CHAPTER V.

THE ROAD TO PERFECTION.

The letter which we have just read led to a very important crisis in the lives of our lovers. Ricardo at first was furious, and wrote a long answer to his betrothed, announcing the end of their acquaintance, but he did not send it. Then he held a consultation with her in which he overwhelmed her with recriminations and insults, saving that all she had written in her letter was nothing but a tissue of follies and absurdities, manufactured on purpose to hide her treachery; that she might have dismissed him in some way not so grotesque; that although he had no claim upon her love, at least he might and ought to demand the frankness and loyalty which he had always shown; that for a long time back he had noticed her coldness and indifference, but he could never have believed that she would make use of a pretext so ridiculous and so absurd for breaking the tie that united them, etc., etc. Maria received this storm of contumely with great humility, assuring him with gentle words of persuasion, when he left her a moment's chance to speak, that she still loved him with all her soul; that he might put her love to the test as often as he pleased, since she was ready to make whatever sacrifice he demanded, except what went against her conscience; that his suspicions of her untruth and treachery cut her to the heart, but she forgave him because she was aware of his excited state of mind; that she likewise felt it keenly that he should call the motives of her resolution grotesque and ridiculous when she found them so worthy; and, in fine, that she begged him to calm himself.

After the young marquis had thoroughly vented his ill feeling without result, he began to get off of his high horse and try the effect of skilful reasoning, and then he changed to entreaties, but without any better results. He employed all the device of genius and all the tender and expressive words dictated by his honorable heart, in order to convince her that neither of them was fortunately under the necessity of mourning for their sins like two criminals; since if they were not better than the average of humanity, they were at least as good; and as for their skill and judgment in governing themselves and their children in matrimony, he believed that they were no less fitted than the rest, and that in the end they would come out as well as other people. All was useless. The young woman met argument with argument, and her lover's prayers, sprinkled with endearments, with a firm and obstinate silence. Ricardo, in a state of tribulation which Father Rivadeneira does not take account of as a matter of merit in his treatise, went straight to Don Mariano, whom he loved like a father, to tell him the state of things, and ask his aid and advice. The latter was highly surprised and disturbed when he read his daughter's letter. He read it over many times as though he could not get the key of it, and at each new reading he found it more obscure and inexplicable. Finally he handed it back with a gesture of dismay, signifying that his daughter must have lost her wits, for he could not understand any such nonsense.

In point of fact, Don Mariano was a sincere believer, fulfilling scrupulously the moral precepts of religion, but he looked upon the things which relate to worship with some coolness, if not with scorn. He had never doubted the religious truths learned in his childhood, but he had never made much account of masses and sermons, and he never went to church more than was strictly necessary. He could make a distinction, when these subjects were up for discussion, between religion and the priest, professing for these latter a decided Voltairian hostility, which came from inheritance, according to Doña Gertrudis, since his grandfather, the Mexican, had kept up friendly relations and a voluminous correspondence with a member of the French Convention. He had an insuperable faith in modern progress, and he made use of the inventions constantly realized by human industry, in order to combat and crush the fragile arguments of his constant enemies, the partisans of tradition, among whom not the least obstinate and vexatious was his wife. If, for example, a telegram from any relation or friend was received in the house, Don Mariano, after reading it, would hold it out to his wife with a triumphal smile, saying,--

"Here, this miserable modern invention brings us word that your brother has reached Paris safely."

