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Title: Dragon's teeth

A novel from the Portuguese

Author: Eça de Queirós

Translator: Mary J. Serrano

Release date: September 19, 2024 [eBook #74442]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Ticknor and company

Credits: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRAGON'S TEETH ***

DRAGON’S TEETH

DRAGON’S TEETH

A Novel

FROM THE PORTUGUESE

BY

MARY J. SERRANO

AUTHOR OF “DESTINY AND OTHER POEMS,” ETC.

TRANSLATOR OF “PEPITA JIMENEZ,” ETC.

BOSTON

TICKNOR AND COMPANY

211 Fremont Street

1889

Copyright, 1889,

BY TICKNOR AND COMPANY.

All rights reserved.

University Press:

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A.

PREFACE.

IN presenting this graphic picture of Lisbon life to the American public, the translator has assumed the responsibility of softening here and there, and even of at times effacing, a line too sharply drawn, a light or a shadow too strongly marked to please a taste that has been largely formed on Puritanic models, convinced (without entering into the question of how far a want of literary reticence may be carried without violating the canons of true art) that while the interest of the story itself remains undiminished, the ethical purpose of the work will thereby be given wider scope.

M. J. S.

MARCH, 1889.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

THE name of Eça de Queiros stands at the head of the list of Portuguese novelists. Born in Oporto early in the latter half of the present century, he was intended for the profession of the law by his father, who belonged to a family distinguished in the annals of Portuguese jurisprudence; but he soon abandoned his legal studies for literature, toward which his inclinations impelled him, and which he cultivated with immediate and marked success, the articles from his pen that appeared from time to time in the various periodicals of the day attracting wide-spread and favorable notice.

His characteristics as a writer are,—to quote from the Preface of the Spanish version of the present work,—

“A vigorous, flexible, and picturesque style, daring and unexpected flights of the imagination, extraordinary judgment, and a marvellous perception of the realities of things, as well as of their comic and sentimental aspects.” “His most marked characteristic, however, is the wonderful power with which he treats the humorous and the pathetic alike, moving his readers to tears or laughter at his will, with a magic art possessed only by the great masters in literature.”

In conclusion, it may be said that the publication of the present work, under the title of “O Primo Bazilio,” produced a profound sensation in Portuguese literary circles, as did the publication, by which it was soon followed, of a Spanish version in those of Madrid, and of a French version, by Madame Ratazzi, in those of Paris.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

PAGE

I. HUSBAND AND WIFE

11

II. A PORTUGUESE “TEA”

41

III. COUSIN BAZILIO

72

IV. THE PUBLIC GARDENS

106

V. PREPARING THE GROUND

126

VI. ON TRIAL

146

VII. A CONSULTATION

163

VIII. PLAYING WITH FIRE

178

IX. DRAGON’S TEETH

192

X. IN THE TOILS

219

XI. A LOYAL FRIEND

239

XII. BROUGHT TO BAY

261

XIII. MISTRESS AND MAID

274

XIV. FROM DREAMS TO WAKING

287

XV. THE TELEGRAM

297

XVI. A REPRIEVE

313

XVII. JORGE’S RETURN

326

XVIII. BIDING HER TIME

356

XIX. A DINNER AT THE COUNSELLOR’S

382

XX. THE DREGS IN THE CUP

391

XXI. THE SHADOW OF A SIN

415

XXII. THE FATE OF THE SCORPION

442

XXIII. THE LETTER

458

XXIV. EXPIATION

486

XXV. AND SO THE WORLD GOES ON

503

DRAGON’S TEETH.

CHAPTER I.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

THE cuckoo-clock in the dining-room had just struck eleven. Jorge, reclining in an antique easy-chair covered with dark leather, closed the volume of Louis Figuier that he had been listlessly turning over, stretched himself, yawned, and said,—

“Are you not going to dress, Luiza?”

“Directly.”

The person who thus answered was still seated at the breakfast-table reading the “Diario de Noticias.” She was clad in a dark-colored morning-gown adorned with large pearl buttons. Her blond hair was in some disorder; her head was small, her profile charming. Her elbow rested on the table, while her fingers with a slow and graceful movement mechanically caressed the tip of her rosy ear. Her nails were long and polished, and in addition to her wedding ring she wore another, set with small rubies, that shot forth crimson rays when they caught the light.

The floor of the dining-room was covered with matting; the ceiling was in imitation of wood, and the walls were adorned with a light-colored paper with a green vine running through it. It was July. The heat was intense. The windows were closed, but the fervor of the sun’s rays striking against the panes and falling on the stone floor of the balcony without penetrated into the apartment with a sultry glow. That mysterious and solemn silence reigned which characterizes the hour of the early Mass. The whole being was pervaded by a vague lassitude producing a desire for the siesta, or for pleasant reveries under leafy trees by the water-side. The canaries were asleep in their cages, which were suspended in the windows between the curtains of blue cretonne. The monotonous buzz of the flies, attracted to the table by the half-melted sugar at the bottom of the cups, filled the room with a drowsy murmur.

Jorge rolled a cigarette, and, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, he began to think, as he sat here at his ease, comfortably attired in his blue flannel jacket and his colored shirt without a collar, of his journey to Alemtejo, and to ruminate on the discomforts attending it. He was a mining engineer, and business obliged him to leave Lisbon on the following day for Beja, thence to proceed to Evora, perhaps even still farther south to St. Domingo; and this journey in the month of July, this interruption in the course of his tranquil existence, annoyed him as if it were an injustice of fate that he should be compelled to take it.

Since the time of his graduation from college he had held a position under the Government. This was his first separation from Luiza, and he felt his heart contract within him at the thought of leaving this little room that he himself had helped to paper in the days preceding his marriage, and in which, after rising from happy dreams, the morning meal was prolonged in delightful abandon.

As he stroked his soft and curly beard, which he wore very short, his eyes lingered with tenderness on each separate article of the furniture which had been his mother’s, and which was dear to his heart: on the antique cupboard with glass doors, which contained the costly Indian porcelain, and the service of silver, bright with constant rubbing, and glittering now in all its decorative splendor; on the old varnished table, familiar to his eyes from his earliest recollection, and on which the few stains left by cup or pitcher were almost concealed by the ornaments that covered it. Before him, on the opposite wall, hung the portrait of his father attired in the fashion of 1830, the face round, the glance animated, the mouth sensual, the medal of Commander of the Order of the Conception decorating his closely-buttoned coat. He had been for many years an employee in the Treasury Department; he was of a sanguine temperament, and was a fine performer on the flute. Jorge did not remember him, but his mother had often assured him that nothing was wanting to make the likeness a perfect one but the power to speak. Jorge had always lived with his mother in the house he now occupied. Her name was Isaura; she was tall of stature, had a long nose, and was apprehensive by nature; she would drink nothing but tepid water at her meals. One day, on returning from the service of the Holy Sacrament, she expired suddenly, without breathing a sigh.

Jorge had never resembled her. He had always been robust and healthy, physically as well as mentally. He had inherited from his father an admirable set of teeth and an excellent digestion. At seven years of age he was turbulent and unruly; later on he became studious and a good boy. When he was a student at the Polytechnic School, on returning home at eight o’clock in the evening he would light his lamp and open his books to study. He did not frequent cafés, and never spent the night away from home.

Jorge was not at all sentimental. His companions, who read Alfred de Musset with responsive sighs, and indulged in dreams of being loved by a Marguerite Gautier, called him prosaic, bourgeois; he only laughed. A button was never wanting on his shirts; he was very methodical. He admired Louis Figuier, Bastiat, and Castilho. He had a horror of disputes; and he was happy.

When his mother died, however, Jorge remained for a long time inconsolable. He felt lonely. It was winter, and the weather was bad; his room, situated in the interior of the house, was not a pleasant one, and the wind sighed through it at times with a melancholy sound. At night, especially, bending over his books, his feet resting on a rug, he felt his being invaded by the languor of solitude. He began to experience in his imagination strange desires; he longed to encircle with his arm a lithe and graceful figure, to hear near him the silken rustle of a woman’s dress. He resolved to marry. He had met Luiza one night during the previous summer on the promenade. He fell in love with her blond tresses, her charming profile, and her large hazel eyes. He obtained his degree the following winter, and they were married. Sebastião, his intimate friend, the good Sebastião, had said, rubbing his hands together, and gravely shaking his head, “He has been hasty in his marriage,—a little hasty!”

But Luiza, Luizinha, soon showed herself to be a good housekeeper. She was an early riser, and had a delightful knack of doing well everything she did. Moreover, she was neat, gay as a lark, and resembled a little bird in its fondness for its nest and for the endearments of its companion. Her presence diffused through the house a sweet and serene gayety.

“She is a little angel,” said Sebastião, later on, in his deep bass voice.

Three years had passed since Jorge’s marriage. What happy years! He, especially, had improved during that time. He felt that his intelligence had become broader, his disposition livelier, his health sounder. Both were happy. Even those who did not know them said, “They are a charming couple; it is a pleasure only to look at them!” And Jorge, now going over in his mind all the little details of his pleasant and easy existence, sent the smoke curling up from his cigarette, with his legs stretched out before him, his soul expanding, and feeling himself as comfortably sheltered in life as he was in his flannel jacket.

“Ah!” suddenly exclaimed Luiza in accents of joyful surprise.

“What is it?” said Jorge.

“Cousin Bazilio is coming home!”

And she read aloud from the newspaper:—

“Sr. Bazilio de Brito, a distinguished member of our highest society, is soon to arrive at Lisbon, from Bordeaux. As may be remembered, he went, some years since, to Brazil, where it is said that by his indefatigable efforts he has retrieved his ruined fortunes. He has been travelling through Europe since the beginning of last year. His return to our capital will be a real cause of rejoicing to his friends, who are numerous.”

