But that which bewitched, above all, our hero, was the pure, sweet, expressive, and eloquent voice of his scholar.
“It must be,” he said to himself, “that she who expresses in a manner so admirable, sentiments the most sublime, must be gifted with a soul full of elevation and tenderness.”
Like as the grain of corn, in the fruitful soil, germinates and takes root before the stem sprouts above the ground, so this love, so calm and true, took root in the heart of Stein: love which he felt without having yet defined it.
Marisalada, on her part, was equally attached to Stein, not because she was grateful to him for his attentions, but that she appreciated his excellent qualities, and because she comprehended his great superiority of soul and intelligence: nor yet even because she obeyed an attractive charm which imparted love to the person who inspired it; but because that the musician, the master who had initiated her in the art, felt, himself, all these sentiments of gratitude and admiration. The isolation in which she lived tended to put far away any other object that could excite her preference.
Don Modesto was not of an age to figure in this tournament of love. Momo was not only disqualified by his extreme ugliness, but he preserved all his hatred for Marisalada, never ceasing to call her Gaviota, and she had for him the greatest contempt. Certainly gallants were not wanting in the village; to commence with the barber, who was obstinate in his sighs after Marisalada; but no one would oppose Stein.
This tranquil state of things had continued three springs and three winters, which had glided by like three days and three nights, when that came to pass which we will now relate.
An intrigue (who could have predicted it?) dawned on the peaceful village of Villamar.
The promoter and the chief (who would have thought it?) was the good Maria. The confidant (who will not be astonished?) was Don Modesto!
Although it was an indiscretion, or, the better to express it, a baseness to watch, listening to the conspirators hidden behind that orange-tree, whose trunk is still solid, while the flowers are withering and the leaves falling—image of the resignation which rests in the heart when joy is fled, when hopes are vanished; listening to a conversation, which, in reconcilable secrecy, held the two accomplices, while brother Gabriel, who is a thousand miles off and all near to the speakers, was busy in binding up the lettuces to make them white and tender.
“It is not an idea that I have, Don Modesto,” said the instigatress, “it is a reality. Not to see it, is to have no eyes. Don Frederico loves Marisalada, who regards the doctor no more than a bundle of straw.”