“Nothing easier,” said Perez; “she is now asleep. If she has left the key in the lock we must waken her.”
As he rose to take the duplicate key of Juana’s door his eyes fell by chance on the circular gleam of light upon the black wall of the inner courtyard. Within that circle he saw the shadow of a group such as Canova alone has attempted to render. The Spaniard turned back.
“I do not know,” he said to the Marana, “where to find the key.”
“You are very pale,” she said.
“And I will show you why,” he cried, seizing his dagger and rapping its hilt violently on Juana’s door as he shouted,—
“Open! open! open! Juana!”
Juana did not open, for she needed time to conceal Montefiore. She knew nothing of what was passing in the salon; the double portieres of thick tapestry deadened all sounds.
“Madame, I lied to you in saying I could not find the key. Here it is,” added Perez, taking it from a sideboard. “But it is useless. Juana’s key is in the lock; her door is barricaded. We have been deceived, my wife!” he added, turning to Dona Lagounia. “There is a man in Juana’s room.”
“Impossible! By my eternal salvation I say it is impossible!” said his wife.
“Do not swear, Dona Lagounia. Our honor is dead, and this woman—” He pointed to the Marana, who had risen and was standing motionless, blasted by his words, “this woman has the right to despise us. She saved our life, our fortune, and our honor, and we have saved nothing for her but her money—Juana!” he cried again, “open, or I will burst in your door.”