The physician gave a most hopeful report of his patient.
“Do you hear what the doctor says?” asked the priest in an undertone. “A good report, my dear sir—we may feel sure that Doña María will be spared to us.”
This possessive plural, used and repeated without the slightest intention to wound, was the cruelest sarcasm that Leon ever endured in the whole course of his life. He had seen, and rejoiced to see, the miraculous effect of the priest’s words on the hapless María; but this familiarity with his wife, though strictly within the limits of the charmed circle of spiritual affection, disgusted him excessively. It was one of the fateful moments of his life; he stood face to face with the overweening authority, the absolute and omniscient dominion with which he had been fighting in the dark during the long years of his married life. It saddened him and struck shame to his soul. Aye! That moral divorce of which he had often spoken, and which he felt divided them, had never been complete and final till this instant. Till now he had still cherished esteem, respect; but even these slender threads were now worn very thin, if not actually broken, and soon, very soon, they must give way.
Controlling all expression of this feeling he went to his wife’s bedside and said:
“Señor Paoletti and I are going to get something to eat. Rafaela will sit with you till we return.”
“Oh, yes! go and eat some breakfast,” said María joyfully, and with a softer look in her eyes. “But do not be long, I want to see you, and to talk to you.—Do not forget that I must have you with me, that you are not to leave me for an instant. Now that we have the opportunity you will see what a scolding, what a sermon, we can give you—Padre Paoletti and I. I can see you already cowed and humiliated—poor man! Miserable atheist!—But make haste; I want to see you. Look; to-night we will have that sofa placed here, close to the bed, so that you may sleep by my side; then I shall sleep more quietly, and if I should dream any nonsense I can put out my hand and touch you, and then I shall rest in peace.”
“Very well; I will do all you wish,” said her husband, torn in his mind while his heart was full of bitterness.
“And listen,” said María holding his sleeve. “See that some one brings me to-day—at once—my rosary, and my crucifix, and all my books of devotion off the table in my room; all the books, every one, and the water from Lourdes, and my relics, my precious relics.”
“Rafaela shall go to Madrid this afternoon and bring you everything.”
“It is easy to see that this is an atheist’s room,” said the sick woman reverting to the impertinent phraseology which she had only forgotten under the pressure of acute jealousy. “There is not a single religious picture, not an image, nothing to betray that we are Christian souls. However, go to breakfast, go and eat. The good Padre has had no food to-day I daresay—poor man! Give him the best of everything—do you hear? The best. Confess your own inferiority and humble yourself before him. Talk to him of me, and learn to appreciate me better.”