An hour after this scene Maria was half reclining on the sofa, and her husband was feeling her pulse. The duke was seated near her.
“It is nothing, Maria,” said Stein. “It is nothing, duke. A nervous attack, already dissipated. Her pulse is perfectly tranquil. You need only repose, Maria. Work is killing you. It is already some time that your nerves have been extraordinarily irritated. Your nervous system rebels against the zeal you devote to the study of your characters. I am in no way uneasy, and now I go to attend a patient, who is in a dangerous condition. Take the prescription which I will order for you, and some orgeat on retiring; and to-morrow when you rise some ass’s milk. Duke, I leave you with regret, but duty obliges me: á dios!”
After the departure of Don Frederico, the duke gazed on Maria for a long time; her face was altogether changed.
“Are you fatigued, Maria?” asked he, with that penetrating sweetness which love alone knows how to give to the voice.
“I will repose myself,” replied Maria coldly.
“Do you wish that I retire?”
“If it so pleases you.”
“That would pain me.”
“Remain then.”
“Maria,” said the duke, after a short silence, taking out of his pocket a paper, “when I cannot talk to you I sing your praises; here are some verses which I have written for you; to-night, Maria, I will have agitating dreams, without sleep. Sleep has fled from my eyelids since peace fled from my heart. Pardon me, Maria, if this avowal which escapes from my heart offends the purity of your sentiments, but I have suffered from your sufferings, and—”