CHAPTER XXIII.
THE VICTIMIZED HUSBAND.
As evening drew on Leon went into the room where his wife had died. There were a variety of objects left there which he wished to collect and remove. The house was deserted; he could hear the echo of his own steps, and the few lights cast deep shadows. He thought he perceived a figure coming in from the portico to the principal corridor, walking stealthily and softly like a thief, listening to every sound and keeping a sharp look-out. The first flash of suspicion followed by a noiseless explosion of hatred, as the shot follows the match, so startled Leon that his immediate impulse was to hide himself, and watch the intruder unseen. He shrunk behind a hanging and saw him creep by: It was He. Leon perceived it more from an instinctive loathing than by seeing him; just as, in a different sense, a spirit of divination is born of lofty and passionate love.
Cimarra passed him with a cat-like step, prying about cautiously as he went. He turned down a carpeted gallery where the walls were covered with a valuable collection of political caricatures from the comic papers and broadsheets of every country, displayed in a chronological series—the history of a century in mockery and laughter. In the corners were four old-fashioned screens covered with water-colours for which there had been no room on the walls. Leon slipped behind the nearest and watched the intruder, who sat down on a large divan in the middle. To account for what followed it is necessary to explain that, on arriving at Suertebella, the new-comer had held a colloquy with one of the under-servants on whom he could depend.
“Be so good,” he said, “as to go to the chapel and say to Padre Paoletti that I have come here to speak with he knows whom; and that I will wait for him in the gallery of caricatures. Show him the way up the stairs to the tribune, across the old picture-room, and down the little passage.”
Soon Leon heard the familiar leaden shuffle. The door of the little passage opened and the priest came in. Leon could see him perfectly, because the gallery had glass doors to the entrance hall which was always brilliantly lighted up at night.
Cimarra hastened forward to meet the confessor; they sat down side by side.
“Your respected uncles,” the priest began, “sent me word last evening that you wished to speak with me; but I did not suppose that it would be to-night, or in this house, but later, and in the confessional.”
“I have things to discuss with you later and in the confessional,” replied the other. “But you understand that here, and to-night, I have something else to talk about. That is to say, dear Señor Paoletti, that there are two subjects to be discussed—one of considerable interest, and the other very urgent.”
“Then begin with what is urgent, and leave what is merely interesting till a future opportunity.”
“To begin with what is urgent—I take it for granted that you know all the secrets of this house; I do not of course mean the secrets of the confessional.”