“And how does it matter to you, Lucía?” he exclaimed, calling her for the second time by her Christian name. “Are you Father Urtazu? Am I one who interests or concerns you in any way? Will you be called upon in any tribunal to answer for my soul? Child, this is a matter that touches you in no way.”
“Does it not, indeed? I declare, Don Ignacio, to-day you talk as if--as if you were crazy. Why should it not matter to me whether you are saved or lost, whether you are a Christian or a Jew!”
“A Jew! As far as being a Jew is concerned, I am not that,” responded Artegui, endeavoring to give a playful turn to the conversation.
“It is the same thing--to deny Christ is to be a Jew in fact.”
“Let us drop this, Lucía; I don’t want to see you look like that, it makes you ugly!” he said lightly, alluding, for the first time, to Lucía’s personal appearance. “What, do you wish to do now? Shall I take you to see some of the curiosities of the place? The hospital? The forts?”
He spoke with more cordiality of manner than he had yet manifested, and Lucía’s soul was tranquillized, as when oil is poured on the troubled waters.
“Could we not make a little excursion into the country? I am passionately fond of trees.”
Artegui turned toward the theater, before the door of which two or three little basket-carriages were standing. He made a sign to the driver of the nearest, a Biscayan, who, raising his whip, touched with it the flanks of the Tarbes ponies, that, with a shake of the mane, prepared to start. Lucía sprang in and seated herself in the light vehicle, and Artegui, taking his place beside her, called to the driver:
The carriage set off, swift as an arrow, and Lucía closed her eyes, letting her thoughts wander at will, enjoying the light caresses of the breeze, that blew back the ends of her necktie and her wavy tresses. And yet the scenery, picturesque and smiling, was well worthy of a glance. They passed cultivated fields, country houses with pointed roofs, English parks carpeted with fresh turf and fine grass, yellow now with the hues of autumn. Descrying a footpath winding among the fields, Artegui called to the driver to stop, and giving his hand to Lucía helped her to alight. The Biscayan sought the shelter of a wall where his horses, bathed in sweat, might rest with safety, and Artegui and Lucía proceeded on foot along the little path, the latter, who had now recovered her childlike gayety and her innocent delight in bodily motion, leading the way. She was enchanted with everything: the clover blossoms that covered the dark green field with crimson dots; the late chamomile and the pale corn-flowers growing by the roadside; the fox-gloves, that she gathered with a smile, bursting the pods between her hands; the curling plumes of the celery; the cabbages growing in rows, each row separated by a furrow. The earth, from over-culture, over-manuring, over-plowing, had acquired an indescribable air of decrepitude. Its flanks seemed to groan, exuding a viscous and warm moisture like sweat, while in the uncultivated land bordering the path were spots of virgin soil where grew at will the ornamental superfluities of the fields,--vaporous grasses, many-colored flowers, and sharp thistles.