“Carmen, the Señora Granada.” They embraced, without speaking; Clothilde, because gratitude sealed her lips; Carmen, because she could not. The supper was disagreeable; the dishes were cold, the servant sleepy, those at the table watching one another. When, in the silence of the night and of the sleeping house, Julio realized the magnitude of what he had done, he read, yes, he read in the darkness of the room, the fatal and human biblical sentence, and began to understand its meaning: “The woman shall draw thee, where she will, with only a hair of her head.” * * * * * Clothilde’s first impulse was to conceal herself; to tell her servant that she was not accustomed to receive evening visits; but, besides the fact that Julio had certainly already seen her, the truth is that she felt pleasure, a sort of consolation and discreet satisfaction. Thank God the test was about to commence; she was about to prove to herself the strength of her resolution. Julio, now nearer, saluted, lifting his hat; Clothilde answered with a wave of the hand, in all confidence, as two friends ought to salute. She waited for him smilingly, without changing her place or posture, determined not only to show a lack of love but even of undue friendliness. Julio, paler than usual, crossed the threshold. “Bravo, Señor Ortegal, this is friendly; come in and I will give you a cup of coffee.” Julio gave her his hand with extraordinary emotion and looked searchingly into her eyes as if to read her thoughts. Clothilde, scenting danger, led the way to the dining-room. How were they all at home? Carmen and the children? Do they miss her a little? Julio promptly answered that all were well, all well but himself, and that is her fault, Clothilde’s. “My fault?” “Yes, your fault. And I ought to have spoken with you alone, long ago.” And, saying this he covered his face with his hands. The coffee-pot boiled noisily; the servant placed two cups upon the table and Clothilde, not entirely prepared, because she had not counted upon so abrupt an attack, betook herself to her armory of prayers. She served the coffee with a trembling hand, putting in two lumps of sugar, which she remembered Ortegal always took. “Will you tell me the truth?” he burst out. “Certainly.” Ortegal collected all his nervous energy and without taking his hands from his face, as if he did not desire to look at Clothilde, and poured out his words in a torrent: “Clothilde, I am a wretch to offend you; to dare to speak to you as I do, but I can endure it no longer; I adore you, Clothilde, I adore you and you know it! You have known it---- Pardon me, I beg you; and love me just a little--nothing more,” he added, sobbing, “have pity on my life and soul. Do you love me sometimes?”