“What is natural, Señora,” said the traveler, with his former tired gesture, “that I am going to continue my journey; that I am going to Paris.”
“And you are going to leave me in this way—alone! Alone here in France!” said Lucía, in the greatest distress.
“Señora, this is not a desert, nor need you fear that any harm will befall you. You have money. That is the one thing needful on French soil; that you will be well served and waited upon, I will guarantee.”
“But—good heavens! Alone! alone!” she repeated, without loosening her hold on Artegui’s sleeve.
“Within a few hours your husband will be here.”
“And if he does not come?”
“Why should he not come? What puts it into your head that he will not come?”
“I do not say that he will not come,” stammered Lucía. “I only say that if he should delay——”
“In fine,” murmured Artegui, “I, too, have my occupations—it is imperative that I should go.”
Lucía answered not a word to this, but, loosening her hold on his sleeve, she sank again into her chair and hid her face in her hands. Artegui approached her and saw that her bosom heaved with a quick, irregular motion, as if she were sobbing. Between her fingers drops flowed as copiously as if they had been squeezed out of a sponge.