“Very numerous, indeed,” said Luiza, in an accent of conviction.

“So much the better,” replied Jorge, sending out a fresh puff of smoke from his cigarette, and stroking his beard with the palm of his hand. “It would seem, then, that he has made a fortune.”

Luiza cast a glance over the advertisements in the paper, took a sip of tea, and then rose and opened one of the windows.

“Oh, Jorge!” she exclaimed, “how hot it is outside!” The glare of the white and garish light dazzled her eyes.

The dining-room was situated in the back part of the house; it looked out upon a plot of ground enclosed by a low fence and overgrown with weeds. Here and there among the weeds, browned by the excessive heat, were a few large stones. A wild fig-tree, isolated in the midst of the plot, spread out its thick motionless foliage, that in the glare of the sunlight looked like burnished bronze. Other houses looked out on the same plot, with their balconies, their clothes spread out on a line to dry, the white walls of their little gardens, and their consumptive trees. An impalpable dust begrimed, so to speak, the luminous air.

“It is hot enough to suffocate the birds,” said Luiza, closing the window. “Can you not fancy yourself already in Alemtejo?”

She came and seated herself on the arm of the easy-chair in which Jorge was reclining, and ran her fingers through his dark and curling locks, which he wore, in obedience to a caprice of his wife, parted down the middle. Jorge passed his arm around her waist.

“Have you given orders to get my white waistcoats ready?” he asked.

“They should be ready now,” said Luiza. “Juliana!” she called, rising, “Juliana!”

A sound of petticoats stiff with starch was heard approaching. Juliana entered. She was a woman of about forty years of age, and was extraordinarily thin. Her neck, long and withered, rose from out the frills of a shirt-waist, bordered with imitation lace. Her features, livid and contracted, were of a pale yellow tint. Her eyes, large and prominent, were crossed by minute red veins, and moved within their reddened lids with an expression of restless curiosity. She wore a head-dress in imitation of braids of hair, that gave to her head an appearance of enormous size. Her nose twitched continually with a nervous movement; and her dress, flat over the chest, short, and puffed out below by her stiffened petticoats, allowed a small and well-shaped foot to be seen, clad in a cloth boot tipped with patent leather.

The waistcoats were not ready, she said, because she had not had time to starch them. She spoke in a sing-song voice, after the manner of the natives of Lisbon, through half-closed lips, and with her head bent down.

“But I told you to be sure to have them ready,” said Luiza; “go get them ready now, in the best way you can. They must be packed up to-night in the valise.”

Juliana had hardly left the room when Luiza exclaimed: “That woman inspires me with horror, Jorge.”

She had been two years in the house, and Luiza could not yet accustom herself to the sight of her, to her gestures, to the piping manner in which she pronounced certain words, drawling the r’s, to the noise made by the heels of her shoes, which were furnished with little metal plates, to her pretensions to possessing a small foot, and to her black kid gloves on Sunday.

“She sets my nerves quivering,” continued Luiza.

Jorge laughed. In his opinion she was an inoffensive woman, a good creature, an admirable laundress; and in the Department her shirt-fronts awakened universal enthusiasm. His friend Julião said of them that they were not ironed, but enamelled. She was not an agreeable woman, it was true, but she was neat, silent, discreet. And rising, with his hands in the pockets of his loose flannel trousers,—

“And in any case, child,” he added, “we must not forget the way she behaved during Aunt Virginia’s sickness, never taking a moment’s rest. She behaved like an angel towards her, yes, an angel,” he repeated gravely; “we are forever indebted to her, my dear.” And with a serious countenance he began to roll another cigarette.

Luiza, in silence, pushed out with the point of her slipper the edge of her morning-gown. Then, with bent head, her eyes fixed on her nails, she said poutingly, “But that would be no reason for not dismissing her, if she should at last become too disagreeable to me.”

“Not with my consent, my dear,” returned Jorge. “It is with me a question of gratitude.”

A few moments’ silence ensued. The cuckoo-clock struck twelve.

“I must get ready to make my calls, now,” he added. And leaning towards her, he caught between his hands the graceful blond head of Luiza. “Little serpent!” he murmured, fixing on her his tenderest glance.

Luiza smiled, and raised to his her magnificent hazel eyes, which she had a habit of moving around in their orbits in a slow and luminous manner, and which were so pure and limpid that one could penetrate into their profoundest depths. Jorge bent towards her, and pressed on her eyelids two sonorous kisses which could be heard at a distance; this was a caress which had the virtue of always pacifying her. Then laying his finger on her lip with a playful gesture,—

“Have you any commissions for me?” he asked. “Do you want anything, Luizinha?”

She said that all she wanted was that he should come back quickly. He replied that he was only going to leave cards; he would go like a flash; it was a question of a moment. And he went out with a radiant countenance, singing in his full baritone voice:—

“Dio del oro,

Del mundo signor,

La la ra, lara.”

Luiza yawned. Heavens! how tiresome to be obliged to dress! The heat was suffocating. She would like to recline in a bath of rose-colored marble, filled with tepid perfumed water clear as crystal, and afterwards, robed in primitive garments, to cradle herself softly in a silken hammock, and be lulled to sleep by the strains of melodious music. She threw off her slipper, and fixed her glance tenderly on her little foot, white as milk and marbled by delicate blue veins, while her thoughts flitted from one idea to another.

It was truly provoking that silk stockings should be so dear! For if that were not the case she would use no others. True that laundresses have the art of washing them all to pieces. But then a blue silk stocking with a little patent leather shoe is so charming, so pretty! And she yawned again. Then she went to the table, took from it a book that bore traces of use, and throwing herself into the easy-chair, gave herself up voluptuously to her reading, caressing her little ear with the tips of her fingers, as was her habit.

The book was the “Dame aux Camelias.” Luiza read a great many novels, and subscribed by the month to a circulating library. In her younger days, when she was about eighteen, she had cherished an enthusiastic admiration for Walter Scott and Scotland. She would have liked to live in one of those Scotch castles bearing the coat of arms of the clan over their vaulted doors, with their oaken chests and their trophies, their tapestries embroidered with historic legends that the breeze from the lakes sets in motion and seems to endow with factitious life. She had fallen in love successively with Evan dale, Morton, and Ivanhoe, those heroes at once grave and tender, with the eagle’s feather in their caps, fastened at the side by the Scotch thistle in diamonds and emeralds. But now her fancy was captivated by the modern,—Paris with its elegance and its sentimentality. She ridiculed the Troubadours, and placed above every other hero M. de Camors; and her ideal man presented himself to her imagination in a white cravat, in the midst of spacious saloons, endowed with a magnetic glance, consumed by passion, his lips overflowing with sublime words. For some days past the object of her enthusiasm had been Marguerite Gautier, whose ill-starred love had invested her in Luiza’s mind with a vague melancholy. She pictured her to herself tall, slender, enveloped in a cashmere shawl, her dark eyes lit up by passion and by the fever of consumption; she found even in the names of the characters—Julie Duprot, Armand, Prudence—the poetic savor of an existence dedicated to love; and she contemplated, steeped in an inexpressible melancholy, this life exhaling itself in sighs, passed in nights of delirium and days of sadness, enduring privations, or rolling in a coupé along the avenues of the Bois under a gray sky, while the first snows of winter were falling silently.

“Good-by for a while, Luiza,” cried Jorge from the dining-room, as he was about to go out.

“Listen,” said Luiza.

Jorge re-entered the apartment, putting on his gloves.

“Try to come back soon, will you not?” she said. “Ah, and don’t forget to bring me some tarts. Buy them at Bastreleque’s; do you hear? And if you pass by the shop of Madame François, tell her to send me my hat. Ah, listen, listen!”

“Good heavens! what more do you want?”

“I want you to go to the circulating library and ask them to send me some novels. But I forgot—the library is closed. Above all, don’t stay away long.”

With two tears trembling on her lids Luiza finished the last page of the “Dame aux Camelias.” She breathed a sigh, and leaning back in her easy-chair, with the book resting on her knees, she began to sing softly, and with profound emotion, the final aria of “Traviata”:—

“Addio del passato

Igli rosi pallenti.”

The death of Marguerite Gautier, her letters, had produced in her nerves a kind of sentimental vibration.

Suddenly the news she had read in the paper of the return of her Cousin Bazilio recurred to her mind. A vague smile parted her rosy lips. Cousin Bazilio! He was her first love. She was just eighteen at the time. No one was acquainted with this fragment of the past, not even Jorge or Sebastião. It is true, indeed, that it had lasted only eight months.

