“Because I have pity” she replied, in a choking voice, “for that very reason—farewell, Don Ignacio.”
“Good-by,” he answered, almost inaudibly. The door closed.
Lucía looked at the sky in which the stars were shining brightly, and shivered with cold. She knelt down in the vestibule and leaned her face against the door. At that moment she remembered a trivial circumstance—that the door was covered on the inner side with a brocade of a dark red color, harmonizing with the color of the leather on the walls. She did not know why she remembered this detail; but so it often happens in supreme moments like this, ideas come to the mind that possess no importance in themselves, and have no bearing on any of the momentous events which are taking place.
Miranda had gone out that afternoon,—to clear his brain, as he said. On his return to the hotel, he went up to the death-chamber and found Juanilla watching there by the dead girl, and worn out with fatigue and terror. She said complainingly that the Señorita Lucía had asked her to watch for a little while in the room, but that she had now been a long, long time here, and that she could bear it no longer. Not the faintest misgiving entered the suspicious mind of Miranda, then, and he answered with naturalness:
“The Señorita has probably gone to lie down for a while, she must be very tired,—but you can go. I will send Sardiola to take your place.”
He did so; and the dinner-bell of the hotel sounding immediately afterward, he went down into the dining-room, having that day an excellent appetite, a thing by no means of daily occurrence in the present debilitated condition of his stomach. The bell was yet to ring twice before the soup should be served, and knots of the guests were standing about the room, conversing while they waited; the greater number of them were talking about Pilar’s death, in low tones, through consideration for Miranda, whom they knew to be her friend. But one group, composed of Navarrese and Biscayans, were talking aloud, the subject of their conversation being of a nature that called for no such precaution. Nevertheless, so strongly was Miranda’s attention attracted by their words that he stood motionless, all his faculties concentrated in the one faculty of hearing, and scarcely daring to breathe. After listening for ten minutes he knew more than he desired to know: that Artegui was in Paris, that he lived in the neighboring house, and that his dwelling could be reached by crossing the garden, since one of the Biscayans mentioned that he had gone that way to visit him in the morning. The waiter, who was passing at the moment with a tray full of plates of steaming soup, signified to Miranda that he might now take his place at the table; but the latter, without heeding him, ran up-stairs like a madman and rushed into the chamber of death.
“Where is the Señorita Lucía?” he abruptly asked Sardiola, who was watching by the body.
“I do not know.” The Biscayan looked up and by a swift intuition he read in the distorted features of the husband a hundred things at once. Miranda rushed out like a rocket, and went through the rooms calling Lucía’s name. There was no answer. Then he went quickly out on the balcony and ran down into the garden.
A dark form at the same moment descended the stairs leading from the vestibule of Artegui’s home. By the light of the stars and of the distant street lamps could be perceived the unsteadiness of the gait, the frequent pressing of the hands over the face. Miranda waited, like the hunter lying in wait for his prey. The figure drew nearer. Suddenly from a clump of bushes emerged the form of a man, and the silence was broken by a vulgar exclamation, which in polite language might be rendered:
“Shameless woman!”