“And I,” insisted Pilar, with the clairvoyance of an invalid, “can assure you that as far as she is concerned—as for him I have not seen him, if I were to see him I should know—but as for her, I heard her heave sigh after sigh—and they were not for Miranda. She is pensive at times, and then again she brightens and laughs and is like a child.”
“Bah, bah, bah! I don’t say that in her secret heart—but you know nothing about those matters, and I can assure you that as for there being anything between them, there was nothing of the kind. I ought to know.”
“And I too,” persisted Pilar. “Well, we are both right. There is nothing between them, but she is—what is it they say of pigeons?—struck on the wing.”
“Bah, bah!” said Perico again, manifesting in this way his contempt for everything like sentiment, illusion, or the like romantic nonsense. “That is of no consequence, that is of no consequence. Miranda will be lucky if nothing worse awaits him than that. It is a piece of stupidity, a piece of stupidity to dislocate one’s foot and be obliged to wait two days to have it set, to have it set, leaving one’s bride to travel about the world alone. It is charming, charming. What vexes him most is that it should be known, be known—I tease him——”
“No, see here, don’t make him angry. You know they have come to us as if they had dropped down from heaven.”
“Don’t worry, child; don’t worry. The truth of the matter is that Miranda cannot live, cannot live without me, because he is bored to death; and no one but me can drive away the spleen, the spleen, the spleen, talking to him of his conquests. And he looks like a piece of putty. He would need to drink half Vichy to cure him—To begin cutting capers at his age, at his age——”
It was not spleen that was the matter with Miranda, however; it was the affection of the liver, greatly aggravated by anger caused by the ridiculous adventure which had cut short the wedding trip. His temples had a greenish hue, the shadows under his eyes were purple, the bile had imparted a yellow tinge to the skin; and, as the proximity of a new house makes old houses look still older, so did Lucía’s youthful bloom emphasize the deterioration in her husband. The enchanting transition from girlhood to womanhood was now taking place in Lucía; her movements, slower and more composed, were more graceful than formerly, while in him maturity was fast passing into old age, rather because of physical decay than of years. The stronger the evidence he gave of failing health, the deeper the traces left upon his countenance by suffering, the more tender and affectionate did Lucía show herself toward him. A certain moroseness, a certain inexplicable harshness on the part of Miranda, did not discourage her in her task; she waited upon him with the solicitude of a daughter; she spoke to him affectionately; she herself prepared his medicines and bandaged the injured foot with the pious care she might have displayed in dressing the image of a saint; she was happy, touched even, if he but found the bandage properly adjusted. At last, Miranda was able to walk without risk. Dislocations are not generally attended by serious consequences, although at Miranda’s age they are apt to be somewhat obstinate. He was soon pronounced cured, and the whole party prepared to set out for Vichy.
The season was advancing; it was now almost the middle of September, and to wait longer would be to expose themselves to the persistent rains of that place. At Miranda’s request, the landlord wrote to the Springs to engage lodgings. With a verbosity peculiarly French he tried to convince Miranda and Perico that they ought to hire a châlet in order to save the ladies the annoying familiarity of the hotel table, and make them feel as if they were at home. Divided between the two families the expense would not be excessive, and the advantages would be many. This was agreed upon, and Miranda asked for his bill at the hotel, which was brought to him, written in almost illegible characters. When he had succeeded in deciphering them he sent for the landlady.
“There is an error here,” he said, putting his finger on the scrawl, “you have made a mistake against yourself. You have made out my wife’s bill for the same number of days as mine, while in reality it should be made out for two days more.”
“Two days more?” repeated the landlady reflectively.