"If our Rita were to die before long..."She didn't get any further because I had jumped up and frightened her by shouting: "Is she ill? What has happened? Have you had a letter?"She had had a letter.I didn't ask her to show it to me, though Idaresay she would have done so.I had an idea that there was no meaning in anything, at least no meaning that mattered.But the interruption had made Therese apparently forget her sinister conundrum.She observed me with her shrewd, unintelligent eyes for a bit, and then with the fatuous remark about the Law being just she left me to the horrors of the studio.I believe I went to sleep there from sheer exhaustion.Some time during the night Iwoke up chilled to the bone and in the dark.These were horrors and no mistake.I dragged myself upstairs to bed past the indefatigable statuette holding up the ever-miserable light.The black-and-white hall was like an ice-house.
The main consideration which induced me to call on the Marquis of Villarel was the fact that after all I was a discovery of Dona Rita's, her own recruit.My fidelity and steadfastness had been guaranteed by her and no one else.I couldn't bear the idea of her being criticized by every empty-headed chatterer belonging to the Cause.And as, apart from that, nothing mattered much, why, then -I would get this over.
But it appeared that I had not reflected sufficiently on all the consequences of that step.First of all the sight of the Villa looking shabbily cheerful in the sunshine (but not containing her any longer) was so perturbing that I very nearly went away from the gate.Then when I got in after much hesitation - being admitted by the man in the green baize apron who recognized me - the thought of entering that room, out of which she was gone as completely as if she had been dead, gave me such an emotion that I had to steady myself against the table till the faintness was past.Yet I was irritated as at a treason when the man in the baize apron instead of letting me into the Pompeiian dining-room crossed the hall to another door not at all in the Pompeiian style (more Louis XVrather - that Villa was like a Salade Russe of styles) and introduced me into a big, light room full of very modern furniture.
The portrait en pied of an officer in a sky-blue uniform hung on the end wall.The officer had a small head, a black beard cut square, a robust body, and leaned with gauntleted hands on the simple hilt of a straight sword.That striking picture dominated a massive mahogany desk, and, in front of this desk, a very roomy, tall-backed armchair of dark green velvet.I thought I had been announced into an empty room till glancing along the extremely loud carpet I detected a pair of feet under the armchair.
I advanced towards it and discovered a little man, who had made no sound or movement till I came into his view, sunk deep in the green velvet.He altered his position slowly and rested his hollow, black, quietly burning eyes on my face in prolonged scrutiny.Idetected something comminatory in his yellow, emaciated countenance, but I believe now he was simply startled by my youth.
I bowed profoundly.He extended a meagre little hand.
"Take a chair, Don Jorge."
He was very small, frail, and thin, but his voice was not languid, though he spoke hardly above his breath.Such was the envelope and the voice of the fanatical soul belonging to the Grand-master of Ceremonies and Captain General of the Bodyguard at the Headquarters of the Legitimist Court, now detached on a special mission.He was all fidelity, inflexibility, and sombre conviction, but like some great saints he had very little body to keep all these merits in.
