Maria said these words with evident asperity, not turning her face from the singer. Ricardo again looked at her for a long time.

"Very good--it is better so--still I thought--"

Both kept silence for some moments. Ricardo broke it, saying,--

"When Don Serapio has finished, they are going to make you sing; I am sure--all get good out of it except me."

"Why?"

"For two reasons: the first is, because much as I enjoy hearing you when we are alone, I don't like it when you sing before people; the second is, because they will take you away from me."

"I don't see why you should dislike it because I sing before people. I am the one not to like it--and I don't at all. As to the separation, that's nonsense, because we are together much more than we ought to be."

"It would be a long and difficult task for me to explain why I don't like you to sing in public. As to the separation which you call nonsense, it's the solemn truth. In spite of our being together several hours a day it seems to me very little. I could wish that we were together all the time. For a man who is going to be married inside of a month and a half, I don't think that such a wish is very extraordinary."

And lowering his voice, he added in a pa.s.sionate tone:--

"I am never satisfied, and never shall be satisfied, however much I am with thee, my own life. In all the years since I have adored thee, never for a single instant have I felt the shadow of satiety. When I am near thee, I think that I could not be more content, even in heaven; when I am away, I think how much happier I should be if I were with thee. This is a guaranty that we should never get tired of each other's society; isn't it so? For my part, I give thee my word that if we reach old age, I shall enjoy more by thy side than sitting in the sunshine! What a happy life is waiting for us, and how long it is that I have dreamed about it! Do you remember how one day in the big garden, when you were eight years old, and I was ten, my dear mamma made us take each other's hands, saying to us in a serious tone: 'Would you like to be husband and wife? Then kiss each other, and look out that you don't quarrel any more.' From that time forth I have never dreamed of the possibility of marrying any other woman than you."

Maria made no reply to this fervid declaration. She kept looking at the proprietor of the canning factory, with a strange expression, as though her thoughts were far away.

"Do you know one thing?"

"What?"

"That the chests have come with thy clothes, but I have not opened them yet. Both of them have on the lid thy cipher with the coronet of marchioness above. You may laugh at me, but I shall tell thee, all the same, that it made my heart leap to see the coronet. I imagined that we were already married, and that I hadn't to wait these everlasting forty-five days. I don't know what I wouldn't give if to-day were the last day of December. Tell me, don't you feel any inclination to call yourself the _Marquesa de Penalta_? to be mine, mine for ever?"

Maria arose from the sofa, and with a scornful gesture, nor deigning to look once at her lover, replied,--

"Well enough."

And she went and sat down beside one of the numberless De Ciudad girls.

Ricardo remained for a few moments glued to his seat, without stirring a finger. Then he got up abruptly and hastened from the room.

Don Serapio at last ceased mourning his lady's absence, declaring in a finale that if such a state of things existed longer, he should die without delay. The pianist added force to this wail of woe by performing a noisy run in octaves. A great clapping of hands was heard, and affectionate smiles of approbation were lavished by the ladies upon the vocalist. The young fellows near the doors, always ready for fun, did their best to bring about a repet.i.tion of the romanza, but Don Serapio was shrewd enough to perceive that the plaudits of these boys were not in good faith, and he refused to grant the favor.

Then the stripling with the banged hair made the following little speech to the a.s.sembled audience:--

"Ladies and gentlemen, I believe that now is the time for us to listen to the great artiste. We are all waiting impatiently for Maria to delight us--one of those happy moments--with which she has in days gone by delighted us. Isn't it a good idea?"

"That's it; Maria must sing!"

"Of course she will sing; she is very accommodating."

The spokesman offered his arm to the young senorita, and led her to the piano.

When Maria was left standing alone, facing the audience, a thrill of admiration was excited as usual. "How lovely, how lovely she is!" "That girl grows prettier every day!" "What exquisite taste she shows in her dress!" "She looks like a queen!" These and many other flattering phrases were whispered among the friends of the Elorza family.

Without being very tall she was of stately stature and presence. She was slender, lithe, and graceful as those beautiful dames of the Renaissance, which the Italian painters chose as their models. The line of her soft l.u.s.trous neck reminded one of Grecian statues. This neck supported a shapely head; the face fair, the cheeks slightly rose-tinted, delicate, regular, transparent, with ruby lips and blue eyes. She bore a notable resemblance to Dona Gertrudis, but she had an attractive and fascinating expression which that celebrated lady never had, whatever may have been the persuasion of the lyric poet of the acrostics. Around her clear and brilliant eyes showed a slight violet circle, which gave her face a decided poetical tinge.

"Now Suarez, you will see what kind of a singer this girl is," said one lady.

"I shall appreciate her, for this Senor Don Serapio has spoiled my ears for the time being."

"Oh! Maria is an artist."

"What I perceive just now is, that she has a stunning figure."

"You just wait till you hear her."

"That girl does everything well! If you could see how she draws!"

"Haven't the Elorzas any other daughters than this?"

"Yes, that other girl, who is sitting down over there; her name is Marta. She is going to be very handsome, too."

"Indeed, she is pretty; but she hasn't any expression at all. It's a common kind of beauty, while her sister--"

"Hush! she's going to begin." Then ensued a silence in the company such as had always been Don Serapio's ideal--unrealizable like all ideals.

Maria sang various operatic pieces which were asked for, and needed no urging. When she finished, the plaudits were so eager and long that it made her blush.

Suarez a.s.sured his circle[3] of ladies that she had a voice which resembled Nantier Didier's, and that a short time at the conservatory would put her on an equality with the leading contraltos.

When the congratulations had ceased, and the looks of all had ceased to be fastened upon her, a shade of sadness came over Maria's lovely face.

She went to Dona Gertrudis and whispered in her ear,--

"Mamma, I have a very severe headache."

"Ay! daughter of my heart, I sympathize with you. I, too, am having my share of pain."

"I should like to go to bed."

"Then go, my daughter, go. I will say that you are feeling a trifle indisposed."

"Adios, mamaita! Good night, and sleep well."

Maria kissed her mother's brow, and gradually, taking care not to be noticed, she left the parlor by the dining-room door. She stopped to get a drink of _eau sucre_, and stood a moment motionless, with her eyes fixed on vacancy. The shade of melancholy had greatly dulled the brilliancy of her face.

She pa.s.sed out of the dining-room and crossed a long and pretty dark entry. At the end there was a door which led to a back stairway. She had mounted only four or five steps when she felt herself seized roughly by the arm, and uttered a cry of terror. Turning round, she saw with embarra.s.sment the pale and troubled face of her betrothed.

"Ricardo! what are you doing here?"

"I saw that you left the dining-room, and I followed you."

"What for?"

"To hear for a second time from your lips the infamous words you said to me in the drawing-room. Do you think, perhaps, it isn't worth while to repeat them? Do you think, perhaps, that I can give up a whole past of love, a whole future of happiness, all the sweet dreams of my life, without calling you infamous, a hundred times infamous, a thousand times infamous, now right here, while we are together alone, afterwards in open society, and then before the whole world? Come, come back, you miserable girl--come back, and let me call you so before everybody!"

And Ricardo, pale and trembling like a gambler who has staked his last remaining money on a card, firmly grasped his sweetheart by the wrist and tried to drag her back to the parlor.