It was he who, feeling how strange his silence would appear, recommenced the conversation with an ease which was too marked to be natural.
"Señora, I do not know what causes the displeasure that you appear to have in seeing me; will you acquaint me with the reason, and accept, meanwhile, my humble and respectful apologies for the annoyances that, to my great regret, my presence occasions you?"
"You are in error, caballero," answered she, "as the meaning I attach to my words. I do not feel any annoyance, believe me, at your presence; only I am vexed at being obliged, at the good pleasure of the persons who govern us, to receive, without being prepared for it beforehand, the visits of envoys—very respectable, no doubt—but whose place should be anywhere else than in the room of the superior of a convent of women."
"That observation is perfectly just, Madame. It is not my fault that this has occurred. Unhappily it is, for the present, a necessity to which you must submit."
"So," resumed she, with some sharpness, "you see that I submit to it."
"You submit to it—yes, Madame," he pursued, in an insinuating tone, "but complaining at it, because you confound your friends with your enemies."
"I, Señor! You make a mistake, no doubt," said she, with compunction; "you do not reflect on who I am. What friends or what enemies can I have—I, a poor woman retired from the world, and devoted to the service of God?"
"You deceive yourself, or, which is more probable—excuse me, I beg, Madame—you do not wish to understand me."
"Perhaps, also, it is a little your fault, Señor," she resumed, with a slight tinge of irony, "owing to the obscurity in which your words are enveloped, unknown to yourself, no doubt."
Don Zeno repressed a gesture of impatience.