“What a dismal place!” she murmured. “And I—did I come here?”
Then she was silent, trying to collect her confused memories.
The morning after the event which might well be called a catastrophe, Leon had discussed with the Marquis de Fúcar and Moreno Rubio the best means of moving María back to Madrid. Don Pedro thought the scheme dangerous, and the physician had firmly opposed it, saying that, in the state in which she was, the journey, no matter how carefully managed, might result in a rapid and fatal collapse. Leon was excessively annoyed and disappointed; nay, would certainly have carried out his purpose, if the doctor had not threatened to withdraw, and give up all further responsibility. As it was impossible to remove her from Suertebella, though it was the last spot on earth where she ought, or could wish to be, he thought that the best plan would be to dismantle the room; and by the permission of his generous host he removed all the pictures, ornaments, porcelain and bric-a-brac. The room itself was very unpretending and was only hung with a common paper, so that it now looked bare enough.
“Yes, you came here,” replied her husband, stroking her hair. “You have been ill; but you are better now; it will be nothing serious.”
“Ah yes!” said María, struck with a sudden pang of remembrance. “It was my jealousy, your infidelity that brought me here.—But is this the house?”
“This is my bedroom.”
“Those walls—that high ceiling.—Why did you not take me home at once?”
“We will go when you have rested a little.”
“What has been the matter?”
“A little over-fatigue; it will lead to nothing serious.”