CHAPTER XXIII.

THE VICTIMIZED HUSBAND.

As evening drew on Leon went into the room where his wife had died. There were a variety of objects left there which he wished to collect and remove. The house was deserted; he could hear the echo of his own steps, and the few lights cast deep shadows. He thought he perceived a figure coming in from the portico to the principal corridor, walking stealthily and softly like a thief, listening to every sound and keeping a sharp look-out. The first flash of suspicion followed by a noiseless explosion of hatred, as the shot follows the match, so startled Leon that his immediate impulse was to hide himself, and watch the intruder unseen. He shrunk behind a hanging and saw him creep by: It was He. Leon perceived it more from an instinctive loathing than by seeing him; just as, in a different sense, a spirit of divination is born of lofty and passionate love.

Cimarra passed him with a cat-like step, prying about cautiously as he went. He turned down a carpeted gallery where the walls were covered with a valuable collection of political caricatures from the comic papers and broadsheets of every country, displayed in a chronological series--the history of a century in mockery and laughter. In the corners were four old-fashioned screens covered with water-colours for which there had been no room on the walls. Leon slipped behind the nearest and watched the intruder, who sat down on a large divan in the middle. To account for what followed it is necessary to explain that, on arriving at Suertebella, the new-comer had held a colloquy with one of the under-servants on whom he could depend.

“Be so good,” he said, “as to go to the chapel and say to Padre Paoletti that I have come here to speak with he knows whom; and that I will wait for him in the gallery of caricatures. Show him the way up the stairs to the tribune, across the old picture-room, and down the little passage.”

Soon Leon heard the familiar leaden shuffle. The door of the little passage opened and the priest came in. Leon could see him perfectly, because the gallery had glass doors to the entrance hall which was always brilliantly lighted up at night.

Cimarra hastened forward to meet the confessor; they sat down side by side.

“Your respected uncles,” the priest began, “sent me word last evening that you wished to speak with me; but I did not suppose that it would be to-night, or in this house, but later, and in the confessional.”

“I have things to discuss with you later and in the confessional,” replied the other. “But you understand that here, and to-night, I have something else to talk about. That is to say, dear Señor Paoletti, that there are two subjects to be discussed--one of considerable interest, and the other very urgent.”

“Then begin with what is urgent, and leave what is merely interesting till a future opportunity.”

“To begin with what is urgent--I take it for granted that you know all the secrets of this house; I do not of course mean the secrets of the confessional.”

“I know none whatever,” said the priest drily.

“That merely means that I have no claim on your confidence. But, in short, do you not know what my wife proposes to do? I hear she intends to fly with her lover.”

“Sir,” said Paoletti sternly, “I know nothing whatever of what you expect me to tell you; I never intrude where I am not invited, and it is a matter of perfect indifference to me whether the guilty persons escape or no. I am here to watch and pray by the body of a sainted daughter and friend, whose spiritual director I had the honour to be.”

“I know it.--But you are respected and esteemed by all. Don Pedro highly appreciates you; my wife is very religious, and when she is in trouble she likes to talk about the Virgin _del Cármen_, and the saints. It might have happened that she should have sent for you to console and strengthen her this morning, and this evening you might--how can I tell? You might have known things of which I am ignorant, and you might--you might, just possibly, have been able and willing to give me some information and extricate me from my position of uncertainty.”

“I know nothing; nor, if I did, could I lower myself to play the part of the spy and tale-bearer, which you seem to expect,” exclaimed Paoletti rather hotly. “You do not know me; your worthy uncles have failed to explain to you the sort of man I am. My office is to console the afflicted and reprove the erring; I have no concern with worldly affairs. Those who need me will find me nowhere but in the confessional. Good-night, Caballero.”

He rose to go. Cimarra detained him, holding his robe.

“But I have much to explain to you,” he said. “Do not judge me so hastily. If I were to confess, if I were....”

The priest sat down again.

“No, I cannot confess here and now. To you it would be an act of sheer hypocrisy. Such a farce would ill-beseem me. I wish to speak the truth, even though the truth that comes from my lips should deal ruin and terror like ball from a cannon. Allow me, in the first place, to tell you something about myself, that you may the better understand the urgency of my claims.

“I must begin by saying that I always was fully conscious of my own slender merit, and that the moral world was to me a citadel with closed and barred gates. I never had any wish to expose myself to the labour of besieging the citadel or scaling its walls. It was my fortune--or misfortune, which, it is hard to decide--not to believe in God or in anything beyond this atrocious barred dungeon in which we are confined; and with this comfortable lack of creed I enjoyed a tranquil frame of mind which lulled my spirit to lethargy and enabled me to remain supremely indifferent to the good or bad opinion of others.”

