Robledo was practically certain that Canterac had died. For some time, the unhappy Frenchman had wandered from one to another of the republics on the Pacific coast, making a scant living, now in the Chilian saltpeter mines, now in the mines of Bolivia and Peru. When the war broke out he returned to France to join the army. And there like so many others he had died, in the performance of some act of obscure heroism.
And this woman who had so tragically turned the current of his life, not only had kept no clear image of him in her memory; she could not even remember his name!
But as Robledo’s questions pursued her one by one, her memory freed itself somewhat from its torpor, and some of the images stirred by his proddings were now crowding in on her mind. Suddenly it was she who had a question to ask.
“What’s the name of that American boy, a friend of yours, wasn’t he? I really think he was the only man of all the men who have run after me that I ever cared for, perhaps because he never really cared anything about me. Sometimes, at long, long intervals, I have thought of him.... Did he marry?”
Robledo nodded.
“That’s all you need tell me. As I sit here looking at you it seems as though the years that had passed were passing again, but in a reverse direction, and I am beginning to remember everything.... That young man’s name was Richard, and he’s probably married the girl from the Pampas ... they called her by the name of some flower....”
But these memories, the only ones capable of surging up clear and living, aroused in her the embittered sadness of hopeless envy. Other women were prosperous, yes ... and happy; but she had chosen to forget ... why must she be reminded?
She glanced down at herself with a kind of pitying contempt, as though seeing herself for the first time. She, who for long years had thought Elena the center of creation, now saw herself sunk very low, and divined that there were even lower depths to which she was destined to descend.
Other women might find melancholy pleasure in summoning the past to mind. For them it was like a sweet old tune, or the perfume of faded flowers. But for her the past was a pack of raging wolves that would pursue her until death. Only by living in a state of stupor could she escape the torture of their fangs. And for her only those days were endurable when she succeeded in drugging her mind with alcohol.
Apparently she wanted the relief afforded by seeing someone else symbolize the despair she felt. She pointed to the other woman, who, half-drunk, was dozing on the settee.