He delighted in making humorous conjectures on the fright that would seize our forefathers if they were suddenly put in a railroad car, or were told that they could communicate whenever they pleased with a friend residing in Havana. Whenever he found in the papers a notice of any wonderful invention, the audacious man hastened to read it to his wife, and he kept the paper so as to read it also to the many conservatives who frequented his house. If the invention was not costly, he had the machine sent him, although it was not of the slightest use to him; and so he kept the house stored with curious manufactures, almost all of them covered with dust, and out of order by want of use,--ice-making machines, churns, cider-mills, organs, etc., parlor telegraphs, stereopticons, pans for cooking meat with a piece of paper, life-preservers, canes with chairs and guns, waterproof umbrellas with tent arrangement, and an endless array of strange articles. When the machine did not work, Don Mariano was disgusted and felt humiliated, and fearing lest the glory of modern science should be diminished in consequence, he did not speak of the apparatus before his señora; or if he were obliged to do so, he escaped the difficulty on a tangent, as he used to say, by always attributing the unfortunate result to his own stupidity, and not the quality of the machine. This eager love which he professed for the incredible advances of the present age, and the struggle which he waged both in his house and out of it with the friends of tradition, occasionally impelled him to employ forbidden weapons, as for example to exaggerate the power of modern industry, giving fictitious accounts of the beginning of stupendous new enterprises which had never as yet entered into the mind of man. One day he startled his friends by assuring them that it was seriously intended to establish a floating bridge between Europe and America, over which one could travel by rail to the New World; another time he astonished them by declaring that a telescope was in construction, which would bring the moon within half a league of the earth, so that we could discover whether that satellite had inhabitants. Again, he filled them with wonder by informing them that in the United States a whole cathedral had been moved at once from one town to another by means of hydraulic pressure. In regard to mechanical advances, Don Mariano had more imagination than Shakespeare. National politics engaged his attention little in comparison with the incessant and sublime progress realized by humanity, and he detested the exaggerations which in his view tended to hinder it. His affiliations were with the liberal conservative party.

With these peculiarities, it is easy to imagine the effect made upon him by his daughter's letter. He looked upon it as one of those many extravagant hobbies which she had passed through in her life, and he solemnly promised Ricardo to make her desist from such folly. But after he had called her to his room and spent about two hours closeted with her, he began to suspect that the thing was not so easy as it appeared at first sight. Neither by turning her austere plan into ridicule by his jests, nor by showing that he was annoyed, nor by descending to entreaties, was our worthy caballero able to accomplish anything. Maria met these attacks like her lover's, with a humble but resolute attitude impossible to overcome. No other way was left them but to resign themselves, and this they both did perforce with the secret hope that the girl would very soon change of her own accord when once her caprice was satisfied. Accordingly the wedding was indefinitely postponed, and poor Ricardo began to play his part as Duke of Thuringen almost as ill as a Spanish actor. From that time forth his interviews with Maria became less frequent and familiar. The girl seemed to shun him and to avoid opportunities of talking confidentially with him as she used. Ricardo eagerly sought them, sometimes employing them in bitter expostulations, at others in softly whispering a thousand passionate phrases. She always appeared sweet and affectionate, but endeavored to turn the conversation to serious subjects. Ricardo still caressed her whenever he had an opportunity, but he no longer obtained from her the usual reciprocation in spite of the incredible efforts which he made to obtain it. And not only he did not obtain this grace, but little by little the girl came to avoid his familiarities by always talking with him in the presence of others. One day when he found her alone in the dining-room, he said to himself with inward delight, "She is mine." And creeping up behind her carefully, he gave her a ringing kiss on her neck. Maria sprang suddenly from her chair and said, with a certain sweetness not free from severity,--

"Ricardo, don't do that again!"

"Why not?"

"Because I don't like it."

"How long since?"

"I never did; don't be foolish." She said these words with asperity, and another unpleasant stage in Ricardo's love was signalized. Almost absolutely ceased those happy moments of fond raptures, sweet and delicious as the pleasures of the angels in which the poesy of spirit and matter is indistinguishable, the prospect of which kindles and stirs the deepest roots of our being, and their remembrance throws over all our lives, even for the most prosaic of men, a vague and poetical melancholy helping us to endure the rebuffs of existence and to contemplate without envy the felicity of others. The most that the young marquis obtained grudgingly from his sweetheart was the permission to give her a brotherly kiss on the forehead from time to time. And there is no need of telling my experienced readers, for they must be able to imagine it, that with this enforced fast the young man's love far from growing less, increased and became violent beyond all power of words.

