“Yes,” said Matilde, thoughtfully.  “But it is a very difficult thing to do well.  They have expert doctors, who know the real thing from the imitation.”

Gregorio looked up suddenly.

“She could not go mad, could she?” he asked, a quiver of cunning intelligence making his stony mask quiver.  “Are there not things—­is there not something—­you know—­something that produces that?  What is all this talk, nowadays, about hypnotic suggestion?”

“Fairy tales!” exclaimed Matilde, incredulously.  “The other is sure.  This is no time for experiments.  There are thirteen days left in this year.  If we are to do it at all, we must do it quickly.”

“I do not like the idea of the pillow,” said Macomer, speaking very low again.

Matilde’s shoulders moved uneasily, as though she were chilly, but her face did not change.

“It is of no use to talk of such things,” she answered.  “Besides,” she added, “you are dull.  Only remember that you have just thirteen days more, after to-day.”

“Remember!” his voice told all his terror of the limit.

Then Matilde did not speak again.  She rested her elbows on the table, and her chin upon her hands, staring at him as though she did not see him, evidently in deep thought.  He bent over his papers, but was aware that her eyes were on him.  He glanced up nervously.

“Please do not look at me in that way.  You make me nervous,” he said.

With a scornful half-laugh she rose from her seat.

“Good night,” she said indifferently, and in her soft felt slippers she noiselessly went away.

She had not come in the expectation of help from her husband in anything that was to be done.  But besides the bond of fear by which they were drawn together, there was the feeling that his presence, especially in that room, brought before her vividly the necessity for action.  Under such pressure, an idea might come to her which would be worth having.  It had come to-night, but it was of a nature which made it wiser not to tell Gregorio about it.  Such things, being complicated and delicate, and difficult of execution, were best kept to herself, at least until her plans were matured and ready.  But this time, she believed that she had at last what she wanted.  The scheme flashed upon her all at once, complete and feasible, and perfectly safe, but she resolved to think it over for twenty-four hours before finally deciding to adopt it.

And while such things were being said and done in the lonely night, and deeply pondered through the long, silent days, Veronica came and went peacefully, with sad but not unhappy eyes, her thoughts fixed upon the new path by which her single sorrow was to lead her up to the eternity of all celestial joys.