“It is an absurd suspicion.”
“Nay—it is a miracle if I am mistaken. But I will know the truth, for I will see Leon.”
“You?”
“Yes I. I must know his guilt from himself. I believe him to be in error, but not in wilful sin; I will talk to him frankly and he will answer me in the same way. If he is such a wretch he will have to confess it ... meanwhile be sure you do not let a word of these reports reach María’s ears.”
“Oh! I shall tell her myself; poor child! It would be a pity that she should not know all the virtues of her loving husband! Fancy if a stranger were to tell her, exaggerating or misrepresenting the facts.”
“Say nothing about it to her.”
“Do not interfere in that matter. I shall, and this very night. You need not teach me my duties as an affectionate and anxious mother; I know perfectly well what I ought to do. María must be informed of everything. How do you know that we may not arrange a reconciliation?”
Gustavo was on the point of replying when their privacy was invaded by a certain poet who was said to be very attentive to the marquesa and one of her favourite followers—a common, clumsy-looking man, but older than he seemed. There was no trace in his features of that lofty refinement which might have entitled him to write, in a dozen different metres, of the perennial founts of gladness and the mystical union of souls, or to proclaim his indignation against those who denied or ignored the existence of God. It was hard to credit so despicable a person with magnanimity.
“It is admirable, unanswerable!” he exclaimed as he came in.