“God consents, it is God’s will—” she said to herself, eagerly seizing on the idea.
Then she looked at herself once more—in front, in profile—yes, she looked well. How slender and well-formed she was, how gracefully her head was poised on her shoulders! The misty veil slightly shaded her pale face, as it might be the shadow of a bird flying by and pausing to admire so sweet a picture. There was a sort of symbolical passion in the depths of the black velvet with lights of straw-coloured silk; in that sombre nimbus with sulphurous gleams framing her delicate complexion there was a perfect harmony; and in those melancholy sea-blue eyes, that looked as if a threat lurked under their sadness, a revenge under their pain, under their tenderness a dagger.
“Gloves!” she exclaimed, “where are they? How provoking if Pilar should have forgotten to leave them.”
She found them however, and put them on.
“I have no trinkets, but that is of no consequence—I have my virtue,” she added to herself, “that is the only thing that really matters.”
After another glance in the mirror she went on: “Yes, I am handsome—if only I can say just what I feel.... If I can find the right words....”
She pulled the bell, startling all the household. The servants were some time getting up, but at last they appeared. Her maid, who came sleepy and stupid into her room, was astounded at seeing her mistress ready dressed—and so beautifully dressed! María desired her to send Señor Pomares to her at once. The worthy man, who had been recalled after Leon’s departure, presently made his appearance, with a puffy, stupid face and tottering with the bewildered air of a man who has been roused from his deepest and sweetest slumbers. But María did not look at him.
“Order the carriage to be got ready at once,” she said. The steward looked blank with astonishment.
“But—you forget,” he said, “you forget...?”
“What?”