“You were the illusion. Yes, through you, nature, inexorable and persistent, once more entangled my soul in her snares. I was vanquished. It was not possible now to obtain the quietude of soul, the annihilation, the perfect and contemplative tranquillity to which I aspired; therefore I desired to end the life that each day grew more intolerable to me.”
He paused again, and, seeing that Lucía continued silent, added:
“It may be that you do not fully comprehend me. There are things which, although true, are difficult of comprehension to those who hear them for the first time. But you will understand me if I tell you plainly that I will not die because I love you and you love me; and now, come what may, I will live.”
He pronounced these words with an energy that had more of violence than of love in it, and throwing his arms around Lucía, he drew her to him with resistless force. She felt as if she were clasped in a fiery embrace, in which her strength was gradually melting away, and summoning all the power of her will, by a desperate effort she tore herself from Artegui’s arms and stood trembling, but erect, before him. Her tall form, her gesture of supreme indignation might have made her seem like a Greek statue, had it not been for the black merino gown, which served to destroy the illusion.
“Don Ignacio,” stammered the young Leonese, “you deceive yourself, you deceive yourself. I do not love you—that is to say, not in that way; no, never!”
“Swear it, if you dare!” he thundered.
“No, no; it is enough for me to say so,” replied Lucía, with growing firmness. “Not that.” And she took two steps toward the door.
“Listen to me for an instant,” he said, detaining her; “only for an instant. I have wealth, more than I can make use of. I have made arrangements to leave this place to-night. We are in a free country; we will go to a country still more free. In the United States no one asks any one where he comes from, whither he is going, who he is, or what is his business. We will go away together. A life spent together, do you hear? See, I know you desire it. Your heart urges you to consent. I know with absolute certainty that you are neither happy, nor well married; that your health is failing; that you suffer. Do not imagine that I do not know this. No one loves you but me, and I offer you——”
Lucía took two steps more, but this time toward Artegui, and with one of those rapid, childish, joyous gestures which women sometimes employ on the most solemn and serious occasions, she said to him:
“Do you believe that? Well then, Don Ignacio, God will send me by-and-by some one who will love me!”