“Lift up your face,” said Artegui in an authoritative voice.
Lucía raised her flushed, moist countenance and, in spite of herself, smiled as she did so.
“You are a young girl,” he said, “a young girl who is not bound to know what the world is. I, who have seen more of it than I could wish, would be unpardonable if I did not undeceive you. The world is a collection of eyes, ears, and mouths that close themselves to all that is good and open themselves eagerly to all that is evil. My company at present is more to your injury than your advantage. If your husband has not exceptionally good judgment—and there is no reason to suppose that he has—it will give him but little satisfaction to find you so protected.”
“Good heavens! and why? What would have become of me if I had not met you so opportunely? That dreadful official might have put me in prison. I don’t know what Señor de Miranda will say but, as for poor papa, he would kiss the ground you walk upon, I am sure of it.”
And Lucía, with a gesture of passionate and plebeian gratitude, made a movement as if to kneel before Artegui.
“A husband is not a father,” he answered. “The only reasonable, the only sensible course, Señora, is for me to go. I telegraphed from Ebro to Miranda, so that if your husband should be there, he may be told you are waiting here for him in Bayonne.”
“Go, then.”
And Lucía turned her back on Artegui, and leaning her elbows on the window-sill, looked out of the window.
Artegui remained for a moment standing in the middle of the room, looking at the young girl, who doubtless was swallowing her tears silently, undecided what to do. At last he approached her, and almost in a whisper:
“After all,” he murmured, “there is no need to be so greatly troubled. Dry your tears, for if you live long enough you will have time and cause in plenty for them to flow.”