It was very late, although there was still visible a light in Yerba's salon, shining on her balcony, which extended before and included his own window. From time to time he could hear the murmur of voices. It was too late to avail himself of the invitation to join them, even if his frame of mind had permitted it. He was too nervous and excited to go to bed, and, without lighting his candle, he opened the French window that gave upon the balcony, drew a chair in the recess behind the curtain, and gazed upon the night. It was very quiet; the moon was high, the square was sleeping in a trance of checkered shadows, like a gigantic chessboard, with black foreshortened trees for pawns. The click of a cavalry sabre, the sound of a footfall on the pavement of the distant Konigsstrasse, were distinctly audible; a far-off railway whistle was startling in its abruptness. In the midst of this calm the opening of the door of the salon, with the sudden uplifting of voices in the hall, told Paul that Yerba's guests were leaving. He heard Dona Anna's arch accents--arch even to Colonel Pendleton's monotonous baritone!--Milly's high, rapid utterances, the suave falsetto of Don Caesar, and HER voice, he thought a trifle wearied,--the sound of retiring footsteps, and all was still again.
So still that the rhythmic beat of the distant waltz returned to him, with a distinctiveness that he could idly follow. He thought of Rosario and the rose-breath of the open windows with a strange longing, and remembered the half-stifled sweetness of her happy voice rising with it from the veranda. Why had he ever let it pass from him then and waft its fragrance elsewhere? Why-- What was that?
The slight turning of a latch! The creaking of the French window of the salon, and somebody had slipped softly half out on the balcony. His heart stopped beating. From his position in the recess of his own window, with his back to the partition of the salon, he could see nothing. Yet he did not dare to move. For with the quickened senses of a lover he felt the diffused and perfumed aura of HER presence, of HER garments, of HER flesh, flow in upon him through the open window, and possess his whole breathless being! It was SHE! Like him, perhaps, longing to enjoy the perfect night--like him, perhaps, thinking of--"So you ar-range to get rid of me--ha! lik thees? To tur-rn me off from your heels like a dog who have follow you--but without a word--without a--a--thanks--without a 'ope! Ah!--we have ser-rved you--me and my sister; we are the or-range dry--now we can go! Like the old shoe, we are to be flung away! Good! But I am here again--you see. I shall speak, and you shall hear-r."Don Caesar's voice--alone with her! Paul gripped his chair and sat upright.
"Stop! Stay where you are! How dared you return here?" It was Yerba's voice, on the balcony, low and distinct.
"Shut the window! I shall speak with you what you will not the world to hear.""I prefer to keep where I am, since you have crept into this room like a thief!""A thief! Good!" He broke out in Spanish, and, as if no longer fearful of being overheard, had evidently drawn nearer to the window. "A thief. Ha! muy bueno--but it is not I, you understand--I, Caesar Briones, who am the thief! No! It is that swaggering espadachin--that fanfarron of a Colonel Pendleton--that pattern of an official, Mr. Hathaway--that most beautiful heiress of the Californias, Miss ARGUELLO--that are thieves! Yes--of a NAME--Miss Arguello--of a NAME! The name of Arguello!"Paul rose to his feet.
"Ah, so! You start--you turn pale--you flash your eyes, senora, but you think you have deceived me all these years. You think Idid not see your game at Rosario--yes, even when that foolish Castro muchacha first put that idea in your head. Who furnished you the facts you wanted? I--Mother of God! SUCH FACTS!--I, who knew the Arguello pedigree--I, who know it was as impossible for you to be a daughter of them as--what? let me think--as--as it is impossible for you to be the wife of that baron whom you would deceive with the rest! Ah, yes; it was a high flight for you, Mees--Mees--Dona Fulana--a noble game for you to bring down!"Why did she not speak? What was she doing? If she had but uttered a single word of protest, of angry dismissal, Paul would have flown to her side. It could not be the paralysis of personal fear: the balcony was wide; she could easily pass to the end; she could even see his open window.
"Why did I do this? Because I loved you, senora--and you knew it!
Ah! you can turn your face away now; you can pretend to misunderstand me, as you did a moment ago; you can part from me now like a mere acquaintance--but it was not always so! No, it was YOUwho brought me here; your eyes that smiled into mine--and drove home the colonel's request that I and my sister should accompany you. God! I was weak then! You smile, senora; you think you have succeeded--you and your pompous colonel and your clever governor!
You think you have compromised me, and perjured ME, because of this. You are wrong! You think I dare not speak to this puppet of a baron, and that I have no proofs. You are wrong!""And even if you can produce them, what care I?" said Yerba unexpectedly, yet in a voice so free from excitement and passion that the weariness which Paul had at first noticed seemed to be the only dominant tone. "Suppose you prove that I am not an Arguello.