Maria was able fully to devote herself to the life of perfection toward which she had felt such vehement aspiration. The hours of the day seemed to her too few for her prayers, both at church and at home, and for the repentance of her sins. She attended the sacraments more and more, and she was present and assisted with her sympathy and money in all the religious solemnities which were celebrated in the town. The time left free from her prayers she spent in reading books of devotion, which, in a short time, formed a library almost as numerous as her novels. The lives of the saints pleased her above all, and she soon devoured a multitude of them, paying most attention, as was logical, to the lives of those who reached the greatest glory and brought the greatest splendor to the Church,--the life of Saint Teresa, that of Saint Catalina of Sienna, of Saint Gertrudis, of Saint Isabel, Saint Eulalia, Saint Monica, and many others who, without having been canonized, were celebrated for their piety and for the spiritual graces which God bestowed upon them, like the holy Margarita of Alacoque, Mademoiselle de Melun, and others. These works made a very profound impression on our young lady's ardent and enthusiastic mind, driving her farther and farther along the road to perfection. The incredible and marvellous powers of those heroic souls, who, through love and charity, succeeded in lifting themselves to heaven, and in enjoying through anticipation, while still on earth, the delights reserved for the blessed, filled her with deep, fervent admiration. She felt an ecstasy over the most insignificant incidents in the lives of the saints, where God often showed them that He held them as His chosen ones, and would not let the world entice them away, as, for example, the scene of the miraculous toad which Saint Teresa saw talking in the garden with a caballero toward whom she felt a drawing; the sudden death of Buenaventura, Saint Catalina's sister, who was leading that holy woman along the worldly path of bodily adornments and pleasures; and many others which filled the books aforesaid. Maria regarded these notable heroines of religion with the same emotion and astonishment as one regards the phenomena and marvels of nature. A long time passed before she dared to lift her eyes toward them in the way of imitation; she contented herself with beseeching them, through interminable prayers, to intercede with God to pardon her sins. She bought the finest effigies that she found and, when she had caused them to be richly framed, she hung them up on the walls of her room. To do this she had to take down Malec-Kadel and many other warriors of the Middle Ages which had invaded them. She was especially carried away by the scenes of their infancy, and by the first steps which these blessed women had taken along the road to perfection; but when she reached that part of their lives which marked the apogee of their glory on earth, when God, overcome by their steadfast love, their fidelity, and the wonderful penances imposed upon themselves, began to grant them favors and spiritual gifts by means of ecstasies and visions, she remained somewhat disturbed and even cast down. She did not as yet comprehend the mystic delight of direct communication through the senses between the soul and God, and she confessed with great compunction that if one of these miraculous visions were to be vouchsafed her, she should feel much greater fear than pleasure.

Nevertheless, before long, the desire to imitate them sprang up in her heart. It is always a short step from admiration to imitation. She began where it was proper, that is, by imitating their humility. Hitherto she had been modest, but not to such a degree as not to enjoy being flattered and applauded; but from this time forth she not only carefully avoided all praise, but she repelled those who offered it, and even tried to hide her talents so as to give her friends no chance to praise her. She began to talk as little as possible with friends or members of the family, and to do on the instant whatever they asked her to, lamenting in her heart that they did not give her harsh commands. She managed to have the servants help her at table after all the rest, and always give her stale bread instead of fresh. To conquer the natural impulses of selfishness she showed those who had offended her more affability than others, and any one had only to offend her pride more or less for her immediately to overwhelm them with attentions, as though she owed them gratitude. On the other hand, to those who, as she knew, loved and admired her, she took delight in seeming peevish, so that they might not think her better than she really was.

Having started out on this pious path, which has been travelled by all the saints for the glory of God and of the human race, since the virtue of humility raises man above his own nature, conquering the passions deepest rooted in the human heart, and, of all virtues is the one that best proves the power of the spirit, and inspires respect even in the most unbelieving of men; having started out, I say on this pious path, and being aided by vivid imagination, she performed a number of strange deeds, wellnigh incomprehensible to those whose attention is turned to the world and not to religious things, deeds which the illustrious biographers of Saint Isabel calls _secret_ and _holy fancies_,[20] serving as the mystic steps whereby the soul mounts to perfection and communicates with God. One day, for example, it came into her mind to eat humbly with the servants as though she were one of them. In order to do this, when dinner-time came, she pretended to have a headache, and kept in her chamber; but when the family were gathered in the dining-room, she softly ran down stairs to the kitchen, and there she stayed all through the dinner-hour, helping herself to the remains of the food, to the surprise and admiration of the servants. Another day, when it seemed to her that she had not answered her father with sufficient respect, she suddenly presented herself in his office, fell on her knees, and begged his pardon. Don Mariano lifted her from the floor, with startled eyes:--

