CHAPTER XXII.

VISITS OF CONDOLENCE.

Leon was awake and fighting his mental battle till daybreak; then he felt very weary, and locking himself into his room, he slept for some hours with that deep sleep which is apt to visit the condemned wretch on the last morning, a sort of intoxication produced by violent and long-continued sorrow.

It was about ten o’clock when he called his servant to help him dress, gaining much interesting information meanwhile. The señora’s body had been carried into the chapel by the kind permission of Don Pedro, and Padre Paoletti had watched by it all night, and would remain there all day and the night to come, praying incessantly. Padre Paoletti, with the parish priests of Polvoranca and the neighbouring village, had performed Mass early that morning at the altar of St. Luis Gonzaga.

Then Paoletti made his appearance to discuss various pious legacies left by the deceased. To all this Leon gave his most anxious attention, and he gave further orders to the priest so that whatever remained to be done might be carried out with all magnificence. The marquis himself came in, and they sat talking for a long time, without excitement or hard words, gloomy and calm like a couple of diplomatic envoys from conquered nations who in the midst of disaster are anxious to checkmate a victorious usurper.

“It all rests with you,” said Don Pedro again and again, with a melancholy expression. “You are master of the situation.”

But even after these words the conversation continued for some little time longer, growing more and more grave and gloomy, till the last sentences sounded almost like a funeral chant. The conference, like some on which the fate of nations has turned, ended in a breakfast. But on this occasion it was eaten in silence and hardly touched, a thing which never happens in politics.

In the afternoon visitors began to arrive. Leon saw a melancholy procession of black coats and heard a succession of sighs which announced the comers like vocal visiting cards. Some with warm and genuine sympathy, and others with total indifference, expressed their sorrow at the event of the previous day; but without mentioning what, thus offering an opportunity for a satirical explanation. Some shook their heads, expressing: “What a world we live in!” Others squeezed his hand as much as to say: “You have lost your wife! When shall I have such a piece of luck!” Two hundred black-gloved hands pressed his in turn. To him, feeling giddy and stunned and paying no attention to their monotonous formulas, all they could say sounded like a hiss and hum of irony. If the _Incroyables_ themselves had taken up their parable, speaking through the mass of neckcloth that almost covered their mouths, it could not have produced a more discordant mockery of woe. Some, of course, had come out of sincere regard; some to witness this extraordinary scene, this scandal above scandals; to look close at the widower who, after killing his wife with neglect, flaunted his connection with a married woman under the very roof where the innocent victim had died only a few hours since. This idea lurked perhaps in only a few minds, but it did in some. After paying their respects to the mourner, several went into the chapel to gaze at the dead--beautiful even in death.

At last the dismal crowd grew thinner--only three were left--two--one. He was one of Leon’s most intimate friends and he stayed some time. Then Leon was alone.

“Can I speak to you?” he heard a voice say at the door and he started on seeing Gustavo.

“If you will speak briefly and plainly,” he replied.

His brother-in-law slowly approached.

“We are quitting this house,” he said, “which to us is the abode of sorrow and sin. You, I presume, will remain here, bound to it as you are by interest and passion. We are glad to be free from you. My mother desires me to beg that you will not attempt to see her and take leave of her.”

“I had already made up my mind to forego that honour,” said Leon coldly. “Pray be good enough to make that clear to all your family.”

“Very good.--I can only congratulate myself on being the very opposite to you,” said the lawyer laying his hand on his breast. “I answer your ironical philosophy with Christian charity, and announce to you that my mother, my father, all of us forgive you.”

“Thank them in my name. I am edified and delighted by such Christian conduct.”

“We forgive you, not merely for the sad end....”

“What! again?”

“Not merely for the sad end to which you have brought my sister, but for the insult you have offered to her sainted remains.”

Leon sat silent, dignified and sad.

“Do you protest? Do you deny it?” said Gustavo.

“I deny nothing. I have the pleasure, on the contrary, of leaving you undisturbed in the unenviable enjoyment of your base imaginings.”

“Then we will drop this odious subject. We are convinced, you are impenitent; each must hold his own.--Before we part for ever I am anxious to have you understand that I have done nothing to encourage Cimarra, or to incite him to attack you. He came to my house, and consulted me; I advised him and drew up his case. All the rest is your own doing.”

“Be quite easy. Do not torment your conscience about that man; while defending his lawful rights, you may possibly guide him into the path of salvation.”

“Your atheistical mockery cannot disturb my conscience, which, though it is far from spotless, at any rate can see what is just and right. Whether Federico’s repentance is sincere or not I cannot tell. But it is against all sound doctrine to reject a man who confesses his sins and declares he is resolved to act rightly for the future. If he is brought to profess repentance, he may be led to desire it; and the desire is half-way to the accomplishment of the fact. In this respect this man’s form of evil has an advantage over your hardened disbelief, since you can never confess nor repent.”

“I do beg you,” said Leon “to spare me the soporific treatment of your sermons. The strangest thing about them is that they are in fact grossly heterodox. A pretty apostle the Church can boast of!--Polito might have come to announce the forgiveness of the family, and he would not have preached to me.”

“He wished to come, but mamma would not allow it. His impetuous nature fills her with alarm. We all hope that as he is about to undertake the sobering duties of married life he may settle down, and break himself of the vices which scandalize us.”

“Leopold is going to be married? Allow me to congratulate the lady, though I have not the pleasure of knowing her.”

“The difficulties between my family and the Villa Bojios were all removed last night when the young lady’s mother came to call and was most lavish in her affectionate condolences. The Villa Bojios have lately lost a son, and the mothers mingled their tears; it was agreed that Leopold and Susana should be married as soon as we are out of mourning.”

“Congratulate your mother for me--I wish her every success.”

“The covert satire of your tone is worthy of your utter disregard of our sorrow.--I have had nothing whatever to do with this business, and you yourself know very well that I have bewailed from my heart all the disgrace which has fallen on the family in consequence of my father’s misdemeanours, my mother’s folly and Polito’s vices. You, when I believed you to be honest and honourable, were the confidant of my griefs. Now, when we recoil from you with invincible repugnance, I feel I must tell you that I cannot eat a morsel of bread in peace until we have repaid to the uttermost farthing a man who does not deserve to be our creditor.”

“If you mean me, I look for no indemnification. I am sufficiently repaid with ingratitude.”

“That is all very fine,” said Gustavo sarcastically. “What I have said I have said. Now, we meet no more. My last word is to acknowledge that I was mistaken in saying that you would die of rage: You will live on cynicism.--I know, the carriage is waiting and the trunks packed for a theatrical flight in defiance of social decency and the laws of morality. Well, well; it is no more than might be expected of you.--_Bon voyage_, son of Satan....”

“Your penetration and information as to my proceedings are really remarkable!--Now, if you please we will part.”

“It is my desire.”

“And I insist upon it. Good-bye.”

Not long after, peeping through the blinds, he watched the departure of what had been his family. The marquis, feeble and crushed, was almost carried by the poet who was still in attendance. His wife, really broken-hearted, was a pathetic object. Polito, his throat muffled up in voluminous wraps, gave one arm to the young lady who was to be his wife, while in the other he held a dog. Milagros was supported and almost lifted into the carriage by Pilar and Señora de Villa Bojío.--Whips cracked, the horses pawed, and one, two, three, four coaches rolled across the park bearing away the dozen or so of human creatures, to whom the solemnity of a recent sorrow lent factitious respectability.