“If you don’t keep quiet, I’ll smash you to atoms,” I answered, fiercely.
“Well, at least tell me what you see.”
“I can’t see anything, you owl,” I replied. “Nothing at all, nothing!”
“Haven’t the actors arrived yet? Hasn’t the curtain risen? Isn’t the orchestra playing yet?” he inquired.
“I told you to keep still!” I shouted, angrily.
From that moment the persistent fellow kept quiet, although afterward I discovered that his silence was neither due to his discretion nor goodness.
I still kept on watching, without paying further attention to him. The bridal chamber remained deserted, suggestive, alluring.
I could see the smallest details with exasperating clearness. There were several hair-pins on a small glass tray, and pins stuck into a cushion; the pillow cases had a shield embroidered in the center, and a branch of southern wood was placed in the small font of holy water. I counted the moths which flew in through the window, singeing themselves in the lights; I counted the crystal prisms on the candlesticks.
I thought that my heart would burst when I heard voices in the doorway, a confused murmur of farewells; the latch was raised, and a person entered with a light and somewhat timid step, and alone. It was Carmen.
Oh, Heavens! I prayed for strength not to scream, not to faint. In her white bridal robe, somewhat crumpled by having been worn all day, she was bewitching. The first thing she did was to go up to the window, as though she felt the need of fresh air. She remained there a few moments, and I could perceive the beautiful curve of her neck, and fancied I could read her thoughts. Then she came away from the window and looked at herself an instant in the glass, as it seemed to me with more curiosity than vanity. Her object in consulting the mirror seemed to be: “Let me see how I look since the great event which took place this morning.”