“Yes, yes, but the least possible.”
The two felt that the interview was ended; and Julio believed himself finally cast off. As in all critical situations, there was a tragic silence; Clothilde looked at the floor; Julio gazed at her with the yearning love, with which the dying look for the last time upon the familiar objects and the dear faces, never so beautiful as in that awful moment. Thus he gazed, long, long, taking her hand and kissing it with the respect of a priest for a holy thing. Then he passed the wicket of the little garden, and departed without once turning his head, staggering like a drunken man; he was lost on the broad pavement, his worn garments of the poor office hack, hanging in the sunlight in such folds as to throw into relief the narrow shoulders of the consumptive.
I am dismissed, he thought, and I am glad that it was with a “no.” What folly to think that a woman like Clothilde could ever care for a man like me! What can I offer her?—A worthless trifle, an illegal love, a legitimate wife, children, poverties! How could I pay her house rent, the most necessary expenses, the most trifling luxuries? Better, much better, that they despise me, the more I will occupy myself with my wife and my children, what is earned they will have; I will return to the path of rectitude, to my old companion; I will cure myself of this attack of love. And walking, walking, he reached the Alameda, seated himself in the Glorieta of San Diego, on a deserted bench, in front of two students, who were reading aloud.
“But what has happened to you, Señorita?” and the lie presenting itself for sole response; the lie which augments the crime and the risks of what is foreseen. Her situation was not new; the eternal sufferings, one day a little worse than another. Then, in the little alcove, where she had thought herself strong enough to resist, the encounter with Alberto’s portrait, a life-size bust photograph, in a plain frame, with an oil lamp and two bunches of violets on the bureau, upon which it stood. It was there waiting for her, as it waited for her every night, to watch her undressing as he had in life, seated on the edge of the bed or on a low chair, mute with idolatrous admiration, until she had completed her preparations, and, coquettish and submissive, came to him, who, with open arms and waiting lips embraced her closely, closely, saying, between kisses, “How much I love you.”
Clothilde remained leaning against the bureau, unable to withdraw her gaze from the portrait or her thought from what had just happened. Why had she yielded? Why had she not screamed, or drawn the cord of the coach, or called the passersby or the police? Scarcely a year a widow, because she was a widow although the marriage ceremony had not been performed, and she had already forgotten her vows and promises, and had already enshrined within her heart another man, who was not the dead, her dead, her poor dear dead, lying yonder in his grave between two strangers, without protest or opposition to infidelity and perjury; enclosed in the narrow confines of the grave, without light, nor air, nor love, nor life; lost among so many tombs, among so many faded flowers, among so many lies written in marbles and bronzes. She could redeem her fault with nothing, not only was she not content to dwell at the graveside, but she had given herself to another and still dared to present herself before his portrait, defying its wrath. Trembling with terror she recalled a mutual oath sworn in those happy times, when in their flight across half the Republic, they enjoyed a relative calm in hotels and wayside inns. The sight of a country graveyard, peculiarly situated, had saddened them; with hands clasped, they were walking after supper before the inn, when Alberto, affected by one of those presentiments which so often appear in the midst of joy, as if to remind us that no happiness is lasting, clasped her to his bosom, and stroking her hair, had asked her: “What would you do, if I should die?”
She had answered him with tears, shuddering; had stopped his mouth with her hand; had promised him, sincerely, with all her loving heart and her voice broken with sobs, that she would die also, but Alberto had insisted, who can say whether already possessed with his coming suicide, had begged her to make him an answer.
“Come tell me what you will do, since that will not cause it to happen, and I will tell you what I would do if you should prove false.”
“Why do you say such things? Why do you invoke death?” And Alberto, with solemn face had replied, what she had never since forgotten. “Because disillusionment and death are the two irreconcilable enemies of life and one ought ever to reckon with them.”
As Clothilde remained silent, Alberto, after drying her eyes, which were immediately again filled with tears, demanded a solemn oath from her, not of the many with which sweethearts constantly regale each other, but of those which fix themselves forever, which impress us by their very solemnity; would she swear it by her mother? Would she fulfil it whatever happens? Truly—? If—?