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The name of this woman was La Marana. In her family, existing solely in the female line, the idea, person, name and power of a father had been completely unknown since the thirteenth century.
The Marana, so keen to know the signs of love, had recognized in that man the accents of passion and the brusque nature, the generous impulses, that are common to Southerners. In the paroxysm of her anger and her distress she had thought such qualities enough for her daughter's happiness.
To this Marana, surfeited with kisses, one was lacking, a single one, for which she would have bartered all the others: the joyous, girlish kiss of a daughter to a mother, an honored mother, a mother in whom shone all the domestic virtues. Juana living was dead to her. One thought revived the soul of the courtesan a precious thought! Juana was henceforth safe.
"Then you are hard to please. If she wants a husband I am ready to marry her. Put up your weapons; there is no trouble here." The Marana pulled the Italian to the side of her daughter's bed and said to him, in a low voice, "If I spare you, give thanks for the rest of your life; but, remember this, if your tongue ever injures my daughter you will see me again. Go!
"He told me he was free." "He told me that he was married," repeated Perez, in his solemn voice. "Holy Virgin!" murmured Dona Lagounia. "Answer, soul of corruption," said the Marana, in a low voice, bending to the ear of the marquis. "Your daughter " began Montefiore. "The daughter that was mine is dead or dying," interrupted the Marana. "I have no daughter; do not utter that word.
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