"But, my daughter, suppose you have not offended me or committed any fault? And even if you had, there is no need of going to these extremes. What nonsense! Come, give me a kiss, and go and sew with your sister, and don't frighten me again with such absurdities!"

Maria did not meet with the contrarieties in the bosom of her family that she would have liked, in the way of test. Her father and sister, though they did not encourage her in her devotions, said nothing to oppose her; and each day they showed her more and more affection, which was the natural consequence of the growing sweetness and gentleness of her character. Her mother adored her with foolish frenzy, blindly applauded all her acts of piety, and never wearied of praising to the skies the virtue and talent of her first-born. The servants, and particularly Genoveva, likewise joined their voices in a chorus of flatteries, spreading all over town the fame of her virtues, and crowning her with a halo of respect and sanctity. As far as such things influenced her salvation, our maiden would have preferred a cruel, tyrannical father, who laid harsh commands upon her, or a disagreeable mother or an envious sister, who would not let her live in peace, since, according to the biographies which she read, no saint had been free from suffering persecutions in her own family. She grieved inwardly at the ease and comfort which she enjoyed at home, and she thought that she suffered nothing for the God who had redeemed us with His blood. She would have liked it had a calumny been breathed about her, such as Palmerina caused Saint Catalina of Sienna to suffer, so that she might be scorned and maltreated; but no one in the house or out of it dreamed of doing such a thing.

To compensate for this absence of persecutions, she mortified her flesh with fasting and penances, always performing those which were most unpleasant to her. Some dish on the table was distasteful to her; then she imposed upon herself the penance of eating it, leaving others, of which she was extremely fond, untouched. She went so far as to put aloes in some, in imitation of what was done by Saint Nicolas of Tolentino. On Fridays she fasted rigorously on bread and water, performing miracles of shrewdness to prevent her father from discovering it; for she felt certain that if he knew it, he would not give his consent.

She always wore a locket around her neck, containing the picture of her betrothed. One day, when he had succeeded in having a moment's conversation alone with her, she said to him,--

"Listen, Ricardo; if you would not be vexed, I would tell you something."

"What is it?" hastily asked the young man, with the sudden alarm of one who is always afraid of some misfortune.

"I see that I am going to offend you--but I will tell you. I have taken your picture out of the locket."

Ricardo's face expressed amazement.

"And the worst is, that I have put another in its place."

The expression of amazement changed into one of such pain, that Maria, on looking in his contracted and grief-stricken face, could not refrain from breaking out into a fresh, ringing peal of merry laughter, such as in former times used to ripple from her lips all the time, and which little by little had decreased, as though the fire of light and joy from which they came had died down.

"Good Heavens! what a long face!--Wait! Now I'll show your substitute, so as to make you suffer more."

And taking the locket from her neck she showed it to him. It held the effigy of Jesus crowned with thorns. Ricardo, half satisfied and half vexed, answered with a smile.

"Now kiss it!"

The young man obeyed instantly, placing his lips on the picture of the Lord, and at the same time touching the rosy fingers which held it out to him. Maria withdrew them and ran away.

