“You hear those cat-like steps,” he said. “Cowards like that do not kill, but they will scratch our faces.”
As he spoke they both started with alarm at hearing some one come into Monina’s room. It was the Marquis de Fúcar. He was much agitated.
“I must speak to my daughter,” he said to Leon very solemnly. “What would become of her if an anxious father.... And then a few words with you, Leon. No, it will be better that I should talk to you first.... It is a most delicate subject.—I have just come—my dear Pepa, one moment. Leon and I have two words to say to each other. We will go into the child’s room.”
Pepa was left alone; she could hear the voices of her father and her friend, but could distinguish no words. In a few minutes Don Pedro came back to Pepa alone; she looked anxiously at the door for Leon’s return; but, as her father told her, they had agreed that Leon should not be present at the interview between the father and daughter.
Leon withdrew to the room he had been quartered in, not far from the Incroyable room, and spent a night of cruel anxiety and internal struggle. At first it was like a violent argument between two contending parties. Then the turmoil in his soul took the form of crucial questions which had to be answered. Should he fly with her at once? This was not even to be thought of.
Fly with her by-and-bye? He could not decide.
Leave her to the tender mercies—perhaps almost to the brutality—of that other? Out of the question.
For the moment mere decency required him to quit Suertebella, and withdraw to his own house, where he might further consider what remained to be done. This was the obvious thing; but even more obvious was it not to abandon her who so valiantly tried to defend herself. If there was danger for both of them at Suertebella he could do no less than remain there in defiance of the world’s opinion. The comments of others on any business of his had become a matter of indifference to him, and he decided to act on the dictates of his conscience, and to defy the judgment of the multitude. By remaining he might baffle the painful impression left by the visits he would be forced to receive next day from his friends and acquaintances—a crowd anxious to offer condolences under any circumstances. Everybody knew what was going on, and it was quite certain that even his slightest acquaintance would come to see him here on the scene of his misfortune and of this exciting piece of scandal. At first he thought he would decline to receive any one; then he came to a contrary conclusion. No, he would boldly face the intolerable nuisance of curiosity and impertinence. Why not? The social swarm, living on the sweets of their own sins flavoured with the criticism of the sins of other people—he could only despise and not fear them. Besides all this, Don Pedro had begged him to remain and lend his assistance in carrying out a beneficent project which he was turning over in his mind, and which was sure to turn out well though it was neither a contract nor a loan.