“Jealousy,” murmured María from the depths of her anguish.
Then, by slow degrees, frequently pausing to rest, María related all that had happened since Pilar de San Salomó had told her of Leon’s infidelities, until she lost consciousness. She told the priest everything, omitting nothing of importance, nor any interesting detail.
“Excepting your outbursts of indignation, your sacrifice to worldly prejudice in the matter of dress, and your overhasty action, there is nothing reprehensible in your conduct,” said Paoletti as he sat with his head resting on his hand and his eyes cast down on the floor—like a weapon laid by in its sheath, listening to her story, word by word, drop by drop like an extract distilled from an alembic. María breathed a sigh of relief.
“I thought I had sinned heavily,” she said.
“You have sinned no doubt, in the way I have said; but it is no mortal sin. I see in your visit nothing more than a woman’s natural impulse to prevent the rupture of a sacred tie. I have told you already, many times, that your pure desire to cultivate the spiritual life, and his deep contempt for the faith cannot exempt either of you from the duties of married life. So long as you both live, you are bound together by the sacrament of marriage, and when one strove to burst the bonds it was only natural and right that the other should fly to prevent it; nay to tighten the tie if that were possible. Ah! my most precious daughter, how often have we talked it over!”
María nodded affirmatively and fixed her eyes on the ceiling.
“When my object was to give a fixed purpose to your beautiful life, I have often said this,” continued Paoletti, not lifting his gaze from the ground, but staring at the carpet, as if he did not know where to look. “Many times as you know, I have quieted your mind on this point when you were disturbed by scruples. ‘No,’ I have said, ‘God cannot require a married woman to close her mind to every consideration of what she owes to her husband.’ He, even though he may have erred in spiritual things, has a right which cannot be abrogated even though his ideas and principles may be in direct opposition to those of his wife. Although, seeing his contumacious incredulity it is impossible that you should give him an atom—I say an atom since I must perforce use a material image—an atom, I say, of your exquisite spirit, of those graces which are claimed by their Creator; although you cannot have any single idea in common, nor that confidence which might fill him with vain hopes that he could ever turn his wife out of the path of perfection in which she is walking—still, all that is not of the spirit is his; all that is essentially of the flesh and world. You have confided to me all your most intimate thoughts, all the tender secrets of your soul—all your husband’s expressions and opinions; I have fully appreciated him and on my knowledge of the facts I laid down for you a scheme of life to which you have perfectly conformed until now, when I find you distraught and wandering from the path. But remember all we have said about it, and my arguments which will set everything in its right light; and never confuse spiritual things with what is merely human, or that which is of God with the things of the flesh.”
María said nothing, but turned herself wearily on her pillow.
“Speak to me, my dear and precious lamb.”