Don Lorenzo. What a question! I never knew my father. He died when I was an infant. But my mother! Ah, poor mother! [With emotion.]
Dr. Tomás. Do you remember how, suddenly feeling herself in the throes of death, she wanted to speak to you and could not; and then in a kind of convulsion seized the locket she always wore round her neck and put it into your hands, fixing you with the supreme anguish of her gaze already dimmed with the eternal shadow?
Don Lorenzo. Yes, I remember. Continue.
Dr. Tomás. Finally, you remember that upon your mother's death you lost consciousness, when the locket disappeared. You have not forgotten who was accused of the robbery?
Don Lorenzo. She! It is she? my poor nurse, Juana!
Dr. Tomás. Yes, it is indeed that same Juana who is dying a few yards off in a miserable garret—Juana who implores your pardon in the sad kiss she sends you.
Don Lorenzo. Juana, my second mother, who for twenty-five years was a real mother to me. But why do you speak of pardon? What compromise can there be here with wrong? Forgiveness is no compromise, nor does the poor old creature need my forgiveness. She capable—impossible!
Dr. Tomás. Not so impossible. When the maid who had care of your mother's jewels notified the loss of the magnificent locket in diamonds to the police, and the first investigation was made, Juana denied having it, and yet it was subsequently discovered that she had taken it from you when you fainted. Two days afterwards she was surprised concealing it behind a porcelain vase. She was arrested, you remember, condemned, and suffered imprisonment for the robbery, and only through your influence and strong recommendation, recovered, if not her lost honour, at least her liberty.
112
