When the chambermaid wakened Lucía in the morning, bringing her a bowl of coffee, the first piece of news she gave her was that Monsieur de Miranda had not arrived in the train from Spain. Lucía sprang out of bed and dressed herself quickly, trying to bring together her scattered recollections and glancing around her room with the surprise which those unused to traveling are apt to experience on awakening for the first time in a strange place. She looked at the clock upon the table; it was eight. She went out into the corridor and knocked softly at the door of Artegui’s room.
The latter, who was in his shirt-sleeves, finishing his toilet, when he heard the knock, quickly dried his hands and face, threw his overcoat over his shoulders, and opened the door.
“Don Ignacio--good-morning. Do I disturb you?”
“Do you know that Señor de Miranda has not come by the morning train?”
“What do you say to that? Is it not very strange?”
Ignacio did not answer. He began, in truth, to think the conduct of this bridegroom, who had abandoned his bride on their wedding-day in the carriage of a railway train, strange and more than strange. Of course, some disagreeable and unforeseen accident must have occurred to the unknown Miranda; whose fate, by a singular chance, had come to influence his own in the manner it had done during the last forty-eight hours.
“I will telegraph everywhere,” he said; “to Alsásua, to---- do you wish me to telegraph to Leon, to your father?”
“God forbid!” exclaimed Lucía “he would be capable of taking the next train to come in search of me, and suffocating on the way with asthma--and with worry. No, no!”
“At all events I am going to take measures----”
And Artegui thrust his arms through the sleeves of his overcoat and took up his hat.
“Do you know--do you know that yesterday was Saturday and that to-day is Sunday?”
“As a general thing Sunday does follow Saturday,” answered Artegui, with amiable badinage.
“Explain yourself, then. What do you wish?”
“What should I wish but to go to mass like all the rest of the world?”
“Ah!” exclaimed Artegui. Then he added: “True. And you wish----”
“That you should accompany me. I am not going to mass alone, I suppose?”
Artegui smiled again, and the young girl observed how well a smile became that countenance, generally so emotionless and somber. It was like the dawn when it tints the gray mountains with rose-color; like a sunbeam piercing the mists on a cloudy clay. The eyes, the pallid and hollow cheeks kindled; youth was renewed in that countenance faded by mysterious sorrows, and darkened by perpetual clouds.