“He came this morning; he is going away to-night.”
Then, her nerves irritated by this iteration, the sounds blended confusedly together and she heard clearly only the last word of the refrain—“night, night, night,” which seemed to sink and swell like those luminous points that we see in the darkness during sleepless hours, which approach and recede, without apparent change of place, by the mere vibration of their atoms. She pressed her temples between her hands as if she sought to arrest the movement of the persistent pendulum, and rising, walked slowly, step by step, toward the vestibule of Artegui’s house. As she put her foot on the first step of the stairs, there was a buzzing in her ears like the humming of a hundred gadflies, that seemed to say:
“Do not go; do not go.”
And another voice, low and mysterious, like the voice of the wind among the dry boughs of the plane tree, murmured in a prolonged whisper:
“Go, go, go!”
She mounted the steps. When she reached the second step she stumbled forward, tripping on the hem of her merino dressing-gown, which she now noticed, for the first time, not only bore the traces of her attendance in the sick room, but was both ugly and of an unfashionable cut. She noticed, too, that her cuffs were limp and wet with the tears she had lately shed, and on her skirt were bits of thread, evidences of her sewing. She passed both hands over her dress, mechanically brushing off the threads, and smoothed out her cuffs as she went toward the door. Here she hesitated again, but the semi-obscurity that now reigned gave her courage. She pushed open the door and found herself in a large and gloomy apartment—the dining-room, whose dark, leather-covered walls, high presses of carved oak, and chairs of the same wood, gave it an air of still greater gloom.
“This is the dining-room,” said Lucía aloud, and she looked around in search of the door. It was situated at the far end, fronting the door which led from the garden. Lucía walked toward it, raised the heavy portière, turned the knob with her trembling hand, and emerged into a corridor which was almost dark. She stood there breathless and uncertain which way to turn, regretting now that she had so persistently refused to visit the house before. Suddenly she heard a sound, the rattling of plate and china. Engracia was doubtless washing the dishes in the kitchen. She turned and walked along, the corridor in the opposite direction. The thick carpet deadened the sound of her footsteps. She groped her way along the wall in search of a door. At last she felt a door yield to her touch, and, still groping, she entered a small room, stumbling, as she went, over various objects; among others, the metal bars of a bedstead. From this room she passed into another and much larger apartment, faintly illuminated by the expiring daylight, that entered through a high window. Lucía immediately came to the conclusion that this must be Artegui’s room. There were in it shelves laden with books, costly skins scattered around carelessly on the carpet, a divan, a panoply of handsome weapons, some anatomical figures, a massive writing-table littered with papers, several bronze and terra-cotta figures, and above the divan hung the portrait of a woman whose features she was unable to distinguish. Half-fainting, Lucía dropped on the sofa, clasping both hands over her breast that heaved with the wild throbbing of her heart, and said aloud:
“His room!”
She remained thus for a time, without a thought, without a wish, abandoning herself to the happiness of being here, in this spot, where Artegui had been. Night was rapidly approaching, and she would soon have found herself in utter darkness if some one had not just then lighted a lamp outside, whose light entered through the window. At sight of the light Lucía started.
“It must be night,” she exclaimed, this time also aloud.