Besides, she was then but a child. When she recalled the tender emotions, the tears of those happy days, she laughed at herself for her folly. How changed must her Cousin Bazilio be! She remembered him perfectly. He was tall, somewhat slender, of a distinguished appearance, with a mustache curling up at the ends, a bold glance, and a peculiar habit of putting his hands in his pockets and jingling his keys and his money. This episode in Luiza’s life had had its beginning at Cintra, at the villa of her uncle João de Brito, while the others were engaged in playing billiards. Bazilio had just returned from England; and had come home somewhat of an Anglo-maniac, awakening the admiration of the colony at Cintra by his red neckties, which he wore passed through a gold ring, and his white flannel suits. The billiard-room was a corner room, whose yellow-painted walls gave it an air of grandeur, as if it belonged to a family of illustrious lineage. A large door at the foot of the avenue opened into a garden to which one descended by three stone steps. The fountain was surrounded by pomegranate-trees, whose red blossoms Bazilio would pluck for her. The dark green foliage of the tall camelias formed shady walks. The water of the fountain sparkled in the sunlight; two turtle-doves cooed monotonously in their wicker cage; and in the midst of the sylvan silence of the villa the noise made by the billiard-balls had a quite aristocratic sound. Then followed all the well-remembered episodes in Lisbon of this love-affair begun at Cintra,—the moonlight rambles over the dark grass to Sitiaes, with long and silent pauses at Penedo da Saudade, before them the valley, and the distant sandy plains, illuminated by a light, dim, ideal, and dreamy; the midday hours passed under the shades of Penha Verde, listening to the cool murmur of the waters that fell, drop by drop, upon the rock; the evenings spent in a boat on the water darkened by the shadow of the trees at Collares, and those bursts of laughter when their boat ran into the tall grass, or her little straw hat caught, in passing, on the overhanging branches of the elms. She had always liked Cintra. A soft and pleasing melancholy stole over her whenever she penetrated into the cool and shady depths of Ramalhão.

She and her Cousin Bazilio had enjoyed complete liberty together. Her mother, poor lady, always engrossed in herself and her rheumatism, would send them away smiling, and then fall asleep. Bazilio called her Aunt Jójó, brought her boxes of bonbons, and she was happy. When the winter arrived, their love took refuge in the old red-tapestried parlor in the street of the Magdalena. What happy nights!—her mother, snoring peacefully, her feet enveloped in a rug, and a volume of the Ladies’ Library resting on her knees. They sat, to their supreme content, side by side, upon the sofa. The sofa! what memories it called up before her! It was low and small, covered with light cashmere, with a strip down the middle which she herself had embroidered,—a marvellous compound of red and yellow on a black ground. One day the catastrophe came. João de Brito, who was a partner in the house of Bastos and Brito, suspended payment and declared himself insolvent. The house at Almada and the villa at Collares were sold.

Bazilio, left penniless, went to Brazil. Luiza passed the first days after his departure seated on the beloved sofa, sobbing quietly over her cousin’s likeness. Then came the surprises of letters long looked for, and the persistent calls at the consignatorial agency when the steamers were behind their time.

A year passed. One morning, after a long silence on the part of Bazilio, she received a letter dated in Bahia, which began thus: “After much reflection, I have come to the conclusion that we should regard our feeling for each other as a piece of childish folly.” On reading these words she fainted. Bazilio breathed profound distress through two pages full of explanations. He was still poor, he said, and would have many struggles to pass through before he would be able to earn enough for them both. The climate was execrable, and he did not wish to sacrifice the health of his dear angel. He called her “My dove,” and ended by signing his name in full in the midst of complicated flourishes.

For many months afterwards Luiza was very sad. It was winter; and seated at the window, working at her embroidery, she told herself continually that her illusions were forever dead. She thought of entering a convent, as her melancholy gaze followed the dripping umbrellas of the passers-by, or as she sang at night, accompanying herself on the piano, “Soares de Passos,”—

“Gone forever are the days

Blest that by thy side I passed,”

or the final aria of “Traviata,” or a sorrowful fado of Vimioso that she had just learned. Meantime her mother’s cold had grown worse, and this brought with it fears and nightly vigils beside the patient’s couch. During the convalescence they went to Bellas.

When they returned home in the winter she had gained flesh, her cheeks were rosy, and she ate with a good appetite. One day she chanced to come across a likeness of Bazilio, in a writing-desk,—a likeness which her cousin had sent her shortly after his arrival in Brazil, and which represented him with white trousers and a Panama hat. She looked at it and shrugged her shoulders. “To think that I should ever have allowed my peace to be disturbed by that good-for-nothing!” she said. “What a fool I was!”

Three years from this time she became acquainted with Jorge. At first she did not find him attractive; she did not like men with beards. Afterwards she noticed that Jorge’s beard was fine and silky; and she began to find a certain charm and sweetness in his glance. Without being in love with him, she felt when with him a languor and abandonment, as if she could be content to rest forever on his bosom, careless of what the future might bring. What joy when he said to her, “Let us get married”! He had caught her hand in his; that warm pressure penetrated to her inmost soul and pervaded her whole being. She answered yes, and then remained silent, unable to add another word, but with her heart beating violently under the bodice of her merino gown.

She was now engaged. What tranquil happiness for her mother!

They were married at eight o’clock in the morning one foggy day. It was necessary to light candles in order to put on her wreath and veil. That day remained in her memory, vague and indistinct, like some half-forgotten dream, in which stood out in clearly-defined outlines the discolored and swollen face of the priest and the horrible visage of a wretched-looking old woman trembling with the palsy, who held out her hand with mingled greed and hatred, fastened herself on each of the guests in turn, and pouring forth a volley of coarse speeches, when Jorge, much moved, distributed at the door of the church some pieces of money among the beggars. Her satin slippers were too tight for her; she felt a void in her stomach, and they were obliged to make her a cup of very strong tea on her return home. And afterwards, what fatigue when she unpacked her trunks in the evening in her new home!

But Jorge was now her husband, and a husband young, affectionate, and always cheerful. She told herself, therefore, that she would adore him. She was possessed by an insatiable curiosity in regard to everything pertaining to him,—to his business, his weapons, his papers. She observed other husbands attentively, and she grew proud of her own. Jorge surrounded her with all the delicate attentions of a lover; but in all that related to his honor or to his profession he was exacting to a degree that bordered on excess. At times he would make use of expressions that caused her to turn pale; he was jealous in the extreme, and one of her friends once observed to her, “That man is capable of striking you.” She had but little doubt of it, and this increased her love for him. He was her all,—her strength, her fortune, her religion; her maw, in a word. She thought of what she would have been, married to her Cousin Bazilio. What misery! What would have been her fate? She grew bewildered in the contemplation of the hypothetic modes of existence that unfolded themselves before her mind like scenes in a drama. She pictured herself in Brazil, reclining under the shade of the cocoanut-trees, in a hammock, attended by little negroes, and watching idly the flight of the paroquets, and those large spiders and horrible cockroaches that so greatly terrified her when she chanced to see one near her.

“The Senhorita Leopoldina,” Juliana announced in a low voice, half opening the door.

Luiza sat up erect, startled. “What! Leopoldina!” she said. “Why have you admitted her?” She asked herself, while she was arranging the folds of her morning-gown, what Jorge would say if he knew of this visit. Heavens! he who had charged her so often not to receive this woman. But she was now in the parlor, and what was to be done?

“Very well,” she said aloud; “say I will be with her directly.”

Leopoldina was her most intimate friend. As children they had been neighbors in the street of the Magdalena, and school-girls together in the Patriarchal. Leopoldina was the daughter of the Viscount of Quebraes, who had been one of the pages of Don Miguel, and a man of bad reputation. She had contracted an unhappy marriage with a certain João Noronha, a clerk in the Custom House. It was known that she had lovers; it was whispered that she was an unfaithful wife. Jorge detested her. He had often said to Luiza, “Anything you like, but Leopoldina.”

Leopoldina was twenty-seven years old. She was not very tall, but she had the reputation of having the best figure of any woman in Lisbon. Her gowns were always becoming, and so close-fitting that they followed every line of her figure, encasing her form like a second skin. Her face was not pretty; it was, on the contrary, of a somewhat vulgar cast; the nostrils were too wide to be beautiful; and her complexion, of a rosy though not very clear brunette, retained almost imperceptible traces of the small-pox. But she possessed an incontestable attraction in her eyes, which were of an intense black, liquid, languishing, and shaded by long lashes. As she entered, Luiza ran towards her with open arms; they embraced each other warmly, and Leopoldina, as soon as she was seated, began a series of lamentations, folding and unfolding her light silk parasol. She had been indisposed, she said, ennuyée, and overwhelmed with annoyances; the heat was killing her. And Luiza, what had she been doing? Leopoldina thought her looking stouter. She observed Luiza attentively, wrinkling her brows as she did so, for she was somewhat near-sighted. Her lips, which were slightly parted, were of a beautiful red, though perhaps too full, and her teeth were small, white, and even.

“Happiness gives everything, even a good complexion,” she sighed, after her inspection was completed. She had come, she added, to learn the address of the French milliner who made Luiza’s bonnets. Besides, she was distressed at not having seen her friend for so long a time.

Luiza gave her the address of the milliner; her prices were moderate, she added, and she had taste. As the room was somewhat dark, she opened the blinds slightly. The covering of the furniture was of a dark green, with stripes; the paper and the carpet, of a foliage pattern, were of the same disagreeable color. On the dark background of the wall the gilded frames of two engravings, the “Medea” of Delacroix, and the “Martyr” of Delaroche, stood out in bold relief. There were also on the walls some illustrations of Dante by Doré. Between the windows was an oval mirror in which was reflected a porcelain Neapolitan dancing the tarantella.

Over the tête-à-tête was the portrait in oil of Jorge’s mother. She was represented sitting bolt upright in her black gown. One of her hands, of a deathlike pallor, rested under the weight of its rings on her knee; the other was lost to view amid the voluminous folds of lace, painted with much minuteness, that adorned her black satin mantilla. Her long and cadaverous countenance stood out in bold relief against the background of a crimson curtain, whose folds, drawn back with studied care, allowed a perspective of blue horizon, and trees with symmetrically rounded foliage, to be seen between them.

“And your husband, how is he?” said Luiza, seating herself beside Leopoldina.

“As little amusing as ever,” responded the other, laughing. Leaning towards Luiza, and slightly elevating her eyebrows, “Do you know that I have broken off with Mendonça?” she added, with a serious air.

“Yes?” asked Luiza, blushing faintly.

