“The name of saint seems to me too weak—and what name of horror can I give to the man who, having in his house such a treasure of goodness and piety, abandoned it, despised it and covered himself with ignominy by scorning gold for base metal, and filling the place of the angel Heaven had granted him for a wife with a....”
“Pilar! Good God! Are you speaking of my husband?”
“Oh, my dearest friend,” said the marquesa, colouring with excitement, “forgive me for being furious as I speak of it. I really cannot help it!”
“But Leon.... Pilar, you do not know what you are saying; my husband is a strictly moral man.”
It has been said that María was a woman of limited intellect though of fairly strong feelings; her nature lacked delicacy and refinement, but, at the same time, what was best in her was a basis of loyalty and honour and a vein of innate rectitude which is always accompanied by a certain confidence in the honesty of others. Her friend’s reticent insinuations aroused her indignation.
“I see,” said Pilar, “that I have been very rash and indiscreet. You have heard nothing.”
“I have heard nothing? What about?”
“Oh! I cannot tell you; I ought to have held my tongue. I thought that your mother....”
“Speak out—you mentioned my husband....”
“And now I am sorry for it.”