“No, do tell me,” said María in the plaintive tone of a child who begs for something it ought not to have.
“Well, then, I have discovered,” said the Italian, lowering his voice as though he did not wish Leon to hear, “that your husband is not so wicked as he seems; that all you heard—all the thousand stories which I know Doña Pilar told your mother—are a complete mistake, a misapprehension—I am assured—do you hear me?—I am assured that there never has been any such infidelity....”
María’s eyes glittered with excitement and pride. These words, which, coming from him were as Gospel truth, fell on her tortured spirit like balm applied by angel’s hands. She felt as though she were being lifted from a black abyss into the light and fresh air of a lovely day. Afterwards she brought mature reflection to bear on these statements and to test them severely; but for the moment the priest’s words had an immediate effect on her penitential credulity. If Paoletti had told her it was midnight, she would sooner have doubted her own eyes than his statement. Without knowing what to say or how to express her satisfaction she gazed alternately at the priest and at her husband, clasping their hands.
“Yes, indeed,” added Paoletti. “There is no ground whatever for believing him to be unfaithful. My friend here....”
But at this moment again they heard the cock crow, and the priest broke off as though his voice failed him. He recovered himself, however, and to change the subject said:
“So now my sweet friend, you have only to get well as soon as possible. Oh! what a beautiful service you missed yesterday! When you get out again we will show you some prints that came to us yesterday—and we have a fresh supply of water from Lourdes.—But I was forgetting; we have been eating the chocolate you sent us. I must thank our kind benefactress in the name of all the household.”
“It is nothing—a trifle, God knows!”
“Doña Perfecta was quite vexed with us because we could not make use of her contribution. An angelic creature, Doña Perfecta! What a beautiful soul! And that poor Doña Juana. Last night she worried us to death, and even called us despots because we have forbidden the porter’s wife to make coffee for her and the other devout women who rise very early to go to communion and want to breakfast directly after. But really the porter’s lodge was a perfect restaurant on some Sundays.”
The doctor now came into the room.