Equally as she schooled herself in humility, so she gave much heed to that other virtue, which is, so to speak, the foundation of our religion and the chief crown of glory that the creature can offer to God,--the virtue of charity. Our maiden's excellent heart and the example of her parents were sufficient reason for her to alleviate as far as possible the miseries of her neighbors, but beside this there was now the continual inducement in the incredible powers of abnegation and charity shown by the saints, whom she worshipped with the greatest fervor, particularly the holy Duchess of Thuringen, who bore the name of Mother of the Poor. And so she visited her compassion on all the wretched, and lost no opportunity to supply their needs with lavish hand. All the money which her father gave her she employed in almsgiving. In company with Genoveva she visited the houses of many poor people, whom she assisted not only with money but also with words of council, on the ground that man lives not by bread alone. In order to school herself in humility in the same way that was practised by Margaret, the sainted queen of Scotland, she had some beggars come secretly to her room, and washed their feet with the greatest scrupulousness. Each one of these pious deeds filled her with a holy inward joy such as she had never before experienced. She took up the habit of never allowing any poor person who asked alms to go without receiving them, since in addition to the dictates of her heart she remembered the multitude of cases in which our Lord or the Virgin had appeared to many saints in the disguise of beggars. Her desire, mixed with fear, that something of this sort might happen in her case, impelled her to scrutinize with considerable care the faces of the poor. But as her own resources did not suffice for her attention to such numerous charities, she had to scheme in order to obtain money from her father, using a thousand innocent devices: one day asking it for a parasol, another for a clock, another for a case of scissors, etc., etc. She went to such extremes, however, that Don Mariano began to suspect the truth, and put a limit to his munificence. His daughter had impoverished him with the greatest innocence.

Carried away by her ardent charity, she likewise wanted to put herself to the test by caring for the sick; above all, for those who were suffering from disgusting diseases. She heard that a woman near her house was suffering from a sore breast, and she made the resolution to go every morning and dress it, and this she instantly put into practice; but at the very first visit, wishing to add what she had read in the history of Saint Catalina, that is, wishing to kiss the sick woman's sore, the loathing and horror which overcame her were so great that she grew faint, became very ill, and Genoveva had to take her in her arms and carry her home.

The poor girl attributed her misfortune not to the feebleness of her stomach, but to her lack of virtue, and she applied herself with increased anxiety to better her life.

Genoveva took part in all these exercises of piety, but rather as her companion and confidential friend than as her maid. She aided her, oftentimes without understanding where she was going to stop, absolutely persuaded that she could not go on the wrong track, for she had blind faith in her señorita's discretion. It was not so much affection which she felt for her, as a species of idolatry in which was mingled admiration for her beauty, respect for her talent, and pride in having seen the birth of a prodigy in the creation of which she had had a share. Maria was unable to arouse in her the mystic enthusiasm which possessed herself, for Genoveva was not of an inflammable nature, and a supine ignorance shielded her from all sorts of enthusiasms; but she succeeded through her acts and religious discourses in awakening in her the fanaticism which is always dormant in the depths of vulgar, ignorant souls.

One night after Maria had retired from the family circle, and Genoveva had left the kitchen, they found themselves in the boudoir in the tower. Maria was reading by the light of her polished iron lamp,[21] while Genoveva was seated in another chair in front of her, engaged in knitting stockings. They often spent an hour or two in this way before going to bed, since the señorita was accustomed of old to read till the small hours of the night.

She did not seem so absorbed in her reading as usual. She often laid the book on the table and remained a long while thoughtful, with her cheek resting in her hand: then she took it up again, only to lay it down very hastily; she was nervous, judging by the creaking of the chair. From time to time she fastened a long gaze on Genoveva in which gleamed a timid, restless desire and a sort of inner struggle with some thought preoccupying her. Genoveva, on the other hand, was more than ever absorbed in her stocking, doubtless mixing with her stitches a crowd of more or less philosophical considerations which obliged her, from time to time, to lean forward towards her hands just as if she were asleep.

At last the señorita decided to break the silence.

"Genoveva, don't you want to read this passage from the life of Saint Isabel?" she asked, handing her the book.

"With all my heart,[22] señorita."

"Look here where it says: 'When her husband.'"

Genoveva began to read the paragraph to herself, but very soon Maria interrupted her, saying,--

"No, no; read it aloud!"

