“I had something to eat with Moreno before coming back here.... But I’ll eat a little now.... Death ... it’s pretty grim, isn’t it? Poor Pirovani.... I’ll have a drink if you don’t mind.”
In spite of mentioning several times that he was hungry, he ate very little of the food brought him by Robledo’s servant. But on the other hand he drank a great deal of wine, tossing it down mechanically, as though unaware that he was drinking.
Robledo thought he noticed the odor of gin about him. Undoubtedly he and Moreno had had several drinks before starting on the journey home. Perhaps this was the explanation of his excitement. He was not in the habit of drinking liquor.
Watson, who had finished his supper, noticed that Torre Bianca was looking at him as though he wanted to intimate that his presence was inopportune.
“Is Moreno at his place now?” the young American inquired.
And on hearing that he was, Watson took himself off to discuss with the government employee the report that was to be presented at Buenos Aires, urging that the work at the dam be continued.
When Torre Bianca found himself alone with his friend, he became a different person. His excitement abated suddenly, he lowered his eyes, and it seemed to Robledo that he was shrinking in his chair like something soft that huddles in on itself for lack of support from within. All the spurious energy of alcohol had vanished at a stroke and Torre Bianca, sitting opposite him there, had all the appearance of a wrapping from which the contents has been deftly removed.
“I must talk to you,” he said, lifting his mild and pleading eyes to his friend. “You are all that is left me now, the only human being in the world who cares anything about me ... and for that very reason you must let me have the truth. Today, while they were burying poor Pirovani, I could think of nothing but this.... ‘I must see Robledo. He will tell me frankly what I am to think of all this.’ What I mean by ‘all this’ is the things I have noticed since yesterday ... everywhere I go ... the way people look at me, the dislike they show in their gestures, the names I can hear them calling me in their minds ... they don’t have to speak, because I can guess it all.... Oh, it is too horrible!”
His voice broke on a note of complete discouragement and he covered his face with his hands. Robledo murmured a few words intended to cheer him up a little, but the marqués interrupted him.
“You can talk later, Manuel. But first you must hear some things you don’t know, and some of the things I told you once and that you have forgotten. I must ask you one thing. Do you believe that my wife is deceiving me?”