Every one was looking at the table, which had been split in two by the blow.

Then they looked at the never-enough-to-be-admired Renialdos or Caballuco. Undoubtedly there was in his handsome countenance, in his green eyes animated by a strange, feline glow, in his black hair, in his herculean frame, a certain expression and air of grandeur--a trace, or rather a memory, of the grand races that dominated the world. But his general aspect was one of pitiable degeneration, and it was difficult to discover the n.o.ble and heroic filiation in the brutality of the present.

He resembled Don Cayetano's great men as the mule resembles the horse.

CHAPTER XXIII

MYSTERY

The conference lasted for some time longer, but we omit what followed as not being necessary to a clear understanding of our story. At last they separated, Senor Don Inocencio remaining to the last, as usual. Before the canon and Dona Perfecta had had time to exchange a word, an elderly woman, Dona Perfecta's confidential servant and her right hand, entered the dining-room, and her mistress, seeing that she looked disturbed and anxious, was at once filled with disquietude, suspecting that something wrong was going on in the house.

"I can't find the senorita anywhere," said the servant, in answer to her mistress' questions.

"Good Heavens--Rosario! Where is my daughter?"

"Virgin of Succor protect us!" cried the Penitentiary, taking up his hat and preparing to hurry out with Dona Perfecta.

"Search for her well. But was she not with you in her room?"

"Yes, senora," answered the old woman, trembling, "but the devil tempted me, and I fell asleep."

"A curse upon your sleep! What is this? Rosario, Rosario! Librada!"

They went upstairs and came down again, they went up a second time and came down again; carrying a light and looking carefully in all the rooms. At last the voice of the Penitentiary was heard saying joyfully from the stairs:

"Here she is, here she is! She has been found."

A moment later mother and daughter were standing face to face in the hall.

"Where were you?" asked Dona Perfecta, in a severe voice, scrutinizing her daughter's face closely.

"In the garden," answered the girl, more dead than alive.

"In the garden at this hour? Rosario!"

"I was warm, I went to the window, my handkerchief dropped out, and I came down stairs for it!"

"Why didn't you ask Librada to get it for you? Librada! Where is that girl? Has she fallen asleep too?"

Librada at last made her appearance. Her pale face revealed the consternation and the apprehension of the delinquent.

"What is this? Where were you?" asked her mistress, with terrible anger.

"Why, senora, I came down stairs to get the clothes out of the front room--and I fell asleep."

"Every one here seems to have fallen asleep to-night. Some of you, I fancy, will not sleep in my house to-morrow night. Rosario, you may go."

Comprehending that it was necessary to act with promptness and energy, Dona Perfecta and the canon began their investigations without delay.

Questions, threats, entreaties, promises, were skilfully employed to discover the truth regarding what had happened. Not even the shadow of guilt was found to attach to the old servant; but Librada confessed frankly between tears and sighs all her delinquencies, which we will sum up as follows:

Shortly after his arrival in the house Senor Pinzon had begun to cast loving glances at Senorita Rosario. He had given money to Librada, according to what the latter said, to carry messages and love-letters to her. The young lady had not seemed angry, but, on the contrary, pleased, and several days had pa.s.sed in this manner. Finally, the servant declared that Rosario and Senor Pinzon had agreed to meet and talk with each other on this night at the window of the room of the latter, which opened on the garden. They had confided their design to the maid, who promised to favor it, in consideration of a sum which was at once given her. It had been agreed that Senor Pinzon was to leave the house at his usual hour and return to it secretly at nine o'clock, go to his room, and leave it and the house again, clandestinely also, a little later, to return, without concealment, at his usual late hour. In this way no suspicion would fall upon him. Librada had waited for Pinzon, who had entered the house closely enveloped in his cloak, without speaking a word. He had gone to his room at the same moment in which the young lady descended to the garden. During the interview, at which she was not present, Librada had remained on guard in the hall to warn Pinzon, if any danger should threaten; and at the end of an hour the latter had left the house enveloped in his cloak, as before, and without speaking a word. When the confession was ended Don Inocencio said to the wretched girl:

"Are you sure that the person who came into and went out of the house was Senor Pinzon?"

The culprit answered nothing, but her features expressed the utmost perplexity.

Her mistress turned green with anger.

"Did you see his face?"

"But who else could it be but he?" answered the maid. "I am certain that it was he. He went straight to his room--he knew the way to it perfectly well."

"It is strange," said the canon. "Living in the house there was no need for him to use such mystery. He might have pretended illness and remained in the house. Does it not seem so to you, senora?"

"Librada," exclaimed the latter, in a paroxysm of anger, "I vow that you shall go to prison."

And clasping her hands, she dug the nails of the one into the other with such force as almost to draw blood.

"Senor Don Inocencio," she exclaimed, "let us die--there is no remedy but to die."

Then she burst into a fit of inconsolable weeping.

"Courage, senora," said the priest, in a moved voice. "Courage--now it is necessary to be very brave. This requires calmness and a great deal of courage.

"Mine is immense," said Senora de Polentinos, in the midst of her sobs.

"Mine is very small," said the canon; "but we shall see, we shall see."