The priest, really horrified at hearing such an appalling profession of faith, again turned to go, saying that he was open to confession, but did not profess to tame monsters; but Federico only smiled, and detaining the Italian he went on:

“But stay. I have something to say that may perhaps please you better.--I am weary of it all. I have been rich, and poor; powerful, and a beggar; I have seen all that is to be seen and enjoyed all that is to be enjoyed. With regard to women, I may say that on the whole I despise them; and I have no belief in anybody’s virtue. If you ask my opinion of men I can only say with the sceptical poet: ‘_Plus je connais les hommes plus j’aime les chiens._’”[A]

[A] The better I know men, the better I love dogs.

“Allow me to advise you to go and live in the company of dogs, or to found a canine colony where you will feel more at your ease,” said Paoletti with grim irony. “I am only waiting to see if any spark of light will flash from the horrible blackness of your soul. But I see none.”

“I am coming to a delicate point. You know all about my wife.--When I was supposed to be dead she fell in love with another man. I believe she had loved him long before. Pepa hated me from the day she married me. In point of fact I did everything to justify her hatred. I treated her ill, I degraded her, I compromised her again and again by my pecuniary delinquencies; I spent her money on other women; my language was not refined, any more than my behaviour; I looked upon her as a useful piece of property, neither more nor less.”

“Enough of this!” exclaimed the priest, starting away from him as though he were some loathesome vermin. “If this is a confession of sin I will listen to it; but if it is merely an outrageous display of hardened cynicism I cannot--I cannot bear it.”

“You have interrupted me at the most important point. I was just going to say that now my wife to a certain extent commands my respect; that I acknowledge myself guilty towards her, and in every way her inferior, that I deserve her contempt; that it is only natural, and even legitimate in theory--I may warn you that I too have theories--and I admit that, in theory, it is only natural that Pepa should love another man: as natural as that the birds should build their nests in the branches of trees rather than in the jaws of foxes.”

“It never can be natural and legitimate for a married woman to love any man but her husband,” said Paoletti very gravely. “What would have been natural and legitimate is that your wife, instead of listening to the addresses of a married man and contributing to the martyrdom of a perfect angel, should have dedicated to God the affections you have ceased to deserve.”

“Mysticism is a figurative fount which cannot satisfy the thirsty. She did not crave to love a phantom but a man. I have reasons for believing that she has loved him from her childhood. In one of our violent quarrels, which used to be of daily occurrence, she said: ‘You are not my husband and never have been; my husband is there....’ and she tapped her forehead. Another time she said: ‘Marrying you was a deliberate act of self-degradation.’ In short, respected father, at this moment I confess to a grain of respect for the wretched soul who has been my victim. As a woman I do not care a straw for her. She does not appeal to my heart, to my imagination, or to my senses. So far as love goes, I could almost let her go, let her break one tie to form the other; but my pride rebels. Another thing I may tell you is that I hate the man; I have hated him ever since we were at college together; I believe that my aversion and her love have run in parallel grooves till an unlucky moment when they came into collision, and broke out in conflict,--and I must conquer--I must conquer.”

“You have only to assert your rights. But this is no concern of mine; I plead not for law but for virtue.”

“I am coming to that point. We have here an alliance of virtue and law, and both are on my side,” Cimarra went on with increased vehemence. “I am the stronger and she the weaker party; I am the defendant, and they are the criminals. I am protected alike by religion and morality; by God and his laws, by the Church and by public opinion. Nothing, no one, can protect them. The ground on which I stand is solid earth, the best suited to my purposes, desiring as I do to be reconciled to the powers that rule the world, and to become a useful wheel in the social machine. Feeling secure in my position, and upheld both by human Justice, and by what you call divine laws, I intended to prosecute them on legal grounds, to exhaust every means, to worry them out of their lives and give them no peace nor breathing time; to cover them with dishonour, heap disgrace on them ... to attack them with the code in one hand and the anathemas of the Church in the other. These were my weapons; but, you must know, that my worthy uncles and my respected father-in-law have spent this whole day in concocting a compromise. Oh! my illustrious father-in-law is an eminently practical man, with an intense horror of exaggeration. He is as fond of me as he might be of the toothache. Unfortunately for him, this man, who is all-powerful in society, and who has a right to treat Spaniards as if they were slaves he had bought or could sell, can do nothing to hurt me. The arm of the law, if he used it to attack me, would turn and wound him too.”