Whereupon she obeyed, reading what follows:--

_"When her husband was absent, she spent the whole night watching with Jesus, the spouse of her soul. But the penances which the innocent young princess imposed upon herself were not limited to this alone. Under her most splendid garments she always wore a haircloth cilicium next her flesh. Every Friday she let herself be severely whipped in secret in memory of the dolorous passion of our Lord, and daily during Lent (in order, says a biographer, to requite the Lord in some measure for the punishment of the lash), coming thereafter to Court, her face full of joy and serenity. As time went on she carried this austerity into the small hours of the night, and entering into an apartment next the chamber where she slept with her husband, she caused her damsels to inflict a severe scourging upon her, thence returning to her husband's side more joyful and amiable than ever, having gained comfort from these severities practised on herself and against her own weakness. Thus it was, as a contemporary poet says, she succeeded in drawing near to God and breaking the bonds of the prison of the flesh like a brave warrior of the love of the Lord."_

"That'll do; don't read any more; what do you think about it?"

"I have often read that same thing before."

"That's true; but what should you think if I decided to do the same?" she asked impetuously, like one who determines to propose something long thought about.

Genoveva stared at her with wide-open eyes, failing to understand her.

"Don't you understand?"

"No, señorita."

Maria got up, and throwing her arms around her neck, she whispered, her face aflame,--

"I mean, silly one,[23] that if you would be willing to do the office of Saint Isabel's damsels, I would imitate the saint to-night."

Genoveva vaguely understood, but still she asked,--

"What office?"

"Oh! you stupid and more than stupid, that of giving me a few blows with the lash in memory of those which our Lord received, and all the saints in example of him."

"Señorita, what are you saying? How did such a thing ever enter into your head?"

"It entered my head because I wish to mortify and humiliate myself at one and the same time. That is the true penance and the most pleasing in the eyes of the Lord, for the reason that he himself suffered it for us. I intended to inflict it upon myself, but I could not; and besides, it is not so efficacious as to suffer the humiliation of receiving it from the hands of another. And so you won't be willing to do this for me?"

"No, Señorita, not for anything. I couldn't do it--"

"Why not, _tonta_? Don't you see that it is for my good? If I should fail of freeing myself from a few days of purgatory because I did not do what I ask you, wouldn't you feel remorse?"

"But, my heart's dove,[24] how could you want me to maltreat you even though it were for your good?"

"Why, you have nothing left but to do it because it is a vow, and I must fulfil it; you have helped me hitherto in the road to virtue. Don't abandon me when I least expect it. You won't, Genovita? You won't, will you?"

"Señorita, for God's sake don't make me do this!"

"Come, Genovita, I beg of you by the love that you bear me--"

"No! no! no! don't ask me to do it--"

"Come, you old darling,[25] do this favor for me. You don't know how bad I shall feel if you don't do it. I shall believe that you have ceased to love me."

Maria exhausted all the resources of her genius to convince her. She sat on her lap and overwhelmed her with caresses; she fondled her, now getting vexed, now entreating her, and always fixing her eyes upon her in a wheedling way impossible to resist. She was like a child asking for a forbidden toy. When she saw that her maid was softening a little, or rather was very tired of refusing, she said, with fascinating volubility:--

"Truly, _tonta_, don't believe that it is a thing of such great consequence. A bad toothache is much worse, and you know that I have had them often enough. Your imagination makes you think that it is terrible, when in reality it is a trifling thing. It all comes from the fact that it isn't done nowadays because virtue is vanished from the world, but in the good old times of religion it was a common, every-day occurrence, and no one who claimed to be a good Christian failed to perform this penance. Come, make up your mind to grant me this favor, and at the same time to do a good work.--Wait a moment, I will find what we need--"

And running to the bureau, she opened a drawer, and took out a scourge, a genuine scourge, with round wooden handle and leather cords. Then, all excited and nervous, with her cheeks on fire, she brought it to Genoveva, and thrust it into her hand. She took it mechanically, without knowing what she did. She was perfectly stupefied. The girl began to caress her again, encouraging her with persuasive accents; but she did not answer a word. Then the Señorita de Elorza, with trembling hand, began to unloose the blue silk dress which she wore. On her face glowed the excited, anxious joy of a caprice about to be gratified. Her eyes shone with unwonted light, hinting at keen, mysterious joys; her lips were dry, as one athirst; the violet circle around her eyes was larger than usual, and bright crimson spots burned in her cheeks. She breathed excitedly through her nostrils, which were more than ordinarily dilated. Her white, aristocratic hands, with their slender fingers and rosy nails, loosed with strange haste the buttons of her dress. With a quick movement she freed herself from it.