Leopoldina gave her all the details. She was by nature extremely indiscreet. From Luiza she had never had secrets. She consulted her alike in regard to her admirers, her opinions, her manner of life, her nervous attacks, and her gowns.

“So your cousin Bazilio is coming home again?” asked Leopoldina presently.

“So I have just read in the ‘Diario de Noticias,’” returned Luiza. “The news surprised me very much.”

“Ah, before I forget,” said Leopoldina, abruptly, “I should like to know how you have trimmed your blue check gown. I want to make one like it.”

“I have trimmed it with the same color, but of a darker shade. Come and look at it.”

They went into the bedroom. Luiza opened the window and then the wardrobe. The apartment was small and fresh-looking, and was furnished in pale-blue cretonne; a cheap carpet of a blue pattern on a white ground covered the floor. The high toilet-table stood between the windows under a canopy of coarse lace, and was furnished with, bottles of various sizes, and adorned with a cover embroidered by Luiza’s own hands. On stands in front of the windows were plants of luxuriant foliage, such as begonias and mahonias, whose leaves fell gracefully over the earthen flower-pots in which they were planted.

All these details, which breathed of peace and comfort, brought before Leopoldina’s mind images of tranquil joys. She looked around her, and said slowly:

“You are still very much in love with your husband, are you not? Ah, you are right,” she added, sighing; “you have cause to be so.”

She proceeded to powder her face and neck before the looking-glass. “Yes, you have cause to be so,” she repeated. “But show me the woman who could love a husband like mine.”

She threw herself on a tête-à-tête, and broke out into complaints against her husband. He was so coarse, so selfish, she said. “Would you believe that if I do not return at four he sits down to table without waiting for me, dines, and leaves me the remnants?”

She then enlarged on his other defects. He took care of nothing, he spat on the carpet, and so on, and so on. “His room—for you know we have separate rooms—is like a pigsty.”

“How dreadful!” exclaimed Luiza, gravely. “But for that you too are a little to blame.”

“I?” responded Leopoldina, with flashing eyes, starting to her feet in amazement. “Well, nothing but that was wanting,—that I should concern myself about my husband’s room!”

There was a pause. At last she repeated that she was the most unfortunate woman in the world. Then with a quick and expressive gesture of the hand,—

“The stupid fellow is not even jealous,” she said. Juliana here entered and said, coughing and lowering her eyes,—

“Does the senhora still wish me to iron the white waistcoats?”

“Yes, all of them; I have already told you so,” answered Luiza. “They must be in the valise before we go to bed to-night.”

“What valise? Who is going away?” asked Leopoldina.

“Jorge. He is going to the mines in Alemtejo.” “Then you will be alone. I can come and see you. Bravo!”

The clock struck four. Leopoldina, as if suddenly awakened from sleep, rose.

“I must go,” she said; “it is getting late, and if I am not there he will sit down to dinner without me. We have baked fish to-day, and there is nothing so detestable as cold fish. Good-by—for a little while, is it not so? While Jorge is away I will come to see you very often. Good-by. The French milliner’s address is Ouro Street, over the tobacconist’s, eh!”

Luiza accompanied her to the landing. She had almost reached the front door, when, raising her voice, she said,—

“You think it best to trim the dress with blue, do you not?”

“I have done so with mine,” answered Luiza, leaning over the banister; “it seems to me the most suitable.”

“Good-by,” repeated Leopoldina. “Ouro Street, over the tobacconist’s, you say?”

“Yes, Ouro Street. Good-by.”

And Luiza added in a louder voice,—

“The door to the right,—Madame François.”

Jorge returned at five, and putting his umbrella in a corner, said, from the threshold of Luiza’s room,—

“So you have had a visitor.”

Luiza colored faintly. She was at her toilet; her hair was already arranged, and she was attired in a gown of light fabric, trimmed with lace.

“Leopoldina was here,” she said; “Juliana admitted her, though she was evidently not very much pleased with the visit. She came to inquire the address of the French milliner, and she remained but a short time. Who told you of it?” she ended.

“Juliana. Leopoldina was here the whole afternoon.”

“The whole afternoon!” repeated Luiza. “What nonsense! She was here scarcely ten minutes at the utmost.”

Jorge took off his gloves without answering a word. He approached one of the windows and began to finger the leaves of a pale rose-colored begonia. He whistled softly, and seemed to be intently occupied in detaching a bud of the amaryllis, hidden among the brilliant foliage, and resembling in color the yellowish stalk of the plant itself.

Luiza was engaged in fastening around her neck a gold locket with a black velvet ribbon. Her hands trembled slightly, and her face was flushed.

“Has the heat given you a headache?” she asked her husband.

Jorge did not answer. He whistled louder than before, and went over to the other window. There he busied himself in fingering the flexible leaves of a mahonias, of variegated red and green. Then, suddenly putting his hand to his throat as if he felt himself suffocating,—

“Listen,” he said to Luiza. “You must give up the acquaintance of that creature. This must end at once and forever.”

Luiza turned scarlet.

“I neither can nor will bear it longer,” he continued. Then, prefixing the words with a short and somewhat violent expletive, he added, “And this for your own sake, for the sake of the neighbors, for the very commonest decency.”

“But—it was Juliana—” stammered Luiza, unable to add another word.

“Next time, put her outside the door,” returned Jorge, walking with long strides up and down the room. “Say you are not at home, that you have gone to China, that you are sick—”

Then he paused, and in a voice full of emotion,—

“Only consider, my dear child,” he said, “that every one is but too well acquainted with her reputation. The Quebraes! A byword! A shameless creature! As if the odor in the room were not enough for me to know that she has been here! That hateful odor of new-mown hay!” he continued. “You were school-fellows, it is true; but that will not prevent me from giving her a fright some day, if I should catch her here,—yes, a fright,” he repeated.

He was silent for a moment; then, turning to his wife with open arms, “Come, am I right, or not?” he said.

“Yes, you are right,” returned Luiza, confused and blushing, while she went on arranging her ornaments before the looking-glass.

“Very well, then,” he said, and left the room, furious.

Luiza remained standing before her glass, and a pearly tear rolled silently down her cheek.

“That tattling Juliana!” she cried; “and all for the pleasure of sowing discord!”

She was seized with a sudden fit of anger, and went into the laundry, slamming the door behind her as she entered.

“Who has given you orders to say whether any one comes to my house or not?” she said abruptly to Juliana.

“I did not think it was a secret,” responded the latter, laying down in surprise the iron she was using.

“Of course it is no secret, stupid! Why did you admit her? Have I not told you a thousand times that I do not wish to receive her?”

“The senhora has never told me so,” answered the woman, with a look of amazement, and beginning to grow angry in her turn.

“That is not the truth! Be silent!”

She turned her back on Juliana, and went to her own room with her nerves all unstrung. Presently she crossed over to the window, and leaning against it looked out.

The sun was just setting, darkness was gradually falling over the ill-paved street without, and not a breath of air was stirring. The houses of the neighborhood were old and shabby, with mean entrances; one could guess that they were inhabited by poorly-paid clerks. On their balconies, in pots, were some common plants,—sweet basil and carnations. In the upper stories, where the services of the laundress were but seldom called into requisition, clothes were hanging out to dry. The appealing notes of the “Virgin’s Prayer,” which some young girl of the neighborhood was playing on the piano with all the sentimental abandon peculiar to the day, fell upon her ears. Crowded together in the narrow balcony of the house opposite were the four daughters of Senhor Teixeira Azevedo, thin as tenterhooks, their hair in disorder, their faces unwashed, devoting the afternoon to the inspection of the neighboring windows, to making sport of the passers-by, and to watching, with the seriousness of idiots, their saliva fall in large drops on the pavement beneath.

“Jorge is right,” thought Luiza. But what more could she do, she asked herself. She never put her foot in Leopoldina’s house; she had taken her likeness out of the album in the parlor; and she had felt herself obliged to confess to her the fact of her husband’s antipathy towards her. What tears had they not shed together! Poor Leopoldina! she came to see her so seldom, and remained so short a time! But if he found her in the parlor would he really put her out of the house?

At this point in her reflections a man, short and stout, with bow legs, and bending over a Barbary organ, made his appearance at the entrance of the street; his black beard gave him a savage aspect. He stopped, and began to play, directing, as he did so, an uneasy glance up at the windows, and smiling sorrowfully. The aria of “Casta Diva,” accompanied with an incessant tremolo, filled the air with its harsh and metallic sound.

Some of the neighbors looked out from between the muslin curtains of their windows. Gertrudes, the servant of the professor of mathematics, showed in the narrow frame of her window her broad and swarthy face, on which were plainly discernible the traces of her forty springs. Farther on, leaning over the balcony of the second story, was seen the dark figure of Senhor Cunha Rosado, tall and thin, his cap on his head, his transparent hands clasping his dressing-gown over his stomach with an air indicative of pain.

The shopkeepers of the street came idly to their doors. The woman who kept the tobacco-shop stood at her threshold, dressed in mourning, and revealing in her whole appearance her state of widowhood, her arms folded over her dyed shawl, her figure squeezed into a jacket too small for her, that made her look still thinner than she was, an expression of languor and fatigue in her eyes. From the ground-floor of the house in which Senhor Azevedo lived, the coal-vender emerged,—a person of massive proportions, who affected a grotesque gravity, her hair in tangles, her face black and shining from the coal-dust with which she was covered from head to foot, accompanied by her three little boys, who looked like three little crying blacks, half-naked, and hanging on to her skirts. Senhor Paula, the furniture-dealer, in his cloth cap with its peak of patent leather, which he never removed from his head, advanced as far as the gutter. His soiled stockings hung down over the heels of his slippers, which were embroidered with glass beads. He suffered from a chronic hoarseness, and he had a disagreeable trick of making a clicking noise with his tongue. His long gray mustache drooped over the corners of his mouth. He hated kings and priests. The state of public affairs was a source of unceasing sorrow to him. He was always whistling the air of “Maria da Fonte;” and his every word and gesture revealed the discontented patriot.