CHAPTER XXIV

THE CONFESSION

Meanwhile Rosario--with her heart torn and bleeding, unable to shed tears, unable to be at peace or rest, transpierced by grief as by a sharp sword, with her thoughts pa.s.sing swiftly from the world to G.o.d and from G.o.d to the world, bewildered and half-crazed, her hands clasped, her bare feet resting on the floor--was kneeling, late in the evening, in her own room, beside her bed, on the edge of which she rested her burning forehead, in darkness, in solitude, and in silence. She was careful not to make the slightest noise, in order not to attract the attention of her mother, who was asleep, or seemed to be asleep, in the adjoining room. She lifted up her distracted thoughts to Heaven in this form:

"Lord, my G.o.d, why is it that before I did not know how to lie, and now I know? Why did I not know before how to deceive, and now I deceive? Am I a vile woman? Is this that I feel, is this that is happening to me, a fall from which there can be no arising? Have I ceased to be virtuous and good? I do not recognize myself. Is it I or is it some one else who is in this place? How many terrible things in a few days! How many different sensations! My heart is consumed with all it has felt. Lord, my G.o.d, dost thou hear my voice, or am I condemned to pray eternally without being heard? I am good, nothing will convince me that I am not good. To love, to love boundlessly, is that wickedness? But no--it is no illusion, no error--I am worse than the worst woman on earth. A great serpent is within me, and has fastened his poisonous fangs in my heart.

What is this that I feel? My G.o.d, why dost thou not kill me? Why dost thou not plunge me forever into the depths of h.e.l.l? It is frightful, but I confess it to the priest--I hate my mother. Why is this? I cannot explain it to myself. He has not said a word to me against my mother. I do not know how this is come to pa.s.s. How wicked I am! The demons have taken possession of me. Lord, come to my help, for with my own strength alone I cannot vanquish myself. A terrible impulse urges me to leave this house. I wish to escape, to fly from it. If he does not take me, I will drag myself after him through the streets. What divine joy is this that mingles in my breast with so cruel a grief? Lord G.o.d, my father, illumine me. I desire only to love. I was not born for this hatred that is consuming me. I was not born to deceive, to lie, to cheat. To-morrow I will go out into the streets and cry aloud to all the pa.s.sers-by: 'I love! I hate!' My heart will relieve itself in this way. What happiness it would be to be able to reconcile every thing, to love and respect every one! May the Most Holy Virgin protect me. Again that terrible idea! I don't wish to think it, and I think it. Ah! I cannot deceive myself in regard to this. I can neither destroy it nor diminish it--but I can confess it; and I confess it, saying to thee: 'Lord, I hate my mother!'"

At last she fell into a doze. In her uneasy sleep her imagination reproduced in her mind all she had done that night, distorting it, without altering it in substance. She heard again the clock of the cathedral striking nine; she saw with joy the old servant fall into a peaceful sleep; and she left the room very slowly, in order to make no noise; she descended the stairs softly, step by step and on tiptoe, in order to avoid making the slightest sound. She went into the garden, going around through the servants' quarters and the kitchen; in the garden she paused for a moment to look up at the sky, which was dark and studded with stars. The wind was hushed. Not a breath disturbed the profound stillness of the night. It seemed to maintain a fixed and silent attention--the attention of eyes that look without winking and ears that listen attentively, awaiting a great event. The night was watching.

She then approached the gla.s.s door of the dining-room and looked cautiously through it, from a little distance, fearing that those within might perceive her. By the light of the dining-room lamp she saw her mother sitting with her back toward her. The Penitentiary was on her right, and his profile seemed to undergo a strange transformation, his nose grew larger and larger, seeming like the beak of some fabulous bird; and his whole face became a black silhouette with angles here and there, sharp derisive, irritating. In front of him sat Caballuco, who resembled a dragon rather than a man. Rosario could see his green eyes, like two lanterns of convex gla.s.s. This glow, and the imposing figure of the animal, inspired her with fear. Uncle Licurgo and the other three men appeared to her imagination like grotesque little figures. She had seen somewhere, doubtless in some of the clay figures at the fairs, that foolish smile, those coa.r.s.e faces, that stupid look. The dragon moved his arms which, instead of gesticulating, turned round, like the arms of a windmill, and the green globes, like the lights of a pharmacy, moved from side to side. His glance was blinding. The conversation appeared to be interesting. The Penitentiary was flapping his wings. He was a presumptuous bird, who tried to fly and could not. His beak lengthened itself, twisting round and round. His feathers stood out, as if with rage; and then, collecting himself and becoming pacified, he hid his bald head under his wings. Then the little clay figures began to move, wishing to be persons, and Frasquito Gonzalez was trying to pa.s.s for a man.

Rosario felt an inexplicable terror, witnessing this friendly conference. She went away from the door and advanced, step by step, looking around her to see if she was observed. Although she saw no one, she fancied that a million eyes were fastened upon her. But suddenly her fears and her shame were dispelled. At the window of the room occupied by Senor Pinzon appeared a man, dressed in blue; the b.u.t.tons on his coat shone like rows of little lights. She approached. At the same instant she felt a pair of arms with galloons lift her up as if she were a feather and with a swift movement place her in the room. All was changed. Suddenly a crash was heard, a violent blow that shook the house to its foundations. Neither knew the cause of the noise. They trembled and were silent.

It was the moment in which the dragon had broken the table in the dining-room.