“Periquillo! You are a jewel! See, I am wild with joy, and if you would only—ah! say yes.”
“If I would only—Do you want me to buy you something else? No, child, enough for to-day.”
“No, nothing of the sort—but to-night—I should like to go to the concert to show the mirror; neither Luisa Natal nor either of the Amézegas has one like it, or even knows that such a thing is to be had in Vichy. They will open their eyes with astonishment. Come, Periquin, you will take me, won’t you. For once, come, say yes.”
Lucía begged Pilar, almost on her knees, to give up the dangerous pleasure she longed for. It was precisely the most critical stage of her malady. Duhamel hoped that nature, aided by a regular way of life, would conquer in the struggle, and that perhaps a couple of weeks of determined self-denial on her part would decide the victory in her favor. But it was impossible to dissuade the sick girl from her purpose. She spent the day feverishly examining the contents of her wardrobe; when night came she went to the Casino, escorted by Miranda; she wore a dress which she had not before worn, thinking it too thin and summery—a gown of white gauze spotted with carnations of various colors; from her belt hung the mirror; in her ears sparkled the solitaires, and in her hair, placed with Spanish grace, was a bunch of carnations. Thus arrayed, and flushed with fever and gratified vanity, she looked almost handsome, notwithstanding her freckles and the emaciation of her features, worn by illness. She had, then, a great success at the Casino; it may be said that she shared the honors of the evening with the Swede, and with an eccentric English lord, of whom it was rumored that he had the floor of his stable covered with a Turkish carpet and his reception-room paved with stone. Happy and admired, to Pilar the Casino seemed like a scene from the Arabian Nights, with its countless gas-lights, its perfumed atmosphere, through which floated the strains of the magnificent orchestra; its ball-room where the sportive cupids on the ceiling seemed to hover in a golden mist. Gimenez, the little Marquis of Cañahejas, and Monsieur Anatole disputed with one another the pleasure of dancing with her. Miranda danced a rigadoon with her, and, to crown her happiness and triumph, the Arézegas kept casting furtive glances, during the evening, at the little mirror—a style of trinket like which there was but one other in the room, that which gleamed at the side of the Swede. It was, in short, one of those moments that stand alone in the life of a vain girl, when gratified pride gives rise to emotions so sweet as almost to be mistaken for feelings deeper and purer, that forever remain unknown to such natures. Pilar danced with each one of her partners as if he had been her favored lover, so brightly did her eyes sparkle, so happy did she seem. Perico could not but say to her, sotto voce:
“You are dancing, eh? We shall see what Duhamel will say to-morrow. It will be heavenly, heavenly. To-morrow I shall make my escape, my escape. To a certainty you will explode, you will explode like a firecracker.”
“Don’t imagine it. I feel so well!” she exclaimed, drinking a glass of iced water flavored with currant syrup which Monsieur Anatole, the Hispanomaniac had just brought her.
On the following morning, when Lucía went to waken Pilar, she involuntarily started back when she saw her. The sick girl lay with one cheek buried in the pillows; her sleep was uneasy and broken; in her ears, colorless as wax, the solitaires still gleamed, their limpid purity contrasting with the ashen hue of the cheek and neck. There were black shadows under her eyes. Her tightly-drawn lips resembled two withered rose-leaves. The general effect was corpse-like. On the chairs were scattered various articles of clothing used the night before; the white satin shoes, heel upward, were at the foot of the bed; on the floor some carnations were lying, and the never-enough-to-be-admired mirror, the innocent cause of all this evil, rested on the night table. Lucía softly touched the shoulder of the sleeping girl, who awoke with a start and raised herself on her elbow; her half-opened eyes were dull and glazed, like the eyes of a dead animal; a heavy, fetid odor was perceptible; the sick girl was bathed in perspiration.
She could not get up, for on placing her foot on the floor she was seized with a chill, her teeth chattered, an icy sweat bathed her limbs, and she was obliged to cover herself up again with the bed-clothes. She felt, in addition, a sharp and violent pain in her left side. She shook like a reed in the wind and all the coverings which were put over her were ineffectual in restoring warmth to her chilled body.
Lucía rushed to the room of her husband, who, between sleeping and waking, was smoking a cigarette. The waters agreed with Miranda: the faded tones of his skin, under which the blood was beginning again to circulate and the adipose tissue to be renewed, were disappearing, giving place to that look of mature freshness which bestows a certain beauty on stout well-preserved women of middle-age. Such was the physical effect of the waters upon Miranda; their moral effect was a desire for rest and selfish ease, an inclination to fall into a regular way of living, such as is often observable in persons of mature years, and which makes them regard as an irreparable misfortune half-an-hour’s delay in dinner or bed-time. The ex-beau desired to lead an easy comfortable existence, to take care of his precious health, and, in short, to sustain the traditional reputation for respectability and importance of the Mirandas. Lucía entered the room like a whirlwind, and pale and trembling said:
“Get up; go and see if you can find Señor Duhamel and bring him at once. Pilar is very ill.”