“If I should fall asleep,” she said to Miranda, “waken me when we come to anything worth seeing.”
“Depend upon me to do so,” answered Miranda. “I will be back directly.”
Lucía remained alone in the compartment, her eyes closed, all her faculties steeped in a pleasant drowsiness. Whether it were owing to the motion of the train, the sleeplessness of the previous night, or her invariable habit in Leon of retiring to rest at this hour—half-past ten—or all these things together, certain it is that sleep fell upon her like a leaden mantle. The tension of her nerves relaxed, and that indescribable sensation of rhythmic warmth, which announces that the circulation is becoming normal and that sleep is approaching, ran through her veins. Lucía crossed herself between two yawns, murmured a Paternoster and an Ave Maria, and then began to recite a prayer, in execrable verse, which she had learned from her prayer-book, beginning thus:
Of the little child,
Innocent and simple,
Lord, just and merciful,
Grant me the sleep.
All of which operations, if they were performed for the purpose of driving away sleep, had the effect, rather, of inducing it. Lucía exhaled a gentle sigh, her hand fell powerless by her side, and she sank into a sleep as peaceful and profound as if she were reposing on the most luxurious of couches.
Miranda, meanwhile, was engaged in the important task of making an inventory of the luggage, which was by no means scant, consisting of two large trunks, a hat-box, and a leather case designed to preserve smooth and unwrinkled the bosoms of his dress-shirts. He had no other resource than to wait patiently for the turn of the luggage marked “A. M.,” standing in front of the long counter covered with trunks, boxes, and valises of every description, to which the porters of the station, bending under their burden, the veins on their necks standing out like cords with the exertion, were constantly adding. When they reached the counter, they hastened to throw down their load with brutal recklessness, making the boards of the trunks creak and their iron bands squeak. At last Miranda’s luggage was dispatched, and his check in his pocket, he jumped from the platform to the track and went in search of his compartment. It was no easy matter to find it, and he opened several doors in turn before he reached his own. Sometimes a head would appear at the opening and a harsh voice say, “It is full.” In others of the compartments he caught sight, through the half-open door, of confused forms, people huddled up in corners, or lying stretched on the cushions. At last he found his own compartment.
The form of Lucía, extended on the improvised bed, completed the picture of peace and quietude presented by this moving bed-room. Miranda gazed at his bride for a while, without any of the sentimental or poetic thoughts which the situation might seem to suggest, occurring to his mind.
“She is undoubtedly a fine girl,” was the reflection of this man of mature years and experience. “And, above all, her skin has the down of the apricot while it still hangs upon the tree. It would almost seem as if that devil of a Colmenar knew things by intuition. Another would have given me the millions, but with some virgin and martyr of forty. But this is syrup spread on pie, as the saying is.”
While Miranda was thus commenting on his good fortune, he took off his hat and put his hand into the pocket of his overcoat to take from it his red and black checked traveling-cap. There are movements which when we execute them make us think instinctively of other movements. The arm of Miranda, as it descended, was conscious of a void, the want of something which had before disturbed him, and the owner of the arm becoming aware of this gave a sudden start and began to examine his person from head to foot. Hastily and with trembling hands he touched in turn his breast and waist without finding what he was in search of, and angrily and impatiently he gave utterance to stifled imprecations and round oaths; then he struck his forgetful brow as if to compel remembrance by the shock; memory, thus evoked, at last responded. At supper he had removed the satchel, which had disturbed him while he was eating, from his person and placed it on an empty chair at his side. It must be there still, but the cars would start in a few minutes. The smoke-stacks were already puffing and snorting like angry cats, and two or three shrill whistles announced the near departure of the train. Miranda was for a moment undecided what to do.
“Lucía,” he said aloud.