Father Muro was afraid that Sarrion could not see
Juanita. It was not within his province, but
he knew that it was against the rules. Then he
remembered that he had seen a letter addressed to the
Count de Sarrion. It was lying on the table at
the refectory door, where letters intended for the
post were usually placed. It was doubtless from
Juanita. He would fetch it.
Sarrion took the letter and read it, with a pleasant
smile on his face, while Father Muro watched him with
those eyes that seemed to want something they could
not have.
“Yes,” said the Count at length, “it
is from Juanita de Mogente.”
He folded the paper and placed it in his pocket.
“Did you know the contents of this letter, my
father?” he asked.
“No, my son. Why should I?”
“Why, indeed?”
And Sarrion passed out, while Father Muro held the
door open rather obsequiously.
The grip of the velvet glove
On returning to the hotel in the corner of the Plaza
de la Constitution,
Sarrion threw down on the table before Marcos the
note that Father Muro
had given him. He made no comment.
“My dear uncle,” the letter ran, “I
am writing to advise you of my decision to go into
religion. I am prompted to communicate this to
you without delay by the remembrance of your many
kindnesses to me. You will, I know, agree with
me that this step can only be for my happiness in this
world and the next. Your grateful niece.—Juanita
de Mogente.”
Marcos read the letter carefully, and then seeking
in his pocket, produced the note that Juanita had
passed to him through the hole in the wall of the
convent school at Saragossa. It seemed that he
carried with him always the scrap of paper that she
had hidden within her dress until the moment that
she gave it to him.
He laid the two letters side by side and compared
them.
“The writing is the writing of Juanita,”
he said; “but the words are not. They are
spelt correctly!”
He folded the letters again, with his determined smile,
and placed them in his pocket. Sarrion, smoking
a cigarette by the stove, glanced at his son and knew
that Juanita’s fate was fixed. For good
or ill, for happiness or misery, she was destined
to marry Marcos de Sarrion if the whole church of
Rome should rise up and curse his soul and hers for
the deed.
Sarrion appeared to have no suggestions to make.
He continued to smoke reflectively while he warmed
himself at the stove. He was wise enough to perceive
that his must now be the secondary part. To possess
power and to resist the temptation to use it, is the
task of kings. To quietly relinquish the tiller
of a younger life is a lesson that gray hairs have
to learn.
“I think,” said Marcos at length, “that
we must see Leon. He is her guardian. We
will give him a last chance.”
