Ignacio bent his head, vanquished by that cry of victorious nature. Lucía seemed to him the personification of the great Mother he had calumniated and cursed, that, smiling, fecund, provident and indulgent, symbolized life, indestructible and inexhaustible, saying to him: “Foolish skeptic! see how unavailing are your efforts against me. I am eternal.”
“No matter,” he murmured, resigned and humble. “For that very reason I will respect your sacred rights.”
He caught her by the folds of her gown, and gently made her sit down again.
“Now let us talk together,” he said quietly. “Tell me why you refuse. I cannot understand you,” he added, with renewed vehemence. “Was it not love, was it not love you showed me on the journey and in Bayonne? Is it not love that makes you come here to-day—alone—to see me? Oh, you cannot deny it. You may invent a thousand sophisms, you may weave a thousand subtleties, but—it is plain to be seen! Do you know that if you deny it, you say what is not true? I did not know that in your innocent nature there was room for falsehood.”
Lucía raised her head.
“No, Don Ignacio,” she said, “I will speak the truth—I think it is better that I should do so now, for you are right, I came here—yes, you must hear me. I have loved you madly ever since that day at Bayonne—no, ever since the moment I first saw you. Now you know it. I am not to blame; it was against my will, God knows. At first I thought it could not be possible, that all I felt for you was pity, and—well, gratitude, for all the services you had rendered me. I believed that a married woman could feel love for no one but her husband. If any one had told me it was that, I should certainly have denied it indignantly. But by dint of thinking—no, it was not I who made the discovery; I did not even suspect it. It was another person, one who knows more than I do about the mysteries of the heart. See, if I had known that you were happy, I should have been cured of my love—or if any one had shown me, in my turn, pity. Charity! Pity! I have it for every one and for me—no one, no one has it. So that—do you remember how light-hearted I was? You declared that my presence brought with it joy. Well—now I have fallen into the habit of indulging in thoughts as gloomy as your own—and of wishing for death. If it were not for the hope I have, nothing would make me happier than to lie down in Pilar’s place. I used to be strong and healthy—I never know now what it is to be well for a moment. This has come upon me like a thunderbolt. It is a punishment from God. The greatest bitterness of all is to think of you—that you must be unhappy in this world, lost in the next.”
Artegui listened with mingled joy and pity.
“So that, Lucía——” he said meaningly.
“So that you who are so good, for if you were not good I should not have cared for you in this way, will let me go now. Or if you do not, I shall go without your leave, even if I should have to jump out of the window.”
“Unhappy woman!” he murmured gloomily, relapsing into his former state of dejection, “you have stumbled across happiness—that is to say, not happiness, but at least its shadow, but a shadow so beautiful——”