CHAPTER XI.
THE PRIEST LIES AND THE COCK CROWS.
When María saw Padre Paoletti enter her room she gave a cry of joy. She looked at him with affection and then turned her eyes on Leon, expressing her gratitude for this concession—which in truth was little short of sublime—by holding out a hand to each. This simple and natural action, without a spoken word, was the epitome of her whole life, and might be regarded as the synthesis of my story so far as she was concerned. They asked her in the same breath how she was feeling, and the same answer did for both.
“I think I must be better—I feel brighter.”
Leon patted her shoulder saying: “Then I will leave you.”
“No, no,” exclaimed Padre Paoletti with eager haste, seating himself at her left hand. “Doña María and I are not going to discuss matters of conscience. The doctor has satisfied us that her condition is not so serious as to require any immediate care for the concerns of her soul, nor is she strong enough for any long dissertation on spiritual things which, though most soothing and precious exhaust the attention. We will all three talk together for a little while; yes, Señor, all three of us—and presently, when her mind is calmer and clearer—all in good time—my precious spiritual daughter can be left alone with me for a few minutes.”
He ended with a smile which was reflected in María’s face as the sea reflects the colour of the sky.
Paoletti, as will have been seen, was smooth-tongued and affable; he could be both sensible and agreeable; his appearance was modest and attractive, for besides a pleasant face he had the added charm of the clearest, sweetest and most pathetic voice that ever was heard. His speech was at once soft and firm, with a mysterious combination of two qualities that would seem to be antagonistic: precision and dreaminess. An after-taste of his native Italian, though partly effaced by the habit of speaking Spanish, gave it a slightly plaintive cadence which contrasted strangely with its vigorous inflections and strongly accented consonants. Well aware of his own skill in using the precious instrument that nature had given him, he took every advantage of it, polishing his language and suiting his words to his ideas and his voice to his words with the greatest nicety. His love of sonorous superlatives made his language tiresome.
While he talked he gave free play to the brilliancy and mobility of his striking eyes; their various changes, I might say phases, of expression seconded the eloquence of his tongue. His glance seemed to prolong the impression of his words: indeed it went further than speech, where speech could not reach. It was to his voice what music is to poetry. Of course there was much art in the wonderful charm of these gifts; still, the chief source of it was a natural grace, and a long habit of searching consciences, of reading faces, of surprising secrets by a piercing glance or by a clenching argument.
“From what our learned friend tells us,” he said, “our beloved patient will soon be quite herself again. It has been a nervous seizure which will pass away, and her state will soon become normal. We are all liable to the treacherous effects of sudden impressions which raise a storm in the nervous system beyond the power of reason to control. The Devil—always on the watch, the flesh—rarely mortified as it should be, rise up and assault us, taking us by surprise. On one hand we have an illusion of the senses which not merely magnify, but distort every object, on the other a fevered imagination which wanders whither it ought not, and sees everything in hues of fire and blood. The judgment succumbs to a hallucination—a mere hallucination, my dear daughter. Then comes the reaction, generally after a severe attack of physical suffering, and we see things in their true light; we see that our motives were inadequate, that we made too much of some gossip—or perhaps calumny, that we have seen visions and dreamed dreams—yes, mere dreams.—Well, we will talk all this over later. For the present try to rest, and bring your mind to a state of exalted contemplation and peace.—You seem very comfortably lodged here. I admire your husband’s taste in retiring to such quiet quarters. I like Carabanchel immensely. Doña María, when you are able to get up again and your husband takes you out—for of course you will take her out—you will see what splendid wheat grows in the fields about here.—It is a paradise for poultry too; you cannot walk a yard without treading on the chickens.—Well, this is sermon enough for to-day, Señora. We began with the soul and ended with poultry. Well well!”
At this moment they heard a cock crow.