A thousand thoughts rushed through her mind. No doubt they were already inquiring about her in the hotel. Perhaps Father Arrigoitia had already returned, and they might even now be searching for her in the garden, in her room, everywhere. She herself did not know why it was that the thought of Father Arrigoitia came to her mind before that of Miranda—but certain it is that her chief fear was that she might suddenly come face to face with the amiable Jesuit who would say to her, “Where have you been, my child?” Troubled by these fancies, she rose tremblingly to her feet, saying in a low tone to herself:
“It is not right to leave the corpse alone—alone.”
And she tried to find the door, but suddenly she stood motionless, like an automaton whose works have run down. She heard steps in the corridor, approaching steps, firm and resolute; no, they were not those of Engracia. The door of the room opened, and a man entered. Lucía was now in the little room, concealed behind the curtain. This was not completely, drawn, and through the opening she saw the man light a match and then light a candle in one of the candlesticks; but the light was unnecessary, she had already recognized Artegui.
Yes, it was he, but he looked even more dejected, and his face bore stronger traces of suffering than when she had last seen him. His countenance was almost livid, his black beard heightening its pallor, and his eyes shone feverishly. He sat down at the table and began to write some letters. He was seated directly opposite Lucía, and she devoured him with her eyes. As he finished each letter she said to herself:
“I have seen him; I will go now.”
But she still remained. At last Artegui rose and did a curious thing; he went over to the portrait hanging above the divan and kissed it. Lucía, who had followed his every movement with intense interest, saw that the likeness was that of a woman who closely resembled Artegui, and softly murmured:
“His mother!”
The skeptic then opened a drawer in his writing-table, and drew from it an oblong shining object, which he examined with minute care. He was absorbed in his occupation, when suddenly he felt his arm grasped convulsively and saw beside him a woman with a countenance paler than his own, eyes fixed and burning like two coals of fire, lips parted to speak but mute, mute. He dropped the pistol on the floor and caught hold of her. Her form yielded to his touch like a flower broken on its stem, and he found himself with Lucía lying insensible in his arms.
Alarmed, he laid her on the divan, and going to his dressing-room brought from it a bottle of lavender water, which he poured over her brow and temples, at the same time tearing open her gown to allow her to breathe more freely. Not for an instant did it occur to him to call Engracia; on the contrary, he murmured in low tones:
“Lucía, do you hear me? Lucía—Lucía; it is I, only I—Lucía!”