"But this is a love without hope; a love not to be thought of. Don Luis will not love you in return."
In the midst of the tears that clouded the beautiful eyes of Pepita gleamed a joyful light; her rosy, dewy lips, contracted by sorrow, parted in a smile, disclosing to view her pearly teeth.
"He loves me," said Pepita, with a faint and ill-concealed accent of satisfaction and triumph that rose exultant over her sorrow and her scruples of conscience.
The consternation and the astonishment of the reverend vicar here reached their highest pitch. If the saint to whom he paid his most fervent devotions had been suddenly cast down from the altar before him, and had fallen, broken into a thousand fragments at his feet, the reverend vicar could not have felt greater consternation than he did. He still looked at Pepita with incredulity, as if doubting whether what she had said were true, or only a delusion of feminine vanity, so firmly did he believe in the holiness of Don Luis, and in his spiritual-mindedness.
"He loves me," Pepita repeated, in answer to his incredulous glance.
"Women are worse than the very devil!" said the vicar. "You would set a snare for the old boy himself."
"Did I not tell you already that I was very wicked?"
"Come, come! calm yourself. The mercy of God is infinite. Tell me all that has happened."
"What should have happened? That he is dear to me; that I love him; that I adore him; that he loves me, too, although he strives to conquer his love, and, in the end, may succeed in doing so; and that you, without knowing it, are very much to blame for it all!"
"Well, this caps the climax! What do you mean by saying I am very much to blame?"