“But that is not astonishing,” said the voice. “What pleasure can he find in our society, and that of persons of his rank, he who only frequents actresses?”
“It is false!” replied the duchess.
“Are you blind, or consenting?” said the marchioness exasperated.
“What I would never consent to is this calumny, which is at once an insult to my husband, here, in his house, and to his wife.”
“It would be wiser,” continued the voice, angrily, “to prevent the duke, your husband, from giving credit by his conduct to the thousand scandals he has given birth to in Madrid, than to defend him, and driving away from your house your best friends with your ungracious answers—dictated, without doubt, by your confessor.”
“My aunt, it will be also wiser to consult your own as to the language you ought to hold to a married woman, who is your niece.”
“’Tis well,” said the Gutibamba; “your reserved character, austere and gloomy, has already lost you the love and the heart of your husband: it will finish by your losing the affection of your friends.”
And the Marchioness de Gutibamba departed, enchanted with her peroration.
Leonore remained seated on the sofa, her head bowed, and her face bathed in tears long suppressed.
Suddenly she uttered a cry—she was in the arms of her husband. She still wept, but these tears were sweet; she comprehended that this man, always frank and loyal, returned her love, a love which no one could henceforth dispute.