the room as though she were racking her brain for some adequate mode of expressing something that was stirring in her mind and that must be said.
The reader has been told that she was not handsome, and why should I repeat it. But there is nothing so bad as to have good in it, nor woman so plain that she has no detail of beauty. Pepa indeed did not lack charms, and to some she possessed them in a high degree; her eyes were effective, small but very bright, with a sweet and caressing glance. What was most conspicuous in her was her thick red hair and the dead whiteness of her skin which gave her the effect of a statue of alabaster and gold. She was tall and somewhat bony, but this defect was qualified by her well-proportioned limbs and the exquisite lightness of her gait, with an air of gentle confidence that was extremely captivating. The volubility of her tongue covered a grave and thoughtful nature; she seemed to have no pride at all, and her manners, somewhat independent of etiquette, were most engagingly frank and cordial. Her caprices and eccentricities were so much changed from what they were when we first saw her at Iturburua, that she was hardly like the same woman. Sorrow, that tames all, had brandished her scourge over Pepita’s head, and there was little left of her old violence beyond a rare and transitory echo. She presently returned to her seat, and for some minutes she silently watched the intelligent but melancholy countenance of her old friend. Leon remained lost in thought, like a mathematician absorbed in the depths of a calculation.
“What are you thinking of?” Pepa suddenly asked.—But it would fill three chapters to say what Leon was thinking of at that moment.
“Of nothing,” he said with affected indifference, “of the miseries and farces of life.”
“You cannot forget your mamma-in-law?” said Pepa laughing. “Do you never go to her parties? She began them again with great display when she went out of mourning for her son Luis Gonzaga, who died just six months ago, if I remember rightly. I can keep account of the most important events in your family. Would you believe it ... her evenings are quite famous.”
“Oh, I believe it. They will no doubt become famous.”
“The Count de Vera tells me that she gave a capital supper the night before last. Do not you think that your brothers-in-law must have pledged the family standard for a good round sum? But some people really do not know what to do with their money!”