We had not thought of time. A few months earlier and the sun would long have been up. Want of space prevents our giving more than a mere outline of Delormais' life. He filled in an infinite number of details impossible to be recorded here. They would swell to a volume, but a volume of singular interest. He spoke rapidly and with few pauses. Our watches marked the hour of five. It was that period of the night when darkness is greatest before dawn. The watchman's voice cried the hour and the starry night for the last time.
"For your own sake I must break up the assembly," laughed Delormais. "Two hours' sleep will refresh us both. Presently we shall meet again. See! our candles wax dim and blue—or is it fancy? This is a ghostly house, you know. My great-grandmother was Spanish, and for all I can tell some of its ancestors and mine may have met here in times long past and played out their comedies and tragedies together. As we are playing ours."
We parted. Sleep came to us, but scarcely unconsciousness. In our dreams we lived over again all the scenes Delormais had so graphically described, but more highly-coloured, full of impossible adventures. We wandered through endless groves of paradise peopled with myriads of Arouyas. Our only difficulty was to choose the fairest. Life was one long poem; time had passed into eternity. From such celestial regions we were awakened at eight o'clock by the entrance of our host with morning coffee and steaming rolls, accompanied by José bearing hot water. The latter had constituted himself our criado or valet de chambre.
"Señor," he said, "it is a cloudless morning. Our astronomer has proved a false prophet. My heart bleeds for him. I fear his glory has departed. Heaven send he does not commit suicide. Is it you, señor, who have influenced the stars against him?"
"Monsieur," said our host, putting down the tray, "your friend the poet rose with the lark—figuratively speaking, for who knows what time the lark rises in November? Taking his coffee, he went out with his umbrella shouldered à la militaire. For a poet, monsieur, your friend can put on a very defiant air, as if, like Don Quixote, he had a mind to fight with windmills. He told me he was inflated with inspiration. He was going to contemplate the Pyrenees from the Citadel, and to write a sonnet to the eyebrows of a young lady he saw last night at the opera. I confess I should have thought the eyes a finer theme. Joseph tells me it was the Señorita Costello. She is considered the great beauty of Gerona; and even in Madrid, I am told, created a profound sensation. No wonder the susceptible monsieur's heart beat fast when he beheld her. Now, señor, we leave you to enjoy your coffee and perform your toilet. His reverence, Père Delormais, sends you his greeting and hopes you have slept. I have just taken his coffee also. Contrary to his usual custom, though wide awake he was still reposing. Ah! what a great character we have there!"
Upon which the attentive deputation retired and we were left in peace.
It was indeed glorious to see the blue unclouded sky, to find the cold winds departed, summer reigning once more. How changed the aspect of Gerona. How all the wonderful colouring came out, the effects of light and shadow, under the sunshine. H. C. arrived just as we left the hotel, and together we went to the bridge where we had stood not many hours ago under the stars.
It almost seemed as though we had gone through years of experience since then. This morning everything was bright and animated. The river now flashed and sparkled and reflected brilliant, broken outlines. The old houses looked older than ever in this youthful atmosphere, but seemed warmed into life. They now appeared quite habitable, almost cheerful. The towers standing above and beyond them were pencilled against the blue sky. The very air seemed full of sun-flashes. In the boulevard the trees in the sunshine made wonderful play of light and shade upon the white houses. The arcades lost their gloom. Every one seemed to rejoice and expand. No people are so responsive to atmosphere as the Spanish. Warmth and sunshine are more necessary to them than food and sleep. They are hot-house plants.
Towards ten o'clock we made our way up the street of steps to the barracks. The scene was much the same as yesterday; conscription was not yet over. We were evidently expected, and a sentry at once conducted us to the colonel's office.
"I knew you would come," he cried, with quite an English handshake. "Your interests are not of the butterfly nature, passing with the moment. And see; here is our disconsolate widow. Now you have come, we will talk to her."