“I?”
“That you did not love me?”
“What could it be, but a dream?”
María threw her arms round her husband’s neck and gently drew his face down to her own.
“Say it again that I may get rid of the miserable impression of that horrible dream.” They exchanged a few words in a low voice.
“Then give me a proof of your affection,” said María. “As we are a long way from Madrid, and as I cannot go out for some days, send a message for me to Padre Paoletti. I want to talk to him.”
“I will fetch him myself.”
“You yourself?”
“Why not? I don’t mind taking any trouble to gratify you.”
In the course of the day the doctor came. Leon had thought it prudent to confide to him some of his secrets, for, as María’s attack had been brought on by mental excitement, it was necessary that the physician should be aware of the delicate details. Moreno Rubio and Leon Roch were close friends; their intimacy was founded on sympathies of character, and on common grounds of scientific views and interests. That morning, when Leon had disclosed to his friend such facts as were indispensable to a sure diagnosis, they had a conversation of which some important fragments may be recorded.