The organ-grinder took off his hat, and without ceasing to play held it up to the balconies with the supplicating glance of one who asks an alms, leaving uncovered his forehead, to which the hair clung, wet with perspiration. The Senhoritas Azevedo quickly shut their window. The coal-vender gave him a copper coin, not, however, without first putting some questions to him; she wanted to know where he came from, what streets he had passed through, and how many airs his organ played.

A bell tolled in the distance, announcing the conclusion of some religious service, and the Sunday was approaching its close with a calm and melancholy tranquillity.

“Luiza!” said Jorge, entering the room suddenly.

She turned around, answering mechanically,—

“What is it?”

“Let us go to supper, child; it is seven o’clock,” he returned. And putting his arm around her waist, he continued, in a voice low and full of tenderness, as they stood together in the middle of the room, “You were angry with me a little while ago, were you not?”

“No,” responded Luiza, in humble accents; “you were right; I confess it.”

“Ah!” he said, in the tone of one who has conquered, and is proud of his victory. And rubbing his hands together, he declaimed gayly, “‘The husband whom the heart accepts is always the best counsellor and the truest friend.’ To supper!” he ended joyously.

CHAPTER II.

A PORTUGUESE “TEA.”

ON Sunday evenings a number of intimate friends—a sort of conversazione—gathered in Jorge’s parlor around the antique lamp of rose-colored porcelain. They drank tea and chatted together in a somewhat bourgeois fashion. Luiza crocheted; Jorge smoked his pipe.

The first to arrive on the present occasion was Julião Zuzarte, a distant relative of Jorge, who had been his school-fellow in the old days of the Polytechnic. He was a thin and nervous-looking man, with blue spectacles, and long hair falling over the collar of his coat. He had studied medicine at the School. He was very intelligent, and an indefatigable worker; but, as he himself said, he worked without any definite purpose. At thirty years of age, poor, in debt, without patients, he began to be discontented with his fourth floor in an unfashionable neighborhood, his two-shilling dinners, and his overcoat bound with braid. While he was restricted to this narrow way of living, he saw others of far less ability succeed in all they undertook and obtain the object of their ambition. He was in the habit of saying that he was unlucky. He might have had the position of titular doctor in one of the provinces, with his own house and garden; but his pride rebelled against this, and as he had confidence in his ability and his knowledge, he did not wish to bury them in an insignificant and gloomy village, with its three streets overrun by pigs. Everything that smacked of provincialism inspired him with horror. He beheld himself in imagination leading this obscure existence, playing manilha at evening parties, and dying of tedium; therefore he made no effort to change his way of living. He still hoped, with the audacity of the ambitious plebeian, for a large practice, a chair in the School of Medicine, a carriage in which to visit his patients, and a handsome wife with a good dowry. He believed firmly in his right to all these good things, and as they delayed in coming to him, his temper became soured. He hated this existence in which he had no pleasures. The periods of long and bitter meditation, during which he gnawed his nails in silence, grew every day more frequent; or if he opened his lips at all it was only to give harsh answers and utter unjust complaints in accents that had the steely sharpness of a sword.

Luiza could see nothing attractive in him; on the contrary, she thought him extremely tiresome. She detested his magisterial tone, the glitter of his blue spectacles, and the cut of his trousers, which he wore so short as to allow the worn elastics of his boots to be seen below them. But she concealed her antipathy, and always treated him with amiability because Jorge admired him, and thought him, as he said, a man of genius, a great man.

As Julião arrived early, he went to the dining-room to take his after-dinner cup of coffee with Jorge and Luiza. He glanced askance and with bitterness at the silver on the table and at the fresh toilet of Luiza. All these evidences of prosperity irritated him. Jorge was, in his opinion, a man of mediocre abilities, who did not deserve his good fortune; and the thought of this relative of his who lived comfortably, who was happily married, good-looking, well thought of in the Department, and who, in addition to all this, possessed some hundreds of dollars in bonds, imbittered his mind, like an injustice of fate, and weighed upon him like a humiliation. But he professed affection for him, and never failed to visit him on Sunday evenings. On these occasions he endeavored to hide his envy, chatting gayly, and passing his hand from time to time over his dry and disordered hair.

Towards nine o’clock Donna Felicidade de Noronha made her appearance. She entered the room with open arms and a smiling countenance. She was a lady of about fifty years of age, and was very stout. As she suffered from a flatulent dyspepsia, she was unable to lace herself, and her figure, as a consequence, was devoid of symmetry or shape. A few silver threads glittered here and there in her wavy hair; but her face, round and full, had all the soft and delicate fairness of a nun’s. The dark and humid pupils of her prominent and restless eyes shone beneath their wrinkled lids; her mobile nostrils were somewhat wide; the corners of her mouth were shaded by a slight down that resembled a circumflex accent lightly traced by a fine pen. She had been the intimate friend of Luiza’s mother, and she had kept up the habit of going to see the little one every Sunday. She was, according to her own account, of a noble family,—the Noronhas of Redondella. For the rest, she was highly esteemed in Lisbon. She was somewhat of a devotee, and was a constant attendant at the Chapel of the Encarnação. The moment she entered she gave Luiza a noisy kiss, and asked her in a low and anxious voice,—

“Is he coming?”

“The counsellor?” said Luiza. “Yes, he is coming.”

She spoke with knowledge, for he, the Counsellor Accacio, never came to take a cup of tea with Donna Luiza, as he called her, without going the evening before to the Department of Public Works to see Jorge, and say to him with a solemn inclination of his tall figure,—

“My dear Jorge, I shall go to-morrow to ask a cup of tea from your charming wife.” He almost always added, “Do our beautiful works progress?—Yes? I am delighted to hear it. If you should see the Minister, present my respects to him.” And he would then take his leave, threading with measured step the dirty passage-ways.

Five years ago Donna Felicidade had become enamoured of him. They bantered her occasionally, on account of this sentiment, at Jorge’s. Luiza thought it very amusing. They saw her fresh color, her rounded cheeks, and they did not suspect that this concentrated passion that burned in secrecy and silence in her bosom, fed anew from week to week, was destroying her bodily health like an illness, and demoralizing her nature like a vice. She had once been in love with an officer of the Lancers, whose likeness she still kept. Later, she conceived a sudden attachment for a young baker of the neighborhood, whom she had the pain of seeing marry before her very eyes. She then devoted herself entirely to a little dog, Bilró. A servant whom she had discharged revenged herself by giving the little animal black pudding to eat. Bilró had an attack of indigestion, of which he died; but he still reigned, stuffed with straw, in his mistress’s dining-room. Donna Felicidade, at fifty years, was still unmarried. One day the counsellor made his appearance, and kindled anew her dormant affections. Senhor Accacio became her craze; she admired his countenance, the gravity of his manner; she opened her eyes wide with admiration at his eloquence; nor was she blind to the fact that he would be a good parti. The counsellor came to be the object of her hopes, her desires, her ambition. The indifference of the counsellor irritated her,—not a glance, not a sigh, not the least indication that her love was requited. He was for her solemn, glacial, courteous; but at the least demonstration of her affection for him he would rise and withdraw with severe and modest demeanor. One day she fancied that the counsellor cast an admiring glance from behind his dark spectacles at the superabundance of her charms. Suddenly she felt herself endowed with a greater facility of expression; she felt her voice capable of more tender accents, and she said to him softly,—

“Accacio!”

But he extinguished her ardor by a gesture, and then said gravely,—

“Senhora, the snows that have accumulated upon the head end at last by settling on the heart. It is useless, Senhora.”

The martyrdom of Donna Felicidade, then, was a secret one. That her affection was unrequited was known, but not so the pangs she suffered.

They were speaking of Alemtejo, of Evora, and its sources of wealth, of the chapel of relics, when the counsellor entered, carrying on his arm his overcoat, which he placed on a chair in a corner of the room, first carefully folding it. Then with measured and dignified step he approached Luiza and pressed her hands in his.

“I see you are in the enjoyment of your usual perfect health, Senhora,” he said, in sonorous accents. “Jorge told me yesterday. That is well, very well!”

The counsellor was tall and thin; he was dressed in black, his neck imprisoned in a high stiff collar. The lower part of his face was narrow; his head, which was bald and polished, was slightly flattened on the crown. He dyed the little hair he still possessed, which formed a fringe above his neck, and this hand, black and shining, heightened by contrast the lustrousness of the bald cranium above. But he left in its natural color his gray mustache, which drooped over the corners of his mouth. His beard was full, his complexion pale. He always wore dark-colored spectacles. His enormous ears projected from either side of his head like the fans of a windmill. He had been Director-in-Chief of the Department of Home Government, and whenever he spoke of the king he mechanically took off his hat and bent his head. His every gesture, even to the taking of snuff, was measured. He made use of none but the choicest words, and uttered the simplest phrases with a certain air of dignity. In speaking of public persons he had a habit of saying “Our Garrett,” or “Our Herculano,” as the case might be. He had been something of an author, too, and was never without some apt quotation at his command. He had no family, and lived on a third floor in Ferregial Street, with a housekeeper who was at the same time a companion; and he devoted his time to the study of political economy. He had written a work on “The Reproductive Principles of the Science of Wealth and its Distribution, according to the best Authorities,” with the supplementary title, “Reading for Wakeful Hours.” It was only a few months since he had published the “History of all the Ministers of State, from the illustrious Marquis of Pombal to those of our own Times, with the Dates of their Deaths and Births carefully verified.”

