Artegui gave her the desired slip of pasteboard, and the landlady was as profuse in her courtesies and thanks as if she were excusing herself for complying with the required formality.
“When the morning train arrives,” said Ignacio, “give orders to inquire for Monsieur Aurelio Miranda—don’t forget! Let him be told that Madame is in this hotel, that she is well, and that she is waiting for him to join her. Do you understand?”
“Parfait,” answered the Frenchwoman.
Lucía and Artegui bade each other good-night at the doors of their respective rooms. Lucía, as she was about to undress, saw the purchases she had made, lying on the table. She put on the fresh linen with delight, and lay down thinking she was going to sleep profoundly, as she had done the preceding night. But she did not enjoy the repose she had anticipated: her sleep was restless and broken. Perhaps the strangeness of the bed, its very softness, produced in Lucía the effect which unaccustomed luxuries produce in persons habituated to a monastic life, of whom it may be said with truth, paradoxical as it may appear, that comfort makes them uncomfortable.
CHAPTER VI.
When the chambermaid wakened Lucía in the morning, bringing her a bowl of coffee, the first piece of news she gave her was that Monsieur de Miranda had not arrived in the train from Spain. Lucía sprang out of bed and dressed herself quickly, trying to bring together her scattered recollections and glancing around her room with the surprise which those unused to traveling are apt to experience on awakening for the first time in a strange place. She looked at the clock upon the table; it was eight. She went out into the corridor and knocked softly at the door of Artegui’s room.
The latter, who was in his shirt-sleeves, finishing his toilet, when he heard the knock, quickly dried his hands and face, threw his overcoat over his shoulders, and opened the door.
“Don Ignacio—good-morning. Do I disturb you?”
“No, indeed, will you come in?”
“Are you dressed already?”