“Nor does that seem to me blamable. It may be allowed, considering that you think very little of her affection.”
“While María is ill she must not be allowed to fancy that I care for any other woman.”
“Stay, stay,” said Paoletti, putting up his white hand as if to screen himself. “This is going too far. I have slipped some rather thick threads through the eye of the needle but the camel, my dear Sir, the camel is too much for me. That is a gross imposition.”
“It is common charity.”
“Truth forbids it.”
“Her health requires it.”
“A mere physical necessity to which we must not attach too much importance. My saintly daughter will die as a Christian should, contemning the baser and more worldly passions.”
“It is always our first duty to guard against death.”
“Always, if we can do so without baseness. Am I to allow that angelic martyr to believe in her husband’s innocence when she is actually under the same roof as her rival? I will grant you that there may be nothing existing to insult or injure her while she, the unhappy wife, is breathing her last. Still, the frightful fact remains.—I will tell her nothing unless she asks, but if she questions me—and she will, she will!”
“You are right!” exclaimed Leon struck by this solemn appeal. “It is a farce, equally unworthy of her and of me. The truth terrifies me—the lie disgusts me; but the truth is certain death, and the lie possible recovery.—Do not come to Suertebella. I will find a priest—anybody—the vicar of the parish, or the house chaplain.”