“Haven’t you any confidence in your godfather?” he asked in a reproachful tone. “Come, sit down here and tell me your little troubles, just as you used to do when you were a child, when you wanted wax-candles to make wax figures. You surely know that I have always loved you.... I have never scolded you....”
Father Dámaso’s voice ceased to be brusque; its modulations were even caressing. Maria Clara began to weep.
“Are you weeping, my child? Why are you weeping? Have you quarrelled with Linares?”
Maria Clara covered her eyes with her hands.
“No! It is not he now!” cried the maiden.
Father Dámaso looked at her full of surprise.
“Do you not want to entrust your secrets to me? Have I not always managed to satisfy your smallest caprices?”
The young woman raised her eyes full of tears toward him. She looked at him for some time, and then began to weep bitterly.
“Do not cry so, my child, for your tears pain me! Tell me your troubles. You will see how your godfather loves you.”
Maria Clara approached him slowly and fell on her knees at his feet. Then raising her face, bathed in tears, she said to him in a low voice, scarcely audible: