Meanwhile the old soldier approached Maria Clara. She had heard the whole conversation, sitting motionless, the flowers lying at her feet.
“You are a prudent young woman,” he said in a low voice; “by giving over the letter, you assured yourself a peaceful future.” And he moved on, leaving Maria with blank eyes and a face rigid. Fortunately Aunt Isabel passed. Maria had strength to take her by the dress.
“What is the matter?” cried the old lady, terrified at the face of her niece. “You are ill, my child. You are ready to faint. What is it?”
“My heart—it’s the crowd—so much light—I must rest. Tell my father I’ve gone to rest,” and steadying herself by her aunt’s arm, she went to her room.
“You are cold! Do you want some tea?” asked Aunt Isabel at the door.
Maria shook her head. “Go back, dear aunt, I only need to rest,” she said. She locked the door of her little room, and at the end of her strength, threw herself down before a statue, sobbing:
“Mother, mother, my mother!”
The moonlight came in through the window, and through the door leading to the balcony. The joyous music of the dance, peals of laughter and the hum of conversation, made their way to the chamber. Many times they knocked at her door—her father, her aunt, Doña Victorina, even Linares. Maria did not move or speak; now and then a hoarse sob escaped her.
Hours passed. After the feast had come the ball. Maria’s candle had burned out, and she lay in the moonlight at the foot of the statue. She had not moved. Little by little the house became quiet. Aunt Isabel came to knock once again at the door.
“She must have gone to bed,” the old lady called back to her brother. “At her age one sleeps like the dead.”