Chapter 1

The thing which is most ardently desired by a man who steps into a
stagecoach, bent upon a long journey, is that his companions may be
agreeable, that they may have the same tastes, possibly the same vices,
be well educated and know enough not to be too familiar.

When I opened the door of the coach I felt fearful of encountering an
old woman suffering with the asthma, an ugly one who could not bear the
smell of tobacco smoke, one who gets seasick every time she rides in a
carriage, and little angels who are continually yelling and screaming
for God knows what.

Sometimes you may have hoped to have a beautiful woman for a traveling
companion; for instance, a widow of twenty or thirty years of age (let
us say, thirty-six), whose delightful conversation will help you pass
away the time. But if you ever had this idea, as a reasonable man you
would quickly dismiss it, for you know that such good fortune does not
fall to the lot of the ordinary mortal. These thoughts were in my mind
when I opened the door of the stagecoach at exactly eleven o'clock on a
stormy night of the Autumn of 1844. I had ticket No. 2, and I was
wondering who No. 1 might be. The ticket agent had assured me that No.
3 had not been sold.

It was pitch dark within. When I entered I said, "Good evening," but no
answer came. "The devil!" I said to myself. "Is my traveling companion
deaf, dumb, or asleep?" Then I said in a louder tone: "Good evening,"
but no answer came.

All this time the stagecoach was whirling along, drawn by ten horses.

I was puzzled. Who was my companion? Was it a man? Was it a woman? Who
was the silent No. 1, and, whoever it might be, why did he or she not
reply to my courteous salutation? It would have been well to have lit a
match, but I was not smoking then and had none with me. What should I
do? I concluded to rely upon my sense of feeling, and stretched out my
hand to the place where No. 1 should have been, wondering whether I
would touch a silk dress or an overcoat, but there was nothing there.
At that moment a flash of lightning, herald of a quickly approaching
storm, lit up the night, and I perceived that there was no one in the
coach excepting myself. I burst out into a roar of laughter, and yet a
moment later I could not help wondering what had become of No. 1.

A half hour later we arrived at the first stop, and I was just about to
ask the guard who flashed his lantern into the compartment why there
was no No. 1, when she entered. In the yellow rays I thought it was a
vision: a pale, graceful, beautiful woman, dressed in deep mourning.

Here was the fulfillment of my dream, the widow I had hoped for.

I extended my hand to the unknown to assist her into the coach, and she
sat down beside me, murmuring: "Thank you, sir. Good evening," but in a
tone that was so sad that it went to my very heart.

"How unfortunate," I thought. "There are only fifty miles between here
and Malaga. I wish to heaven this coach were going to Kamschatka." The
guard slammed the door, and we were in darkness. I wished that the
storm would continue and that we might have a few more flashes of
lightning. But the storm didn't. It fled away, leaving only a few
pallid stars, whose light practically amounted to nothing. I made a
brave effort to start a conversation.

"Do you feel well?"

"Are you going to Malaga?"

"Did you like the Alhambra?"

"You come from Granada?"

"Isn't the night damp?"

To which questions she respectively responded:

"Thanks, very well."

"Yes."

"No, sir."

"Yes!"

"Awful!"

It was quite certain that my traveling companion was not inclined to
conversation. I tried to think up something original to say to her, but
nothing occurred to me, so I lost myself for the moment in meditation.
Why had this woman gotten on the stage at the first stop instead of at
Granada? Why was she alone? Was she married? Was she really a widow?
Why was she so sad? I certainly had no right to ask her any of these
questions, and yet she interested me. How I wished the sun would rise.
In the daytime one may talk freely, but in the pitch darkness one feels
a certain oppression, it seems like taking an unfair advantage.

My unknown did not sleep a moment during the night. I could tell this
by her breathing and by her sighing. It is probably unnecessary to add
that I did not sleep either. Once I asked her: "Do you feel ill?" and
she replied: "No, sir, thank you. I beg pardon if I have disturbed your
sleep."

"Sleep!" I exclaimed disdainfully. "I do not care to sleep. I feared
you were suffering."

"Oh, no," she exclaimed, in a voice that contradicted her words, "I am
not suffering."

At last the sun rose. How beautiful she was! I mean the woman, not the
sun. What deep suffering had lined her face and lurked in the depths of
her beautiful eyes!

She was elegantly dressed and evidently belonged to a good family.
Every gesture bore the imprint of distinction. She was the kind of a
woman you expect to see in the principal box at the opera, resplendent
with jewels, surrounded by admirers.

We breakfasted at Colmenar. After that my companion became more
confidential, and I said to myself when we again entered the coach:
"Philip, you have met your fate. It's now or never."