“Husband of the Santalo, one must be as simple as you are, not to have perceived that your wife is the mistress of Pepe Vera, who was my lover; I may say so, because I am not married, and deceive no one. If you wish that the scales fall from your eyes, go to-night to No. 13 —— street, and there you will do as St. Thomas did.”
“Can one be guilty of such an infamy?” cried Stein, letting the letter fall from his hands. “My poor Maria has those who are envious of her, and without any doubt they are the women of the theatre. Poor Maria! she is ill! and now perhaps she is sleeping in a sweet slumber. But let us see if she is calm. Last evening she was not well. Her pulse was agitated and her voice was hoarse. Affections of the chest are common now in Madrid. Let us see!”
Stein took a light, went out, and walked on tiptoe through the rooms which led to his wife’s apartment. Arrived near to the chamber, he redoubled his precautions; he softly approached the bed, drew aside the curtains—the bed was empty!
A man as loyal, as confident as Stein, could not easily convince himself of the possibility of such treason.
“No,” said he, after some instants of reflection, “no, it is impossible! Her absence at such an hour is from some other cause, some unexpected circumstance. Still, I cannot remain in the dark, with a doubt in my heart. I must have the power to reply to that calumny, not only with contempt, but with irrefutable proofs, with a formal contradiction without reply.”
He went out.
Thanks to the night watchmen, he arrived easily at the place indicated in the letter.
The house designated had no porter. The street door was open, and Stein entered. He climbed the first flight of stairs, and, arriving at the first landing-place, he knew no longer how to direct his steps, nor where to go.
Recovered from his first movement, he commenced to feel ashamed of his action. “To spy,” said he to himself, “is a base action. If Maria knew what I am doing, she would be irritated, and she would be right to feel so. O my God! suspect her whom I love, is it not to call down the cloud which will obscure the heaven of our love? I a spy! This has happened from the contemptible letter of a woman more contemptible still. Yes, I will return home. To-morrow I will demand of Maria what I desire to know. It is the way the most simple, and the most natural. Come—no more suspicions, no more doubts!”