“And she is the worst of women. I hope that God will never pardon her!”
André rose as if to go.
“Nevertheless, Don Mateo, I—who am not yet able to speak of this woman as you are—I, at present, am still less able to fail to keep an assignation she has made with me. I have made you a confession, and I regret to break yours by a premature departure.” He held out his hand.
Mateo placed himself before the door.
“Hear me, I beg of you. I speak to you, man to man, and I say Stop! return as you came. Forget who you have seen, who has spoken to you and written to you. If you would know peace, calm nights and a life lacking in black care, do not approach Concha Perez! Do not approach this woman. Let me save you. Have mercy upon yourself, in fact.”
“Don Mateo. Do you then love her?...”
The Spaniard stroked his forehead, and answered—
“Oh no! I do not now love or hate. It is all over and done with, all trace effaced.”
Mateo gazed at André, then, quite changing to a tone of banter, said—
“Besides, one should never go to the first rendezvous a woman gives one.”