Since his recent glimpse of Nacha, Torres had been anxious to talk to her. Once or twice he watched the girls coming out of the shop. He saw Nacha again, but it was very evident that she avoided him. Convinced that Nacha did not care to hear any news of Monsalvat, whose friendship with him she must have known, he gave up his attempt to communicate with her.
The days went by. Monsalvat never spoke of Nacha and little by little Torres came to the conclusion that he had forgotten her.
One morning, in March, Torres went to his guest's room at a very early hour, to dissuade him from going away.
"Why leave me, Monsalvat? Stay here a couple of months longer, until you are quite all right again. The kind of breakdown you're just getting over is no joke, my dear boy. And where are you going without a cent to your name, eh? Back to your quixotic notions about righting all humanity's wrongs, and redeeming people who have nothing to redeem about them? That's all nonsense, and leads nowhere. One man alone can't accomplish anything. All you can do is harm, filling the heads of those poor people with wild ideas. No, my son. The world is full of evil. Well, what's to be done? You have to take it as it is, and get what good you can out of it, and—'forward, march!' Eh?"
Monsalvat did not reply. He lay on his side, his elbow resting on the pillow, his hand on his breast, and his eyes turned towards the window. But he was not looking at what was out there beyond him: he was looking within, searching his own heart and the hearts of a multitude of other human beings whom he saw there standing between him and his friend. The doctor's words reached him from far, far away—so far that he scarcely understood them. Meanwhile the window seemed to be catching fire, making its offering of light to Monsalvat as from a golden, quivering sheet of flame!
The doorbell rang. Without moving, Monsalvat said:
"That's the postman. He is bringing a letter from Nacha—for you."
Torres smiled at this prophecy; a forced smile, however, for he feared that it might be true. He got up and was about to leave the room when the maid came in with a letter. The doctor signed the receipt for which the messenger was waiting, placing it for that purpose on the table near Monsalvat's bed. He did not notice that Monsalvat's eyes were fixed intently on the small bit of paper. Then he opened the letter and looked at its signature, disconcerted. Monsalvat laughed, enjoying his friend's confusion.
"It's from Ruiz de Castro. He wants to see me ... some affair of his ... he doesn't say what ..." stammered Torres, thrusting the letter into his pocket. Then he went out, embarrassed and perplexed, while Monsalvat smiled to himself.
For the letter actually did come from Nacha! She wrote that she wanted to see Torres, but not at the entrance to the shop. From her letter it appeared that she did not know where Monsalvat was. She wanted to find out—that was why she wrote about him. She had learned that he was ill; "Was it true?" she asked; and "was she to blame?"