“And you say that Don Justo Cimarra and Don Pedro Fúcar have been planning a compromise?” said Paoletti, who, in spite of his resolution, was yielding a little to curiosity.

“An amicable separation.--But as yet there is nothing proved, my dear sir. All must depend on our philosopher, geologist, cave-hunter.--Gustavo told me that everything was prepared for their flight, and I believe him--I must confess that I should do the same in their place!”

“So far as I am concerned I can only say that the matter does not interest me in the least,” said Paoletti, subduing his curiosity. “You are talking of law-suits, not of a case of conscience.”

“I will go on to speak of my wife. You know that I have a daughter?”

“Yes,” and again the priest felt the prick of curiosity.

“Monina is my child. Well, _señor cura_, the only being in the world who can rouse my soul to anything like an emotion, the only creature who, now and then, makes me think and feel unlike my habitual self, for whom a smile still lingers in that dark, unfathomed region which we call the soul--for lack of any other name, is my little daughter. I do not know what comes over me; when I was at the point of death in that horrible ship with its cargo of petroleum, everything vanished from my mind but the sense of danger, and in the midst of that danger that little golden head rose up before my eyes. I fancied that I clung to it to save myself in that wretched leaky boat which seemed every moment to be sinking. You will smile at my folly.--I used to play with her, to make her laugh that I might laugh too....”

“At last, at last,” said Paoletti with satisfaction. “Here is the spark I was looking for.”

“No--do not suppose there is any particular virtue in it; it is only that my little fair-haired child--or toy--with her angel’s eyes, has a wonderful charm for me. I fancy I love her, and should love her more if I had her more constantly with me. I hear she was near dying of croup. I long to have her in my arms. What do you say to this?”

“I say that there is no soil, however barren, from which no flower can spring.”

“This has nothing to do with flowers.--What I want to tell you is that as I passed through New York, I saw, in a shop window, a little toy carriage full of dolls and pulled by a string, and I bought it to bring to her.”

Paoletti smiled.

“I see all your pride, your indifference to your wife, your hatred of your rival, the law-suit and possible compromise; I see your atrocious atheism, your passions, your inhuman cynicism,--your love for the child, and the little carriage pulled by a string,”--Cimarra had it in his hand.--“But I do not see what I can do in the matter.”

“Now we have come to the point, to what, as I said, is urgent. I am most anxious to know what they are plotting.--Is he here to-night? I was told he had some friends to see him. I am perfectly convinced that you know it; my wife is sure to have told you.”

“To have told me? I believe the lady has a particular dislike to me.”

“You must know through the Condesa de Vera, who is my wife’s most intimate friend; she, if I mistake not, is one of your flock.”

“I know nothing, and they have told me nothing,” said the priest with some asperity. “And even if I knew....”

“Oh! you need not be afraid that in case of their attempting to fly, I should go in for high tragedy, and make a scene. I do not challenge or kill. I am more philosophical than all your philosophers put together.”

“I can only repeat that I know nothing and want to know nothing.”

“It is impossible that such a man as you should have come to the house two days in succession and not know everything that goes on in it.”

“But I am not a friend in this house--I am a foe.”

“Then as you cannot satisfy my curiosity,” said the intruder sadly, “you cannot help me I suppose?”

“In what?”

“To see the child.”

“It is vain to ask me a favour which is altogether out of my sphere. Nothing on earth would induce me to take a step beyond this room. Apply to the servants.”

“No one will do a thing for me for fear of Fúcar. My affectionate father-in-law has given strict orders that I am not to be admitted. All the way from the gate I only found one servant who would take a bribe. Even the dogs hate me here.”

“Steal in like a thief.”

“I am afraid of being seen.”

“Go in as a father.”

“I cannot, at any rate at this hour.”

“Much less can I.”

“If the Countess de Vera is here and you say only two words to her--if you only tell her with your usual eloquence what I want, what I wish--she will not refuse you. I solemnly swear to you that I have no evil intention whatever. I only want to give my child three good kisses....”

“_Vade retro._ I do not trust your intentions which may be what you describe them, or may be utterly vile.”

“I will not insist. At any rate I have the grace not to be an obstinate beggar.--The only important subject of our interview may be regarded as disposed of. You will forgive my boldness.”

“It is forgiven.”

“The other question of interest which I proposed to discuss with you, and which can be postponed, is closely connected with what I have been saying. Supposing my wife is subdued by the threat of the law, controls her passion and sends the geologist about his business.... In a short time it will be quite easy for you to become Pepa’s spiritual director.”

“I do not go where I am not bidden.”

“Pepa has many friends who are your daughters in the Church, who form, if I may say so, your spiritual family. The Condesa de Vera in particular....”

