And bottles continued to arrive, and the already formidable array of glasses standing beside each of the guests to increase. There were wide flat glasses, like the crater of the ancients, for the foaming champagne; narrow, green glasses, with handles, for the Rhine wine; shallow glasses, like thimbles, with a short stem for the southern Malaga. Lucía had taken only a few sips of each of the wines, but she had tasted them all, one after another, through childish curiosity; and now, with her head a little heavy, blissfully forgetful of the events of the morning’s excursion, she sat leaning back in her chair, her bosom heaving, her white teeth gleaming between her moist rosy lips when she smiled—the smile of a bacchante who is still innocent and who for the first time has tasted the juice of the grape. The atmosphere of the closed room was stifling—pervaded with the savory odors of the succulent dishes, the mild warmth of the fire, and the faint resinous aroma of the burning logs. A charming subject it would have formed for a modern anacreontic ode—the woman holding up her glass, the wine falling in a clear and sparkling stream, the thoughtful looking man gazing alternately at the disordered table and the smiling nymph with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes. Artegui felt so completely master of himself that, melancholy and disdainful, he looked at Lucía as the traveler looks at the wayside flower from which he voluntarily turns aside his steps. Neither wines nor liqueurs, nor the soft warmth of the fire were of avail now to draw the pessimist from his apathetic calm; through his veins the blood flowed slowly, while through Lucía’s veins it coursed, rapid, generous, and youthful. But for both the moment was one to be remembered—one of supreme concord, of sweet forgetfulness; the past was blotted out; the present was like a peaceful eternity shut within four walls, in the pleasant drowsiness of the silent room. Lucía let both arms hang over the arms of her chair, her fingers loosened their clasp, and the glass they had held fell with a crystalline sound on the brass fender, breaking into countless fragments. The young girl laughed at the accident, and with half-closed eyes fixed upon the ceiling, yielded unresistively to the feeling of lethargy that was stealing over her,—a suspension, as it were, of all the faculties of being. Artegui, meanwhile, calm and silent, sat upright in his chair, haughty as an ancient stoic; his soul was pervaded by a bitter pleasure,—the pleasure of feeling himself to be truly dead and of knowing that treacherous nature had tried her arts in vain to resuscitate him.
And thus they might have remained for an indefinite period had not the door suddenly opened to admit, not the waiter, still less the expected Miranda, but a young man of some twenty-four or twenty-five years of age, of medium height, and of abrupt and familiar manners. He had his hat on, and the first objects to attract the eye in his person were the gleaming pin of his necktie and his low-cut light yellow shoes, of a somewhat daring fashion, like those of a manolo. The entrance of this new personage effected a transformation in the scene; while Artegui rose to his feet, furious, Lucía, restored to full consciousness, passed her hand over her forehead and sat upright in her chair, assuming an attitude of reserve, but unable to steady her gaze, which still wandered.
“Hello, Artegui, you here? I saw your name just now in the register, and I hurried up,” said the newcomer, with perfect self-possession. Then suddenly, as if he had but just seen Lucía, he took off his hat and bowed to her easily, without adding another word.
“Señor Gonzalvo,” responded Artegui, veiling his anger under an appearance of icy reserve, “we must have become very intimate since last we saw each other. In Madrid——”
“You are always so English—so English,” said the young man, showing neither confusion nor embarrassment. “You see I am frank, very frank; in Madrid we each had our business or our pleasures to attend to, but in a foreign land it is pleasant to meet a compatriot. In fine, I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon. I see that I have disturbed you. I regret it for the lady’s sake——”
Here he bowed again, while his eyes, from between their half-closed lids, cynically devoured Lucía’s countenance lighted by the glow of the dying brands.
“No, stay!” cried Artegui, rising, and seizing the intruder hastily by the arm, seeing that he had turned to leave the room. “Since you have entered this apartment so unceremoniously, I wish you to understand that you do not discover me in any discreditable adventure, nor is that the reason of my displeasure at your intrusion.”
“Don’t say another word. I am not asking any questions,” said the young man, shrugging his shoulders.
“Don’t imagine that I care a jot about what you think of me, but this lady is—an honorable woman; owing to circumstances, which it is unnecessary to explain, she is traveling under my protection until she is joined by her husband,” and observing the half-suppressed smile on his interlocutor’s face, he added:
“I advise you to believe what I say, for my reputation for truthfulness is perhaps the only thing on which I set any value.”