“Say you have not seen me. No—tell her that I beg she will not think of me again.”
And he turned away, disdainful and sad.
* * * *
The young man placed himself in a good position, resolved to hear the mass with the utmost devotion; but he could not do it. There, near by, was Carmen; there was the woman for whom he would have given all that he had, even to his life. He did not wish to see her, and yet did nothing else. He turned his face toward the altar, and without knowing how, when he least expected it, found his eyes fixed upon the maiden, whose graceful head, covered with a rebozo, did not remain still an instant, turning to all sides, in search of him. Gabriel remained concealed behind the statue of San Ysidro which, placed on a table, surrounded by candles and great sprays of paper roses, served him as a screen.
Why had he come? Was he determined to reunite the interrupted loves? Would he yield to Carmen’s wishes? He had come to look at her, not desiring to see her; he had come to Xochiapan dragged by an irresistible power, but he would not yield. How could he blot out of his memory that kiss, that thundered kiss, which he had not heard but, which, nevertheless resounded for him like an injury, like an insulting word which demands blood? And yet he had seen her; there she was, near him, never so beautiful.
At the close of the service, at the ite misa est, Gabriel left promptly, so that when the faithful flocked out to the market-place, he was mounting his horse. On crossing the plaza, he met some rancheros, his friends, who invited him to drink a cup and then to eat at the ranch, which was not far distant. He accepted; it was necessary to distract himself. To leave the plaza, on the way to the house of his friends, it was necessary to pass along one side of the church; almost between the lines of vendors.
The Cura, Doña Mercedes, Angelito and Carmen were in the graveyard. Gabriel did not wish nor dare to greet his love; he turned his face away, but could see and feel the gaze of those dark eyes fixed upon him, a gaze profoundly sad which pierced his heart.
After dinner he returned to the town to take the road to Pluviosilla. His friends proposed to accompany him, but he refused their offer. He wished to be alone, alone, to meditate upon the thought which for hours had pursued him.
She loves me—he was thinking as he entered the town.—She loves me! Poor child! I have been cruel to her.—I ought to forgive her.—Why not? I will be generous. I will forgive all.
The energetic resolutions of the young man became a sentiment of tender compassion. His dignity and pride, of which he gave such grand examples a month before, yielded now to the impulses of his heart. He could resist no longer. Carmen triumphed; love triumphed.