“Silence!” the eloquent eyes suddenly commanded.
And Sardiola obeyed. Duhamel, Miranda, and Perico were entering the room. Duhamel examined the apartment minutely and declared it, in his Lusitanian-French jargon, to be sheltered, convenient, not too high, yet well ventilated, and in every way suitable for the patient. Miranda and Perico retired to the adjoining room to wash themselves after the journey, and tacitly, without debating the question, it was decided that patient and nurse should room together, and that the two men should occupy together also the room in which they were. Miranda interposed no objection to this sacrifice on Lucía’s part; for Duhamel, calling him aside, informed him that the disease was rapidly nearing its fatal termination, and that he thought the sick girl could hardly live a month longer, in view of which fact Miranda silently resolved to depart with his wife in eight or ten days’ time under some pretext or other. But fate, which had ordained that these events should have a very different _dénouement_, disposed matters in such a way, employing Perico as her instrument, that Miranda very soon began to find himself contented, diverted, and happy in this Parisian Babylon; this gulf among whose reefs and shoals the artful Gonzalvo piloted him with more skill and dexterity than singleness of purpose.
“What the deuce, what the deuce are you going to bury yourself in Leon for now?” exclaimed Perico. “You will have time enough, time enough to bore yourself there! Take my advice and avail yourself of the opportunity. Why, you are well enough now! Those waters have made you look ten years younger.”