At twilight1, Franchita was returning from escorting her son and was trying to regain2 her habitual3 face, her air of haughty4 indifference5, to pass through the village.
But, when she arrived in front of the Detcharry house, she saw Dolores who, instead of going in, as she intended, turned round and stood at the door to see her pass. Something new, some sudden revelation must have impelled6 her to take this attitude of aggressive defiance7, this expression of provoking irony,—and Franchita then stopped, she also, while this phrase, almost involuntary, came through her set teeth:
“What is the matter with that woman? Why does she look at me so—”
“He will not come to-night, the lover, will he?” responded the enemy.
“Then you knew that he came here to see your daughter?”
In truth, Dolores knew this since the morning: Gracieuse had told her, since no care needed to be taken of the morrow; Gracieuse had told it wearily, after talking uselessly of Uncle Ignacio, of Ramuntcho's future, of all that would serve their cause—
“Then you knew that he came here to see your daughter?”
By a reminiscence of other times, they regained8 instinctively9 their theeing and thouing of the sisters' school, those two women who for nearly twenty years had not addressed a word to each other. Why they detested10 each other, they hardly knew; so many times, it begins thus, with nothings, with jealousies11, with childish rivalries12, and then, at length, by dint13 of seeing each other every day without talking to each other, by dint of casting at each other evil looks, it ferments14 till it becomes implacable hatred15.—Here they were, facing each other, and their two voices trembled with rancor16, with evil emotion:
“Well,” replied the other, “you knew it before I did, I suppose, you who are without shame and sent him to our house!—Anyway, one can understand your easiness about means, after what you have done in the past—”
And, while Franchita, naturally much more dignified17, remained mute, terrified now by this unexpected dispute on the street, Dolores continued:
“No. My daughter marrying that penniless bastard18, think of it!—”
“Well, I have the idea that she will marry him, in spite of everything!—Try to propose to her a man of your choice and see—”
Then, as if she disdained19 to continue, she went on her way, hearing behind her the voice and the insults of the other pursuing her. All her limbs trembled and she faltered20 at every step on her weakened legs.
At the house, now empty, what sadness she found!
The reality of this separation, which would last for three years, appeared to her under an aspect frightfully new, as if she had hardly been prepar............