Leon, recovering his self-command, spoke again.
“I should have thought you incapable of becoming the mouthpiece of such an infamous slander. Of what use is piety if it leaves you in ignorance of the first elements of charity? You never can have had any feelings!”
“Oh yes, I had once,” said María exhausted by her own rage. “But I can thank God that I have not transmitted them to any child of yours. He has blessed me in making me childless, as He has blessed other women in giving them children. He could not grant a family to an atheist!”
“Your blasphemy appals me,” said Leon, who could endure no more. “Can a sacrament be more utterly annulled, or a bond more effectually cut? Between you and me, María, there is a great gulf—bottomless and infinite; a space of endless desert in which, try as I may, I cannot see a single idea or feeling that we can have in common. Let us part forever; do not try to bring together two distinct worlds which cannot approach each other without tempest and lightnings. If there ever were two irreconcilable beings, we are they. For I too am a fanatic; you have taught me to be, like you, a bigot—an ardent, even a relentless bigot. We will part, each to his own shore, and let the waste that lies between us be as the ocean of oblivion. Nay, to soothe our consciences, I will say the ocean of forgiveness. Each may forgive; both may forget ... good-bye.”
While he was speaking María’s feelings of anger and revenge had given way to other and very different sentiments, calmer and more contemplative, which by degrees took absolute possession of her agitated mind. She looked at her husband and found him—why should she deny it?—worthier than ever to be the friend and companion of a loving wife. His face had a charm of its own, with the dark beard that gave it an indefinable expression of romantic melancholy, with the eager eyes and broad brow, on which a reflected gleam of sunshine at that moment fell, like a beam of glory on that wise and intelligent head. This mute contemplation of his manly good looks appealed directly to her heart and made it beat with excitement. Her first and only love revived; she remembered the happiness of the early days of their marriage and against the background of these memories the fact stood out that the man was interesting, attractive, and—why not confess it?—very good-looking; she could not take her eyes off his face. ‘But not for her—for another woman!’ This was the spark that fired the whole edifice, that scathed and rent her soul, so that all her piety leaked out, so to speak. This was the diabolical idea that turned her ice to fire, her scorn to a tenderer passion and all that was harsh in her nature to gentleness—that lent grace and elegance even to her absurd dress. She was desperately in love, in short, from jealousy rather than from sympathy. It was a fearful blow to her to hear herself calmly dismissed—with a friendly pardon, it is true—but still definitely dismissed. She could have borne to accept her dismissal and part from him for ever; she might even forget him, and forgive him for having ceased to love her ... but that he should love another....
“No, never, never!” she exclaimed, as the result of her reflections; and her eyes sparkled through tears. But she would not confess the weakness, and hastily drying her eyes she went on:
“One night you asked me....”
“Yes, I asked you....”