Lowering still more his sonorous voice, he added:
“I will remain.”
Lucía turned round as if she had been moved by a spring, and, clapping her hands, cried with childish delight:
“Thank you! Thank you, Señor de Artegui. Oh, but will you stay in earnest? I am beside myself with joy. What happiness! But,” she added suddenly, as if the thought had only just occurred to her, “can you remain? Will it be a sacrifice, will it be a trouble to you?”
“No,” answered Artegui, with a gloomy countenance.
“That lady, that Doña Armanda, who is expecting you in Paris—may not she, too, need you?”
“She is my mother,” answered Artegui, and Lucía was satisfied with the response, although it failed to answer her question.
Artegui, meanwhile, pushed a chair toward the table, and seating himself in it leaned his elbow on the cover and burying his face in his hands, gave himself up to his thoughts. Lucía, from the embrasure of the window, was observing his movements. When ten minutes had passed, and Artegui had neither moved nor spoken, she approached him softly, and, in a timid and supplicating voice, stammered:
“Señor de Artegui——”
He looked up. His face wore its former gloomy expression.