“Give me the check and the keys to have them examined.”
“The check and the keys? Miranda has them—not I.”
“In that case you will be left without luggage. You will have to remain here until your husband joins you.”
Lucía looked at Artegui with something like dismay, but the next moment she burst out laughing.
“Left without luggage!” she repeated.
And her silvery laughter burst forth afresh. She thought it a delightful incident to be left without her luggage; she seemed to herself like a child lost in the streets, who is taken in charge by some charitable person until her home can be found. It was a perfect adventure. Child as Lucía was, she might have taken it either as matter for laughter or matter for tears; she took it as matter for laughter, because she was happy, and until they reached Hendaya the burst of merriment that enlivened the carriage did not cease. At Hendaya the dinner served to prolong these moments of perfect cordiality. The elegant dining-room of the railway station at Hendaya, adorned with all that taste and attention to detail displayed by the French to serve, attract, and squeeze the customer, invited to intimacy, with its long and discreet curtains of subdued hues, its enormous chimney-piece of bronze and marble, its splendid sideboard surmounted by a pair of large round Japanese vases, ornamented with strange plants and birds, gleaming with Ruolz silver, and laden with mountains of opaque china. Artegui and Lucía selected a small table with two covers where, sitting opposite each other, they could converse together in low tones so that the firm, grave sounds of their Spanish speech might not attract attention amid the confused and gliding sounds of the chorus of French accents proceeding from the general conversation at the large table. Artegui played the rôle of butler and cupbearer, naming the dishes, pouring out the wines, carving the meat, anticipating Lucía’s childish caprices, shelling the almonds and peeling the apples for her, and dipping the ruddy grapes into the crystal bowl of water. A cloud seemed to have been lifted from his now animated countenance and his movements, although calm and composed, showed less weariness and listlessness than before.
When they re-entered the carriage, night was approaching, and the sun was sinking in the west with the swiftness peculiar to autumn. They closed the windows on one side of the compartment and the flickering light played on the ceiling of the carriage, appearing and disappearing like children playing hide and seek. The mountains grew black, the clouds in the distance turned flame color, then faded, one by one, like a rose of fire dropping its glowing petals. The conversation between Artegui and Lucía languished and then ceased entirely, both relapsing into a gloomy silence,—he showing his accustomed air of fatigue, she lost in a profound revery, dominated by the saddening influence of the hour. The twilight deepened, and from one of the carriages could be heard rising above the noise made in its slow progress by the train, a sorrowful and passionate chorus in a foreign tongue; a zortzico, intoned in deep, full voices by a party of young Biscayans on their way to Bayonne. Now and then a cascade of mocking laughter interrupted the song; then the chorus would rise again, tender and melancholy as a sigh, toward the heavens, black now as ink. Lucía listened, and the train, slowly making the descent, accompanied with its deep vibration the voices of the singers.
The arrival at Bayonne surprised Artegui and Lucía as if they had wakened from a prolonged sleep. Artegui quickly drew his hand away from the knob of the window on which it had been resting and the young girl looked around her with an air of surprise. She noticed that it had grown cool, and she buttoned her collar and put on her necktie. Men with woolen caps, girls wearing handkerchiefs fastened at the back of the head, a stream of passengers of diverse appearance and social condition pushed and elbowed one another and bustled about in the large station. Artegui gave his arm to his companion so that they might not lose each other in the crowd.
“Had your husband decided on any particular hotel at which to stop in Bayonne?” he asked.
“I think,” murmured Lucía, making an effort to remember, “that I heard him mention a hotel called San Estéban. I remembered it because I have a very pretty picture of that saint in my missal.”