“And those two men who went out yesterday morning to kill one another, do you think it was on Elena’s account?”
But this time Robledo did not take refuge in ambiguity. He merely lowered his eyes; and the marqués took the silence that followed to mean “yes”....
Then hiding his face again in desperation, he said,
“And it was I, her husband, who acted as master of the duel in which those two men fought....”
A long silence. The marqués laid his head down on his hands, and Robledo watched him, pityingly. Suddenly Torre Bianca straightened up, and said, slowly rubbing his forehead,
“I can’t go on here. I am ashamed to meet the eyes of these people. But I can’t go away with her, either. She couldn’t deceive me now ... and when I look, at her, and see how false she is, and how falsely she smiles, I shall kill her ... I am certain that I shall kill her!”
The moment had come for Robledo to speak.
“Don’t think about her any more. For the time being you must rest. Tomorrow we’ll find a better way of your getting rid of your wife. You’ll stay here tonight. And I’ll plan what we must do tomorrow. She will go away. I don’t know just how; but she’ll go. And you will stay with me.”
He laid an affectionate hand on Torre Bianca’s shoulder, and his tone while he spoke, was like that of a father. But the marqués kept his face covered, and he shook his head.
He hated her! And yet, at the thought of separating from her forever, he felt a sharp pang, a strange anxiety....