“Yes, I am her director; she honours me by her friendship.”

“Just so. Then if you chose you could be Pepa’s. Her lonely life would predispose her to mysticism. The mind of a poor weak woman, when her illusions are past, turns to the altar.”

”Well, you may have a really good and honest purpose in suggesting this. If what you desire is that I should interfere to make the best of an unhappy marriage, and snatch back to God two souls that the Devil claims, the idea seems to me a good one. But to that end, you must begin by abjuring your atrocious opinions, and become a sincere Catholic.”

“So far as that goes, I have no wish to disturb the general concord. I am most anxious to be reconciled to society, to show my respect for its venerable institutions, to settle down and give rise to no scandals, above all not to set a bad example to the lower orders, who, if they see a man in broad-cloth neglect going to church, think that they may commit robbery and murder. I have no intention of starting afresh with a map in my hand, or of toiling in business to accumulate a fortune for myself. I am sure that I shall get on and that even Fúcar, who thinks himself a little Almighty, will cease to call me a ruffian and even agree at last to make bargains and do business with me. The present generation has a powerful gift of forgetfulness. It is very easy to rehabilitate oneself in a society like ours, a medley of the most dissimilar elements--all bad, and governed by the worst--the love of show. In quite half of the households of a certain class we see the _ménage à trois_; public administration ought to be called public prevarication; high and low are distinguished by nothing on earth but the different clothes under which they hide their grossly scandalous conduct; politics are a system of pillage; the people are ruined in taxes and enrich themselves by lotteries; justice is the curse of fools and the blessing of the knowing; and if two or three agree to call some puppet a remarkable man, every one believes them. Nothing is easier than to make a robe of honour and put it on, to become a distinguished patriot and public character, and see your portrait on the penny match-boxes. I would undertake, if I gave my mind to it, to make people think I was worthy to be canonized within a couple of years. But I am not prepared to turn bigot just yet.--As to our marriage do not worry yourself with trying to patch that up--it is past remedy; but if she, from an honest instinct, packs off her lover, then make a saint of her, and you will comfort her greatly. I should be glad to see my wife devout, pious and good; I like your edifying folks. Leave me to recover my own footing in society in my own way. What I ask of your goodness and Catholic feeling is that, after you have gained the control of Pepa’s mind--without any idea of bringing us together, for which I do not care in the least--you will induce her to allow me to see the child. There would be no need for my coming here; I would rather not, I have always hated Suertebella; but some one could bring her to see me--you, for instance. Let us say she should come and dine with me twice a week, or once a week: nothing more than that.”

“What depths of utter apathy!” exclaimed Paoletti with intense bitterness. “I have seen many men of such temper in society in Spain; but you, with your detestable pessimism, could give them points and beat them all.”

“I at any rate say what I mean.”

“The long and short of it is, Señor Cimarra, that you are in my eyes so abominable that I cannot see my way to gratifying the only legitimate desire which lurks, almost invisible, in the blackness and barrenness of your soul. Do not count upon me for anything. If your wife repents and dismisses her lover, and if I am called in--which is no doubt, very possible--to direct her conscience, my first task will be to cure her of her sinful griefs; and then I will turn her thoughts to God, who is the only refuge of those poor women who have been so rash as to love unworthy men. What joy for me to win a fresh battle against Satan. You--you do not exist, you are nothing to me! Do not keep me any longer; let me return to watch by the beloved dead.”

“I shall not go into the chapel; I have a horror of dead people. Pardon me for having disturbed you, reverend Father.”

“I will not neglect to pray for you.”

“I do not refuse--on the contrary, I thank you.”

“I look forward to the day of your repentance.”

“Thank you; you are most kind. It is more than I deserve. Good-bye, a thousand apologies.”

The little priest went softly away; his heavy steps died away in the passage which led to the chapel. Cimarra went out the same way; but he went down the steps and not into the little sanctuary where the illumination of mortuary torches filled him with more dread than respect. He crossed the deserted park, shrinking into the shadow of the trees when, now and again, he heard footsteps. Every now and then he felt his pocket to be sure that he had not lost the toy for Monina.

Presently, in the course of his nocturnal expedition, he saw Fúcar’s carriage drive in at the gates, and from his safe distance he addressed him in thought rather than in words: “Ah! my friend, what eyes I caught you making this afternoon in the street at the fair American who came with me from the States. Jupiter! you wished she was for you I’ll wager.”

He saw the marquis get out of the carriage with another man, and muttered to himself: “My uncle is with him! What is up I wonder. Oh! dread curiosity! Why do you torment me as if you were jealousy?”