“Go, Sardiola,” said a faint voice from the sofa, and Lucía, opening her eyes, fixed them with a look of mingled gratitude and authority on the waiter.
“But Señorita, to go away and——”
“Go, I say.” And Lucía sat erect, apparently quite calm. Miranda held the knife in his right hand. Sardiola, throwing himself upon him, snatched the weapon from his grasp, and taking a sudden resolution ran out into the corridor shouting, “Help! help! the Señorita has been taken ill.” At his cries, two persons who had just come up the stairs hurried forward into the chamber of death. They were Father Arrigoitia and Duhamel, the physician. A strange scene met their view; at the foot of the bed, on which lay the dead girl, a woman stood with outstretched hands trying to protect her sides and her bosom from the blows which a man was showering down upon her with his clenched fists. With a vigor not to be looked for in one of his frail physique, Father Arrigoitia rushed between the pair, receiving as he did so, if report speak truly, a blow or two on his venerable tonsured crown, and Duhamel, emulating, in the honor of science, the courage of the Jesuit, seized the furious man by the arm, and succeeded in preventing further violence. Pity it is that no stenographer could have been present at the time to take down the eloquent discourse, in broken French-Lusitanian-Brazilian, addressed by the doctor to Miranda for the purpose of demonstrating to him the cruelty and barbarity of striking in this way a menina, in Lucía’s condition. Miranda listened with a countenance that grew darker and darker every moment, while Father Arrigoitia lavished cares and affectionate attentions on the maltreated woman. Suddenly the husband confronted the doctor and asked something in a hoarse voice.
“Yes,” answered Duhamel, nodding his head affirmatively, with the quick and energetic movement of a pasteboard doll moved by a string.
Miranda looked around the room, he fixed his eyes in turn on his wife, on the Jesuit, on the doctor. Then he took a hand of each of the two latter, and begged them, with much stuttering, to grant him an interview of a few minutes. They went into the adjoining room and Lucía remained alone with the corpse. She might almost have fancied all that had passed a terrible nightmare. Through the open window could be seen the dark masses of the trees of the garden; the stars shone brightly, inviting to sweet meditation; the tapers burned beside Pilar, and in Artegui’s dwelling the light could be seen shining behind the curtains. To descend ten steps and find herself in the garden, to cross the garden and find herself clasped to a loving heart, for her soft as wax, but hard as steel for her enemies—horrible temptation! Lucía pressed her hands with all her force to her heart, she dug her nails into her breast. One of the blows which she had received caused her intense pain; it was on the shoulder blade, and it seemed as if a screw were twisting the muscles until they must snap asunder. If Artegui were to present himself now! To weep, to weep, with her head resting on his shoulder! At last she remembered a prayer which Father Urtazu had taught her, and said: “My God, by your cross grant me patience, patience.” She remained for a long time repeating between her moans—“patience.”
Father Arrigoitia at last made his appearance. His sallow forehead was contracted in a frown, and clouded with gloom. He and Lucía stood for a long time conversing together on the balcony without either of them feeling the cold, which was sharp. Lucía at last gave free rein to her grief.
“You may judge if I would speak falsely—with that corpse lying there before me. This very moment I might go away with him, father—and if God were not above in the heavens——”
“But he is, he is, and he is looking at us now,” said the Jesuit, gently stroking her cold hands. “Enough of madness. Do you not see how your punishment has already begun? You are innocent of what Don Aurelio charges you with and yet his atrocious suspicion is not without some appearance of foundation—you yourself have given it by going to that man’s house to-day. God has punished you in that which is dearest to you—in the little angel that has not yet come into the world.”
Lucía sobbed bitterly.
“Come, courage daughter; courage, my poor child,” continued the spiritual father, in accents that every moment grew more tender and consoling. “And in the name of God and of His Holy Mother, to Spain! To Spain, to-morrow!”