"You shall see; I have on only my chemise and underwaist. I am all ready."

In truth, she took off, or rather tore off, her underwaist and a skirt or two, and was left only in her chemise. She stood an instant, glanced at the instrument in Genoveva's hand, and over her body ran a tremor of chill, of pleasure, of anguish, of terror, and of eagerness, all at once. In a low voice, changed by emotion, she said, "Papa must not know this."

And her linen chemise slipped down on her body, catching for an instant on her hips, and then falling slowly to the floor. She was now entirely naked. Genoveva looked at her with ecstatic eyes, and the girl felt somewhat abashed.

"You won't be angry with me, Genovita?" she asked, smiling.

The serving woman could only say,--

"Señorita, for God's sake!"

"The sooner, the better, for I shall get cold."

In this way she wished to bring still greater pressure to bear on her servant. With a nervous movement she snatched the scourge from her left hand, thrust it into her right; again threw her arms around her neck, and giving her a kiss, whispered very softly, in a joyous tone,--

"You must ply it vigorously, for so I have promised God."

A violent trembling took possession of her body, as she said these words; but it was a delicious trembling, which penetrated to the very depths of her being. Then, taking Genoveva by the hand, she pulled her toward the table where the Saviour's image stood.

"Here it must be,--kneeling before our Lord."

Her voice choked in her throat. She was pale. She bent humbly before the image, rapidly made the sign of the cross, folded her hands over her breast, and turning her face toward her maid, said, with a sweet smile,--

"Now you can begin."

"Señorita, for God's sake!" exclaimed Genoveva, in perfect trepidation.

Through the señorita's eyes flashed a gleam of anger, which instantly died away; but she said, in a tone of considerable irritation:--

"Do we believe in this? Obey me, and don't be obstinate."

The woman, overawed, and persuaded that she was aiding in a work of piety, obeyed, laying the scourge gently enough on the señorita's naked shoulders.

The first blows struck by the maid were so soft and gentle that they left no sign on that precious skin. But Maria was excited; she desired them to be heavier:--

"No, not like that; but with force--but wait a moment; let me take off these jewels, which are out of place at such a moment."

And hastily she tore off all the rings from her fingers, pulled out her earrings, and laid the handful of gold and precious stones at the feet of Jesus. In that same way Saint Isabel, when she prayed in church, laid her ducal crown at the foot of the altar.

She resumed her humble posture, and Genoveva, seeing that there was no escape, began relentlessly to bruise her pious mistress's flesh. The lamp shed a soft, diffused light, bathing the little boudoir in subdued brilliancy; only as it touched the jewels lying at the Redeemer's feet, it broke into beautiful fleeting sparkles. The silence at this moment was absolute; not even the mournful voice of the wind in the casements was to be heard. The room breathed an atmosphere of mystery and seclusion, which enraptured Maria and filled her with an intoxicating pleasure. Her lovely body, bared, shuddered every time that the straps of the scourge curled around it with a pang not without voluptuous pleasure. She pressed her brow to the Redeemer's feet, breathing quickly and with a certain oppression, and she felt the blood beating in her temples with strange violence, while the light golden hair at the back of the neck rose slightly under the impulse of the emotion which filled her. From time to time her pale, trembling lips said softly,--

"Go on, go on."

The lashes had already raised many rose-colored weals in her shining skin, and she did not ask for a truce. But at last the barbarous instrument brought a drop of blood. Genoveva could not restrain herself; she threw the scourge far from her, and hastened to embrace her señorita, covering her with caresses and begging her by the salvation of her soul not to make her do such an atrocious thing again. Maria consoled her, assuring her that the flagellation had hurt her very little; and now that her ardor was somewhat cooled, and her ascetic impulses calmed, she said good night and went to her bedroom to lie down.