“Were you ever in Alemtejo, Counsellor?” Luiza asked him.

“Never, Senhora,” he answered, bowing, “never. And, believe me, to my great regret; for I have been told that there are curiosities there of the first order.”

He delicately took between his thumb and finger a small pinch of the golden snuff he was in the habit of using, and added, with a majestic air, “It possesses, besides, a great source of wealth in its hogs.”

“Jorge,” said Julião, from the corner where he sat, “find out how much the titular doctor of Evora makes a year.”

The counsellor, always well informed, approached Julião, still holding his pinch of snuff between his thumb and finger. “He must make six hundred thousand reis,[1] Senhor Zuzarte,” he said; “I have it so stated in my notes. But why this question?” he added, straightening himself. “Do you desire to abandon Lisbon?”

Every one present joined in expressing disapproval of such an intention.

“Ah, Lisbon is always Lisbon,” sighed Donna Felicidade.

“A city of marble and of granite, as our immortal historian has said,” added the counsellor with emphasis.

He inhaled his pinch of snuff, spreading out his fingers in the form of a fan. His hand, thin and pale, but well cared for, was adorned with a seal ring.

“The counsellor would no more abandon Lisbon than would the hand of God the Father,” said Donna Felicidade, blushing as she spoke.

“I was born in Lisbon, Senhora, and I am a son of Lisbon to the bottom of my soul,” answered the counsellor, turning slowly towards her, and bowing, with eyes bent on the floor.

“I remember,” said Jorge, “that you were born in the street of S. José.”

“No. 75, my friend, in the house next to that in which my poor Geraldo lived up to the time of his marriage.”

This “poor Geraldo” was Jorge’s father, and Accacio had been his most intimate friend. They were neighbors, and as Geraldo performed on the flute and Accacio on the violin, they played duets together; both were members of the Philharmonic Society of the street of S. José. Afterwards, when Accacio became a member of the Cabinet, he abandoned the violin, as well from conscientious scruples as through considerations regarding his dignity, and with it all the joyful and tender emotions of the evenings at the Philharmonic. He dedicated himself to statistics, but he always remained faithful to Geraldo, and continued to extend to Jorge the same vigilant friendship. He had been Jorge’s witness on the occasion of his marriage; he went to see him every Sunday; and he never failed to send him, on his saint’s day, his card, and a confection of almond paste in the form of an eel.

“Here I was born,” he repeated, unfolding his India silk handkerchief, “and here I intend to die;” and he blew his nose discreetly.

“It is not yet time to think of that,” said every one.

“The thought of death does not terrify me, my dear Jorge,” he responded in a melancholy accent. “I have even caused my last resting-place, modest but convenient, to be constructed in the Cemetery of the Heights of São João. It is situated on the right of the entrance, in a sheltered situation, beside the tomb, constructed in the form of a mausoleum, of some good friends of mine.”

“Has the Senhor Counsellor already composed his epitaph?” asked Zuzarte, in his incisive and ironical accents.

“No, Senhor Zuzarte, no; I desire no eulogies written on my tomb. If my friends or my fellow-citizens consider that I have done anything worthy of remembrance, they have other means of recording it; such as the press, a necrological article, poetry itself. For my own part, the utmost I desire on the marble that covers me is my name in black letters, with my title of counsellor, the date of my birth and that of my death. I do not object, however,” he added, after a moment of reflection, “to having engraved underneath, in small letters, the words, ‘Pray for him.’”

There was a moment’s silence, interrupted by the opening of the door.

“May I come in?” said a thin treble voice.

“Ah,” said Jorge, “it is Ernesto.”

Ernesto advanced with hasty steps towards Jorge, and threw his arms around his neck. “I have heard that you are going away, Cousin,” he said. “How do you do, Cousin Luiza?”

The new-comer was a cousin of Jorge, thin and fragile in appearance. He looked more like a school-boy than a man. His scanty mustache, anointed with pomade, curled up at the ends in points like needles, and in his hollow countenance his eyes glittered with an unhealthy brightness. He wore patent-leather shoes, with broad laces. A watch-chain, which supported an enormous locket, with a complicated pattern of flowers and fruits enamelled in relief upon it, hung from his waistcoat. He wrote for the theatre. He had in his portfolio several plays he had translated,—two original ones, in one act each, and a farce. He had just written for the “Variety” a spectacular drama in five acts, called “Love and Honor.” This was the only one of his pieces which had been accepted. Since then he was always seen apparently overwhelmed with business, his pockets filled with manuscripts, surrounded by actors, and paying without a murmur for unlimited cups of coffee and glasses of cognac, an expression of fatigue upon his pallid countenance, his hat pushed back from his forehead, and repeating to every one he met, “This life is killing me.” It is to be observed that he had been led into literature solely by his love for it, as he was employed in the Custom House at a good salary, and possessed, besides, a rent-roll of five hundred thousand reis.[2] He confessed that this passion for art had cost him a good deal of money; he had caused to be made at his own expense the patent leather boots used by the lover, as well as those used by the noble father, in his drama, “Love and Honor.”

He was at once surrounded; and Luiza, laying down her work, remarked to him that he was pale, and looked depressed. He began thereupon to complain of his troubles,—the rehearsals gave him nausea, he had constant disputes with the director. Yesterday he had had to alter, from beginning to end, the finale of an act; yes, he repeated, from beginning to end. “And all,” he added with irritation, “because that stupid fellow wants the scene laid in a salon, when I have placed it on the edge of a precipice.”

“Of a what!” exclaimed Donna Felicidade, in astonishment.

“Of a precipice, Donna Felicidade,” said the counsellor, with his customary suave urbanity. “It might also be called with propriety an abyss.” And he quoted,—

“And straight he plunges into the abyss.”

“But why on the edge of a precipice?” inquired the guests.

The counsellor asked for the argument of the piece.

Ernesto, delighted, sketched in broad strokes the plot of his work.

“The heroine,” he said, “is a married woman, who meets in Cintra a man who is destined to prove fatal to her peace,—the Count of Monte Redondo. Her husband has lost at play a hundred contos de reis,[3] which he is unable to pay. His name is dishonored, and he himself in danger of being thrown into prison. The heroine, rendered desperate, hurries to the ruined castle inhabited by the count, and there reveals to him the misfortune that has befallen her husband. The count wraps himself in his cloak and departs; at the moment in which the police are about to lay hands upon the husband, he arrives upon the scene. Then follows an affecting scene by moonlight. The count discovers himself, and throws a purse, full of gold, at the feet of the officers, exclaiming, ‘Satiate yourselves, vultures!’”

“A fine situation!” said the counsellor.

“Towards the end,” continued Ernesto, “the plot thickens. The Count of Monte Redondo and the heroine fall in love with each other; the husband discovers it, throws at the feet of the count the gold he had received from him, and kills his wife.”

“How?” they all ask.

“He throws her over a precipice, at the end of the fifth act. The count sees him, rushes to her assistance, and falls over with her. The husband folds his arms, and gives way to a burst of demoniac laughter. That is how I have arranged it.”

He paused, breathless, and glanced around him with eyes languid and colorless as those of a fish.

“It is a well-planned work, in which the grand passions elbow each other,” said the counsellor, stroking his bald cranium with his hand. “I offer my congratulations to Senhor Ledesma.”

“But what the deuce does that director want?” said Julião, who had been listening to the conversation, silent and attentive. “Does he perchance wish to place a precipice on a first floor furnished by Garde?”

Ernesto turned towards him. “No, Senhor Zuzarte,” he said, in mellifluous accents; “he wishes the catastrophe to take place in a salon. So that,” he added with resignation, “I have been obliged to rewrite the whole of the fifth act. In order to be obliging, I had to spend the night in vigil, and to drink three cups of coffee.”

“Take care, Senhor Ledesma!” said the counsellor, stretching out his hand with a warning gesture. “Take care! one should be prudent in the use of stimulants.”

“They don’t hurt me, Senhor Counsellor,” responded Ernesto, smiling. “I altered the dénouement,” he continued, “in three hours; and I have just read it over to the director. I have it with me.”

“Read it to us, Senhor Ernesto,” said Donna Felicidade; “read it to us.”

“Yes, read it,” repeated every one.

“It is only the first sketch; I am afraid of boring you,” said Ernesto, who could not conceal his delight. “But, since you desire it—”

And, in the midst of profound silence, he unfolded a roll of blue-ruled paper. “I must claim your indulgence before beginning,” he said, looking around him, “in view of the fact that this is only a sketch. I have not crossed the t’s nor dotted the i’s yet.” And he began to read in a theatrical manner:—

“Agatha—that is the name of the wife, and we are now in the scene in which the husband has discovered everything,—”

“AGATHA (falling on her knees at the feet of Julio). Kill me! kill me! for pity’s sake. Rather death than to feel my heart slowly breaking under the weight of your contempt!”

“JULIO. Have you not torn my heart out of my bosom? Have you had compassion upon me? My God! I who in happier days believed her stainless!”

One of the portières of the parlor was here seen to move slightly; the noise of cups gently striking against one another was heard, and Juliana, in a white apron, entered, bringing in the tea.

“How annoying!” exclaimed Luiza. “After tea we will continue, eh?”

“It is not worth while, Cousin,” said Ernesto, folding up the paper and casting a furious glance at Juliana.

“What do you mean? Why, it is charming!” said Donna Felicidade.

Juliana placed on the table the plate of biscuits, the oeiras cakes, and the cocoanut bonbons.

