“To hear what we were talking about.”
“No, sir; wait; let me explain myself. You may be superior to me in discretion, Father Moreno, and on that occasion I acknowledge it; but as for pure intentions and high-minded purposes,—Father, in spite of all your vows and your belief, you do not surpass me in that regard; I give you my word of honor.”
“I admit that you are right, and it is a good deal to admit,” said the friar, calmly; “and I do so because I have liked you from the first moment I saw you; because I think I can read and understand your disposition, and I do not at all perceive in you fiendish malice, or a corrupt heart, or wicked purposes. Come, now, you must acknowledge that I am doing you ample justice. But in the case we speak of, I fancy that you are laboring under a foolish, romantic spirit, which leads you to go about righting the wrongs of the oppressed, as Don Quixote did; and that you suffer from a morbid curiosity which sometimes tempts us to meddle in affairs that do not concern us, and that the Lord has given us no commission to regulate.”
“But my uncle’s marriage——”
“May possibly affect you, inasmuch as it concerns your personal interests; but as for whether Carmen will be happy or unhappy, whether she is good or bad,—with that you have nothing whatever to do any more than I have with the affairs of the emperor of China, not a bit more, Señor Don Salustio; and still less to endeavor by means of an indiscretion to penetrate into the sanctuary of a spirit and the intricacies of a conscience.”
“Father,” I answered, proudly, for I was urged on by my anger at his reprimand, and by my singular and unpleasant predicament, “you may say what you please about my conduct, and I will pay due respect to your words, not on account of the garb you wear—which does not mean much in my estimation—but on account of the dignity with which you wear it. Let it be conceded that I was indiscreet, a meddler, a veritable Paul Pry, or whatever you like to call me; but that does not prevent me from being right in predicting evil of a marriage made under certain conditions and circumstances. Now that you are aware that I have cause to know all about it, and now that I acknowledge myself guilty of playing the spy, do not deny that what you did to-day in the chapel was to give your sanction to a fatal and horrible mistake.”
The friar kept looking at me, his frown growing all the while darker and more displeased. In other circumstances his manifest displeasure would have restrained me; but at that time no one could have silenced me. I caught him by the arm, and said, resolutely:
“Listen, Father,—marriages which have not been consummated are very easy to annul, according to canon law. You must know that better than I. Speak to me frankly; I appeal to your honor, Father. We may avert a terrible misfortune. Do you think I had better go to Señorita Aldao, and say to her, ‘Poor child, you do not understand what you have rushed into, but you still have time; your marriage is not valid; protest, and break it all off. Don’t let the wrong become complete. Free yourself from that fearful thing. In your innocency, you cannot imagine, unhappy girl, what it is to be my uncle’s wife. It is a horrible thing, I assure you. I hope I may never live to see it. First, let me become blind! Father Moreno is an honorable man, and his advice to you is the same as mine. Come, now, be brave, break the chain—I will help you, and the Father and all of us will help you. Courage!’”
“What I can swear to,” said the friar, “is that you are crazy, or are in the straight road to become so. Or else—see here!” He clapped his hand to his forehead, and added, “How many glasses of sherry have gone down you to-day?”
“Do you think that I am drunk?” I shouted, drawing myself up fiercely.