Segundo, in fact, was at this time on his way to the pine grove. He was in a state of intense excitement, and he felt that it would be impossible for him in his present mood to meet anyone or to take part in any conversation. Nieves, so reserved, so beautiful, had said yes to him. The dreams of an ideal love which had tormented his spirit were not, then, destined never to be realized, nor would fame be unattainable when love was already within his ardent and eager grasp. With these thoughts passing through his mind he ascended the steep path and walked enraptured through the pine grove. At times he would lean against the dark trunk of some pine, his brow bared to the breeze, drinking in the cool night air, and listening, as in a dream, to the mysterious voices of the trees and the murmur of the river that ran below. Ah, what moments of happiness, what supreme joys, were promised him by this love, which flattered his pride, excited his imagination and satisfied his egotism, the delicate egotism of a poet, avid of love, of enjoyments which the imagination idealizes and the muse may sing without degradation! All that he had pictured in his verses was to be realized in his life; and his song would ring forth more clearly and inspiration would flow more freely, and he would write, in blood, verses that would cause his readers' hearts to thrill with emotion.
In defiance of duty and reason Nieves loved him—she had told him so. The poet smiled scornfully when he thought of Don Victoriano, with the profound contempt of the idealist for the practical man inept in spiritual things. Then he looked around him. The pine grove had a gloomy air at this hour. And it was cold. Besides it must be late. They would be wondering at his absence in Las Vides. Had Nieves retired? With these thoughts passing through his mind he descended the rugged path and reached the door ten minutes after the careful hand of Genday had secured the bolt. The contretemps did not alarm Segundo; he would have to scale some wall; and the romance of the incident almost pleased him. How should he effect an entrance?
Undoubtedly the easiest way would be by the garden, into which he could lower himself from the brow of the hill—a question of a few scratches, but he would be in his own room in ten minutes' time, without encountering the dogs that were keeping watch in the yard, or any member of the household, as that side of the house, the side where the dining-room was situated, was uninhabited. And upon this course he decided. He turned back and ascended the top of the hill, not without some difficulty. From thence he could command a view of the gallery and a good part of the garden. He studied the nature of the declivity, so as to avoid falling on the wall and perhaps breaking his leg. The hill was bare and without vegetation and the figure of the Swan stood out boldly against the background of the sky.
When Segundo fixed his eyes on the gallery for the purpose of deciding on the safest place for a descent, he saw something that troubled his senses with a sweet intoxication, something that gave him one of those delightful surprises which make the blood rush to the heart to send it coursing back joyful and ardent through the veins. In the semi-obscurity of the gallery, standing among the flower-pots, his keen gaze descried, without the possibility of a doubt as to the reality of the vision, a white figure, the silhouette of a woman, whose attitude seemed to indicate that she too had seen him, had observed him, that she was waiting for him.
Fancy swiftly sketched out and filled in the details of the scene—a colloquy, a divine colloquy of love with Nieves, among the carnations and the vines, alone, without any other witnesses than the moon, already setting, and the flowers, envious of so much happiness. And with a swift movement he rolled down the steep declivity, landing on the hard wall. The fruit trees hid the path from him, and two or three times he lost his way; at last he found himself at the foot of the staircase leading to the gallery, and he raised his eyes to satisfy himself as to the reality of the lovely apparition. A woman dressed in white was indeed waiting there, leaning over the wooden balustrade of the balcony; but the distance did not now admit of any optical illusion; it was Elvira Molende, in a percale wrapper, her hair hanging loose about her shoulders, as if she were an actress rehearsing the rôle of Sonnambula. How eagerly the poor girl was leaning over the balustrade! The poet would swear that she even called his name softly, with a tender lisp.
And he passed on. He made the tour of the garden, entered the courtyard by the inner door, which was not closed at night, and knocked loudly at the door of the kitchen. The servant opened it for him, cursing to himself the young gentlemen who stayed up late at night because they were not obliged to rise early in the morning to open the cellar for the grape-tramplers.
XX.
As the time occupied in the gathering of the grapes and the elaboration of the wine in the spacious cellar of Mendez was so prolonged, and as in that part of the country everyone has his own crop, however small, to gather in, part of the guests went away, desirous of attending to their own vineyards. Señorito de Limioso needed to see for himself how, between oïdium, the blackbirds, the neighbors, and the wasps, not a single bunch of grapes had been left him; the Señoritas de Molende had to hang up with their own hands the grapes of their famous Tostado, renowned throughout the country; and for similar reasons Saturnino Agonde, the arch-priest, and the curate of Naya took their leave one by one, the court of Las Vides being reduced to Carmen Agonde, maid of honor, Clodio Genday, Aulic councilor, Tropiezo, court physician, and Segundo, who might well be the page or the troubadour charged to divert the châtelaine with his ditties.