CHAPTER XXII.
VISITS OF CONDOLENCE.
Leon was awake and fighting his mental battle till daybreak; then he felt very weary, and locking himself into his room, he slept for some hours with that deep sleep which is apt to visit the condemned wretch on the last morning, a sort of intoxication produced by violent and long-continued sorrow.
It was about ten o’clock when he called his servant to help him dress, gaining much interesting information meanwhile. The señora’s body had been carried into the chapel by the kind permission of Don Pedro, and Padre Paoletti had watched by it all night, and would remain there all day and the night to come, praying incessantly. Padre Paoletti, with the parish priests of Polvoranca and the neighbouring village, had performed Mass early that morning at the altar of St. Luis Gonzaga.
Then Paoletti made his appearance to discuss various pious legacies left by the deceased. To all this Leon gave his most anxious attention, and he gave further orders to the priest so that whatever remained to be done might be carried out with all magnificence. The marquis himself came in, and they sat talking for a long time, without excitement or hard words, gloomy and calm like a couple of diplomatic envoys from conquered nations who in the midst of disaster are anxious to checkmate a victorious usurper.
“It all rests with you,” said Don Pedro again and again, with a melancholy expression. “You are master of the situation.”
But even after these words the conversation continued for some little time longer, growing more and more grave and gloomy, till the last sentences sounded almost like a funeral chant. The conference, like some on which the fate of nations has turned, ended in a breakfast. But on this occasion it was eaten in silence and hardly touched, a thing which never happens in politics.
In the afternoon visitors began to arrive. Leon saw a melancholy procession of black coats and heard a succession of sighs which announced the comers like vocal visiting cards. Some with warm and genuine sympathy, and others with total indifference, expressed their sorrow at the event of the previous day; but without mentioning what, thus offering an opportunity for a satirical explanation. Some shook their heads, expressing: “What a world we live in!” Others squeezed his hand as much as to say: “You have lost your wife! When shall I have such a piece of luck!” Two hundred black-gloved hands pressed his in turn. To him, feeling giddy and stunned and paying no attention to their monotonous formulas, all they could say sounded like a hiss and hum of irony. If the Incroyables themselves had taken up their parable, speaking through the mass of neckcloth that almost covered their mouths, it could not have produced a more discordant mockery of woe. Some, of course, had come out of sincere regard; some to witness this extraordinary scene, this scandal above scandals; to look close at the widower who, after killing his wife with neglect, flaunted his connection with a married woman under the very roof where the innocent victim had died only a few hours since. This idea lurked perhaps in only a few minds, but it did in some. After paying their respects to the mourner, several went into the chapel to gaze at the dead—beautiful even in death.
At last the dismal crowd grew thinner—only three were left—two—one. He was one of Leon’s most intimate friends and he stayed some time. Then Leon was alone.
“Can I speak to you?” he heard a voice say at the door and he started on seeing Gustavo.
“If you will speak briefly and plainly,” he replied.