André rose as if to go. “Nevertheless, Don Mateo, I--who am not yet able to speak of this woman as you are--I, at present, am still less able to fail to keep an assignation she has made with me. I have made you a confession, and I regret to break yours by a premature departure.” He held out his hand. Mateo placed himself before the door. “Hear me, I beg of you. I speak to you, man to man, and I say Stop! return as you came. Forget who you have seen, who has spoken to you and written to you. If you would know peace, calm nights and a life lacking in black care, _do not approach Concha Perez_! Do not approach this woman. Let me save you. Have mercy upon yourself, in fact.” “Don Mateo. Do you then love her?...” The Spaniard stroked his forehead, and answered-- “Oh no! I do not now love or hate. It is all over and done with, all trace effaced.” Mateo gazed at André, then, quite changing to a tone of banter, said-- “Besides, one should never go to the first rendezvous a woman gives one.” “Why not?” “Because she never comes there.” A memory of an affair made André smile, and admit it was often true. “Very often. And if by chance she comes, be sure _your_ absence will deepen her liking for you.” A short silence came. They had reseated themselves, and Mateo said-- “Now listen, please.” CHAPTER IV Three years ago I had not the grey hairs that you now see, and was thirty-seven years of age, though I felt but twenty-two. I do not know precisely when my youth passed from me, and it is hard for me to realize that it has reached its end. People have told you that I was one of the gadabouts of passion. That is false. I respected Love and I never degraded her. Scarcely ever have I caressed a woman whom I did not passionately love. If I were to name or number these loves to you you would be surprised for they were but a few. I easily remember that I have never loved a blonde. I have always ignored those pale objects of worship. What is furthermore true, is that, for me, love has not been a mere pleasure or pastime. It has been my very life. If I were to take out of my life all the thoughts and actions that had the woman for their sole end, there would remain nothing but emptiness--space. This much said, I may now recount to you what I know of Concha Perez. I go first to three years and a half ago, and winter-time. I returned from France, a bitter cold journey too, one twenty-sixth of December, in the express that passes the bridge of the Bidassoa. The snow, already very thick at Biarritz and Saint Sebastian, rendered almost impracticable the traversing of the Guipuzcoa. The train stopped two hours at Zumarraga, for snow to be cleared away. Later an avalanche stopped us for three hours. All night this snow trouble went on. Sounds were deadened by the fall, and so we were travelling in a silence to which danger gave a touch of grandeur.