“Senhor Counsellor,” said Luiza, “here is your tea,—a little weak, as you like it. Julião, help yourself. Hand the biscuits to Julião,” she said to Juliana.

And with her sleeve slightly turned up, her white arm exposed to view, she inquired, taking the sugar-spoon in her hand, “Who wants more sugar? Senhor Counsellor, a biscuit?”

“A thousand thanks, dear Senhora,” he responded, bowing. “I have already helped myself.” And turning to Ernesto, he declared that he found the style of his work admirable.

“But what more does the director want, now that he has his salon?” they demanded on all sides.

Ernesto, standing up, a bonbon between his fingers, said with animation,—

“He wants the husband to pardon his wife.”

There was a movement of astonishment.

“What an idea!” “What nonsense!” “But why?” “What a curious notion!” resounded on all sides.

“What would you have?” said Ernesto, shrugging his shoulders with a melancholy air. “He says the public do not like that kind of dénouement; that it does not suit the people of Lisbon.”

“In truth, Senhor Ledesma,” said the counsellor, “our public is not accustomed to these scenes of bloodshed.”

“That is true,” assented Donna Felicidade.

“But, Senhor Counsellor,” responded Ernesto, balancing himself on the points of his toes, “in my play there is no blood shed, not a drop; a push of the shoulder, merely.”

Luiza, here calling the attention of Donna Felicidade, said to her aside, with a smile,—

“Try these egg bonbons; they are fresh.”

“Impossible, child, impossible,” she responded, in plaintive accents, placing her hand at the same time upon her stomach.

Meantime the counsellor, his hands on Ernesto’s shoulders, was recommending clemency to the latter, saying in persuasive accents,—

“That gives more gayety to the piece, Senhor Ledesma. The spectator leaves the theatre in a more agreeable frame of mind.”

“A tart, Senhor Counsellor?” interrupted Luiza.

“I have finished, dear lady. Come, Jorge, are you not of my opinion?”

“I, Senhor Counsellor?” responded Jorge, putting his hands in his pockets. “By no means. I am for her death,—most decidedly!”

“Ah, then—”

“I am for her death,” repeated Jorge, with animation; “and I demand that you kill her,” he added, turning to Ernesto.

“Let him talk, Senhor Ledesma,” interposed Donna Felicidade, quickly; “he is jesting,—he, who has the disposition of an angel!” she added, appealing with a smile to the others.

“You deceive yourself, Donna Felicidade,” said Jorge, standing before her. “I speak in all seriousness. I am a very tiger!”

Every one laughed.

“If she has deceived her husband,” he continued in severe accents, “I am of the opinion that she should be put to death. Could I consent, in a case like this, that a member of my family, a cousin of mine, one of my own blood, should allow himself to be carried away by pity, like a fool? No!” And turning to Ernesto, “Kill her! It is a tradition of the family. Kill her at once!”

“Here is a pencil,” said Julião, offering one to Ernesto.

“No,” said the counsellor, gravely, “I cannot believe that our Jorge speaks seriously. He is too intelligent to hold opinions so—so—” He could not find the adjective he wished. Julião handed him a toothpick-holder—a monkey sheltering himself under an umbrella—bristling with toothpicks. He took one, and continued, “So—so—barbarous.”

“But you deceive yourself, Senhor Counsellor,” protested Jorge. “Those are my real sentiments; in the full understanding that if the question, instead of being of a play, were one of real life, and Ernesto were to come to me and say, ‘I have found my wife—’”

“Oh, Jorge!” interrupted those nearest him, in accents of reproach.

“Well, if he were to come and say this to me, I should answer in the same way. I give you my word of honor,” he added, with an energetic gesture, “that I should say to him, ‘Kill her!’”

Every one protested against this. They called him a tiger, an Othello, a Bluebeard. Jorge said nothing; he only smiled tranquilly.

Luiza worked on at her embroidery in silence. The light of the lamp, softened by the shade, gave her hair a pale-yellow tint, and glanced off her skin, white as polished marble.

“And you,” Donna Felicidade asked her,—“what do you think of all this?”

Luiza raised her beautiful countenance, smiled, and shrugged her shoulders.

“The Senhora Donna Luiza,” said the counsellor, “will say proudly what all true matrons would say: ‘The impurities of the world do not touch even the hem of my garment.’”

“Good-evening to every one,” said a deep bass voice in the doorway.

“Sebastião!” they all cried, looking towards the door; “Senhor Sebastião! the great Sebastião!”

Sebastião had been the bosom friend, the comrade, the inseparable companion of Jorge, ever since the time when they studied Latin together in the class of Brother Liborio the Paulist. He was a man of colossal proportions, and was dressed entirely in black. He carried in his hand a soft broad-brimmed hat. His temples began to show signs of baldness; his chestnut hair was fine and silky, and he wore a short blond beard. He sat down by Luiza, and in answer to the question where he came from, responded that he had just come from Price’s Circus; that he had laughed a great deal at the clown; and that they had given the pantomime of the “Cask.”

His countenance, seen in the full light, was round, plump, and rosy; his eyes, somewhat small, and of a light blue, had a very sweet expression, especially when he laughed; his lips were red and fresh-colored; his teeth, white and brilliant, gave indication of a tranquil life cheered by chaste affections. Speaking of Price’s Circus brought to his mind, he said, the old-time pantomimes of Salitre, and the traditional bladders that burst with a loud noise when the clown let himself fall upon them. His manner of speaking was slow, and somewhat timid, either as if he feared to put forward an opinion of his own, or did not wish to fatigue himself. Tea was handed to him, and with eyes still smiling he stirred the sugar gently in the cup with his spoon.

“Yes, the pantomime of the ‘Cask’ is really very pretty and amusing,” he said. “So you are going away to-morrow, Jorge?” he added, after a moment’s silence.

“Without fail.”

“Have you no desire to accompany him?” he asked Luiza.

Certainly she would like to do so, she said, but the roads were so bad. Besides, she could not leave the house alone, in the care of servants.

“True, true,” answered Sebastião, looking down, and stroking his beard.

“Sebastião,” said Jorge, “do me the favor to come here a moment.”

He entered the study, followed by Sebastião, with his heavy step, his broad shoulders somewhat stooped, and the skirts of his coat flapping against his legs,—a coat that seemed to have been cut out of the cloak of a priest.

“So you are going away at seven in the morning,” said Sebastião, when they were alone.

“There is no help for it.”

The study where they now were was a small apartment, furnished with a tall bookcase with glass doors, on the top of which was a Bacchante covered with dust. The table, on which was an antique inkstand, a legacy from Jorge’s grandfather, was placed near the window; a collection of the “Diario do Governo” was piled on the floor in a corner; above the morocco-covered easy-chair hung a drawing in crayon, a likeness of Jorge, and on the wall, over the picture, were two swords placed crosswise. At the further end of the apartment, a door, concealed by a portière of crimson reps, gave exit to the stairs.

“Who do you suppose was here this morning?” said Jorge, refilling his pipe. “That shameless creature, Leopoldina! What do you think of that, eh?”

“But—was she admitted?” asked Sebastião, in a low voice, drawing the portière.

“She was admitted, she sat down, and she stayed,” said Jorge; “she did whatever it pleased her to do. Leopoldina!” he added, in a tone of exasperation,—“the Quebraes!”

He lighted his pipe, throwing away the match with an angry gesture.

“When I think,” he continued, “that that impudent creature comes to my house,—a creature who has more lovers than she has dresses, who goes alone with them on excursions to Dá-Funde, and who danced last winter in a domino at a public masquerade with an opera-singer! The wife of a nobody who has passed through the insolvent court. And she comes here,” he continued, extending his arms, “she seats herself in my chair, she embraces my wife, she breathes the air which belongs to me. On my word of honor,”—raising his clenched fist, as if to put his threat into execution,—“if I catch her here, I will leave the mark of a whip upon her!”

“The worst of the matter is—the neighbors,” said Sebastião, slowly.

“There is no disguising the matter,” continued Jorge, with irritation. “The people of the street, the shopkeepers, all know who she is,—the Quebraes! Every one knows the Quebraes!”

“The neighborhood is a bad one,” Sebastião ventured to remark.

“It makes me tremble to think of it; but what is to be done?” said Jorge. “I am accustomed to the house, and it is my own; I have arranged it according to my taste; it is an economy to live here. If it were not for all this, I should not remain here a day longer.”

“The neighborhood is in truth a detestable one,” repeated Sebastião.

“Luiza, poor girl,” continued Jorge, “is an angel; but she is like a child, she knows nothing of the world, and owing to her amiable disposition she allows herself to be imposed upon. This is what happens in Leopoldina’s case. They were school-fellows, and continued to be friends, and now Luiza has not the courage to break with her. It is all the result of her timidity of character, of her amiability; I can understand it very well. But society has its exactions. Therefore, Sebastião,” he added, after a pause, “if you should have cause to suspect, during my absence, that Leopoldina comes here, give some good advice to my wife. She does not think; she allows herself to be influenced without stopping to consider. It would be well, therefore, that some one should speak a word of warning to her occasionally, so that she may not transgress the bounds of propriety without knowing it. This is what I wanted to ask of you, Sebastião,—come to accompany her occasionally, to play the piano with her; and if you should chance to see Leopoldina sailing in these waters, say to Luiza, ‘Be careful, Senhora; it is better to avoid an annoyance.’ If she feels she has some one else to support her she will be firm; otherwise, through her weakness of character she will tolerate Leopoldina’s visits. I am sure these things make her suffer; but she has not the courage to say to that creature, ‘I do not wish to see you; go!’ Can you understand this? She has courage for nothing; her hands tremble on the least occasion, and a lump rises in her throat; she is a woman, a true woman. Do not forget my recommendation, Sebastião.”

