“Sorry!”
“Yes, sorry. Because I see that you despise everybody and despise yourself, because you think people are bad, and that you are too, and to me this seems so sad that it makes me pity you deeply.”
Cæsar began to walk up and down the gallery, trembling a little.
“I don’t see why you say this to me,” he murmured. “I am a morbid man, with an ulcerated, wounded spirit.... I know that. But why say it to me? Do you take pleasure in humiliating me?”
“No, Cæsar,” said Amparito, drawing near him. “You don’t believe that I take pleasure in humiliating you. No, you know well that I do not.”
On saying this, Amparito burst into tears, and she had to lean against the gallery window, to hide her face and dissemble her emotion.
Cæsar took her hand, and as she did not turn her head, he seized her other, too. She looked at him with her eyes shining and full of tears; and in that look there was so much attachment, so much distress, that Cæsar felt a weakness in his whole frame. Then, taking Amparito’s head between his hands, he kissed it several times.
She leaned her head on Cæsar’s shoulder and stood pressed against him, sobbing. Cæsar felt a sensation of anguish and pain, as if within the depths of his soul, the strongest part of his personality had broken and melted.
They heard the footsteps of the old woman, coming back to say that she had found nothing in the room Laura had occupied during her stay.
Amparito dried her tears, and smiled, and her face was redder than usual. Presently she said to the nurse: