Stein sighed so deeply that it seemed to suffocate him, and he wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Oh, suspicion!” he cried—“suspicion, which makes the most confident heart believe treason to be possible. Infamous suspicion, the fruit of bad instincts and wicked insinuations! For a moment this monster had vanquished my soul, and now I dare no more look at Maria without being ashamed of myself.”
Stein was at last about to depart when a door, which communicated with the landing-place where he was, opened. This door, when opened, let forth the sound of glasses clashing, joyous songs, and bursts of laughter.
A servant who came out from within, his hands full of empty bottles, moved to make room for Stein to pass, whose appearance and costume inspired him with a sort of respect.
“Enter,” he said to him, “although you come late, and they have already supped;” and he descended without saying any thing more.
Stein found himself in a little antechamber which communicated with the adjoining room: he approached. Hardly had his look penetrated into the interior of this room than he stopped motionless, struck with stupor—Maria was there!
What must he have suffered when he saw his wife, with naked shoulders, seated at table on a stool, and having at her feet Pepe Vera, who sang, accompanying himself on the guitar—
“Una mujer andaluza
Tiene en sus ojos el sol:
Una aurora en su sonrisa,
Y el Paraiso en su amor.”[6]
“Bravo! bravo! Pepe,” cried the company. “Now it is Mariquita’s turn to sing. Come, sing, Mariquita! We are not the gents of yellow gloves and varnished boots, but we have, as well as grand lords, ears to listen. Come, Mariquita, sing; sing, and so that your countrymen can understand you. The gold-laced, embroidered, and decorated world knows only how to sing in French.”
Mariquita took the guitar, which Pepe presented to her on his knees, and sang—