“What is?”
“Louis Veuillot’s article on modern society—on those base and corrupt minds who, to smother their own remorse, wish to abolish faith. Do you want this copy of the Univers, Gustavo?”
“You can take it if you will let me have it to-morrow. I have an article to write on the same subject.”
They went into the drawing-room.
“Then it is understood we sing to-morrow,” said the marquesa to her friend.
“Yes, to-morrow, without fail.” There was a rustling of silk dresses, a chorus of: “To-morrow then, to-morrow—” a chirping of kisses and moving of chairs. The company were dispersing. Some left in pairs: some went smiling, others frowning. The Tellerias departed, then the general, and the deputy with his archiepiscopal airs; and with him went Gustavo, discussing church politics but without losing his expression of gloom.
“Good-night, Pilar; to-morrow at San Prudencio.”
“Good-night—I will take your message to Padre Paoletti.”
And when they were all gone the Marquesa de San Salomó retired to pray and to sleep.