But the good old woman, who was accustomed to the rather free manners of Marisalada,—which, however, did not wound,—called the young girl and told her to sit down near her.
Don Modesto, warned by this that Maria was about to open her batteries,—faithful to the neutrality he had promised,—took leave of the old woman, made a turn to the right and beat a retreat, not, however, without having received from the monk a couple of lettuces and a bunch of turnips.
“My daughter,” said Maria, when they were alone, “what will you not be if Don Frederico marries you? You will be with this man, who is a St. Louis de Gonzague, who knows every thing, who is a good musician, and who gains plenty of money; you will be the doctor’s wife, the happiest of women. You will be dressed like a dove, nurtured like a duchess; and you could then, above all, help your poor father, who is growing old; and it pains our hearts that he is obliged to be on the sea despite rain and wind, so that his child may want for nothing. Thus would Don Frederico remain among us, like an angel of the good God, consoling and taking care of all who suffer.”
Marisalada listened attentively to the old woman, affecting great distraction. When Maria had ceased to speak, the young girl was silent for an instant, and then, with an air of indifference, said—
“I do not wish to marry.”
“Listen then!” exclaimed the good woman. “It is, perchance, you wish to be a nun?”
“Not at all,” replied the Gaviota.
“What then?” demanded Maria, really angry. “You do not wish to be either flesh or fish! One thing only I know—woman belongs to God or to man; if not, she does not accomplish her mission, either towards God or towards society.”
“What would you, Maria?” replied Marisalada; “I feel that neither marriage nor the convent is my vocation.”
“Then, little girl,” replied the old woman, “thy vocation is that of the mule. Nothing pleases me which is out of the regular order; above all, in that which we other women regard.