“With him?” asked Lucía, terrified.
“He is packing his trunks to leave Paris to-night. He is going to Madrid. He is leaving you. If you would throw yourself at his feet and humbly and repentantly——”
“Not that, Father,” cried the proud Castilian. “He would think I was what he has called me; no, no.” And more gently she added: “Father, I have done what is right to-day, but I am exhausted. Ask nothing more from me to-day. I have no strength left. Pity, Señor; pity!”
“Yes, I will ask you for the love of Jesus Christ to set out to-morrow for Spain. I shall not leave you until I put you on board the train. Go, my dear daughter, to your father. Can you not see that I am right in advising you as I do? What would your husband think of you if you were to remain here?—with only a wall between you. You are too good and prudent even to think of such a thing. In the name of your child! That its father may be convinced—for in time, witnessing your conduct, he will be convinced. Ah, let man not divide those whom God has joined together. He will return, he will return to his wife. Do not doubt it. To-day he has allowed himself to be carried away by his anger—but later——”
Sobs deeper and more piteous than before were Lucía’s only answer.
Father Arrigoitia pressed the hands of the weeping woman tenderly in his.
“Will you give me your promise?” he murmured, with earnest entreaty, but also with the authority of one accustomed to exact spiritual obedience.
“Yes,” answered Lucía, “I will go to-morrow; but let me give way to my misery now—I can bear it no longer.”
“Yes, weep,” answered the Jesuit. “Relieve your sorrow-laden heart. Meanwhile, I will pray.”
And returning to the bedroom he knelt down beside the bed of death, and taking out his breviary began in grave and composed accents to read by the flickering light of the tapers the solemn service for the dead.