“You may go away with a tranquil mind. Don’t forget anything.”

They could hear the sound of the piano from the parlor, and the pure fresh voice of Luiza singing a mandolinata:—

“Amici la notte è bella,

La luna va spautari.”

“Come to accompany her once in a while,” repeated Jorge; “she will be so lonely, poor child!”

He took a few turns up and down the room, smoking, and then, with bent head, said, laying his hand on Sebastião’s shoulder,—

“In every well-ordered household, Sebastião, there ought to be a child or two.”

Sebastião stroked his beard in silence, while Luiza’s voice, gradually rising, sang,—

“Di ça, di la, per la cità

An diamo a trasnottari.”

This was Jorge’s secret trouble,—he had no children. He desired them ardently. As a bachelor, long before his marriage, he had already dreamed of this happiness,—to have a child. He saw this child, in fancy, balancing himself on his little rosy, dimpled legs, his hair, soft as silk, clustering in curls around his face; or as a robust boy, returning gayly with his books from school, his eyes sparkling as he showed him his good marks; or, better still, as a grown-up girl, with rosy cheeks, dressed in white, her hair hanging in braids over her shoulders, caressing his locks, now grown gray. He thought of the love which he would lavish on this son or daughter, and dreamed of stories he would tell them. And all in vain! He had now been married three years, and he often feared that he would die without tasting of this supreme happiness.

They could hear from the parlor bursts of laughter mingled with the shrill accents of Ernesto, and the notes of the mandolinata which Luiza was repeating, with gay brio, at the piano.

The door of the study opened, and the dark spectacles of Julião appeared in the doorway.

“Good-by,” he said. “It is late, and I must go.” He passed his arm around Jorge’s shoulder, and patting him on the back, added, “Good-by, till we see you again, old fellow. I should like to go with you to breathe the fresh air,—to see the country; but alas!”

And he smiled bitterly.

Jorge accompanied him as far as the head of the stairs; there he embraced him once more, and asked him if he could do anything for him.

“Give me another cigar,” answered Julião, putting on his hat; “or stay—give me two, rather.”

“Take the box; when I travel alone, I smoke a pipe. Take it.”

He wrapped the box in a “Diario de Noticias,” and gave it to Julião, who put it under his arm.

“Take care not to catch the fever, and be sure you discover a gold mine before you come back,” he said in a low voice as he went downstairs. “Good-night!”

Jorge and Sebastião re-entered the parlor together. Ernesto was leaning against the piano, twisting the ends of his mustache, and Luiza was playing the prelude to a waltz of Strauss,—“The Blue Danube.”

“Do you want to waltz, Donna Felicidade?” said Jorge to that lady, laughing, as he approached her with extended arms.

She smilingly shook her head. Yet why should she not waltz? She was not an old woman, and she had the reputation of having been a good dancer. She still remembered the waltz she had danced with the king, Dom Fernando, in the time of the Regency, in the palace of the Necessidades; it was a lovely waltz of that epoch called the “Pearl of Ophir.” Seated on the sofa, the counsellor at her side, she was conversing with him in a voice low and full of emotion on a subject that apparently interested her deeply.

“Yes, believe me,” she said, “I think you are looking very well indeed.”

“My health is always better in summer,” responded the counsellor, who was slowly folding and unfolding his handkerchief of India silk. “And you, Donna Felicidade, how are you?”

“Ah, I too am very much better, Counsellor. My digestion is excellent; no more flatulency. I am a different person.”

“God grant it may continue, Senhora; God grant it may continue,” said the counsellor, rubbing his hands together.

Then he coughed, and made an effort to rise; but Donna Felicidade detained him, saying,—

“I hope the interest you manifest in me is a genuine one.”

Her face turned crimson, and the beatings of her heart might be counted in the rising and falling of her ample silk bodice.

“You know well that I am your sincere friend, Donna Felicidade,” replied the counsellor, seating himself again on the sofa, and resting his hands upon his knees.

“As I am yours, Counsellor,” said Donna Felicidade, raising her eyes to his and fixing a glance upon him that betrayed the depths of her secret passion. Then, breathing a profound sigh, she hid her face behind her fan.

The counsellor rose abruptly, and with crimson countenance, erect head, and hands clasped behind his back, went over to the piano where Luiza was seated; bending towards her, he said,—

“Is that a Tyrolese air you are playing?”

“No,” murmured Ernesto, “it is a waltz of Strauss.”

“Ah, Strauss,” he said; “a famous musician, a great composer!”

Then, looking at his watch, he said it was time for him to go and put his notes in order; and approaching Jorge,—

“Good-by, my dear Jorge, good-by,” he said. “Take care of your health in Alemtejo; the climate is an insalubrious one.” And he embraced him with emotion.

Donna Felicidade put on her black serge shawl.

“Are you going already, Donna Felicidade?” said Luiza to her.

“Yes, my dear,” she whispered in her ear; “I do not feel well. I have an attack of indigestion; I have eaten too much. And that man,—he is an iceberg!”

“Ernesto,” she said aloud, “you are going my way, are you not?”

“Straight as an arrow, Senhora.”

Ernesto had put on his gray alpaca overcoat. With cheeks drawn in he was inhaling the smoke from an enormous pipe on which was carved a Venus reclining on the back of a tame lion.

“Good-by, Cousin Jorge,” he said; “I wish you good health and plenty of money. I will send Cousin Luiza a box for the first night of ‘Love and Honor.’ Good-by.”

Just as they were leaving, the counsellor, already at the threshold of the door, turned back, and resting his hand majestically on the silver knob of his cane, which represented a Moor’s head, said gravely,—

“I had forgotten to say something to you, Jorge. You must not neglect to pay a visit to the civil authorities, either in Evora or in Beja; it is an attention you owe them, as the highest functionaries of the province, and they may be of great service to you in your scientific excursions. Al rivedere, as the Italians say,” he ended, bowing to the ground.

Sebastião remained behind. Luiza opened the windows to dispel the odor of the tobacco-smoke. The night was cool and serene. The moon cast a pallid light on the fronts of the houses opposite. Sebastião seated himself at the piano, and with bent head allowed his fingers to run over the keys. He played admirably, and with a great deal of musical skill. He had composed a Revery, two waltzes, and a ballad; but they were all the products of much research, full of reminiscences, and without the least originality of style. Thus it was that he himself often said, with much good-humor, that he had never written anything original. But with his hands on the piano it was a different matter.

He began to play a nocturne of Chopin. Jorge sat down on the sofa beside Luiza.

“Will you not take a lunch-basket with you for the journey?” she asked.

“No; a few biscuits will be enough. What I will take, however, is a little bottle of Cognac.”

“Will you send me a telegram as soon as you arrive?”

“Of course.”

“You will be back in a couple of weeks, will you not?”

“Perhaps.”

“Ah,” she said, with a gesture of annoyance, “if you stay away longer, I shall go in search of you. How lonely I shall be!” she continued, glancing around. Suddenly she exclaimed,—

“Sebastião, will you play a malaguenha?”

Sebastião began the prelude to a malaguenha. The sweet and languid melody of this Arabian music enchanted her, giving birth in her soul to romantic dreams of an ideal life under an Andalusian sky. Where? In Malaga or Granada, which, she did not know. All she knew was that those dreams were of a warm and perfumed night in which she sat under the orange-trees, a night illumined by brilliant stars, a lamp shining from among the branches of a tree near by, while a cantador, seated on a Moorish bench, softly hummed a malaguenha to the accompaniment of a guitar, and around her women dressed in red velveteen bodices kept time to the music, clapping their hands together. In that illusion of the senses she fancied she beheld an Andalusian girl, such as one reads of in novels and romances, tender and voluptuous; cavaliers, whose long cloaks, falling in picturesque folds around them, brushed against the walls of dark and narrow streets, faintly illuminated by the tremulous light that burned in the niche of some saint; watchmen, invoking, as they sang out the hours, the name of the Holy Virgin.

“Bravo, Sebastião,” she exclaimed, when he had finished; “bravo! That is ravishing!” And she clapped her hands, demanding a repetition of the piece.

Sebastião rose, smiling, carefully closed the piano, and taking his broad-brimmed hat, stood turning it around between his hands.

“Well, good-night,” he said. “To-morrow, at seven in the morning, I will be here.”

It had been agreed upon that he was to come and waken Jorge, and accompany him in the steamer as far as Barreiro. The good Sebastião! Jorge and Luiza went out into the balcony to see him off. The silence of the night diffused around a gentle melancholy. The gas-lights below had a moribund aspect; the shadow that fell across the street in a straight and abrupt line had in it a tone of softness. The moon covered the white fronts of the houses with a silvery veil, and the paving-stones of the street with a brilliant enamel. The glass panes of a skylight shone in the distance like a sheet of silver; everything was motionless, and instinctively the gaze turned heavenward, toward the silver moon, the dark spots on which stood out in bold relief.

“What a beautiful night!” they both exclaimed at once.

“It makes one long to take a walk, does it not?” said Sebastião from the shadow in the street below.

“The night is enchanting,” responded Jorge and Luiza.

They remained on the balcony, after Sebastião had gone, conversing together in low tones, and gazing absently before them, entranced by the brightness and tranquillity around.

Where would Jorge be to-morrow at this hour? Already in Evora, pacing, sad and lonely, up and down the brick floor of a room in some inn.

“But you will come back as soon as possible?” asked Luiza.

“Assuredly.”

Jorge had hopes of doing a profitable stroke of business with Paco the Spaniard, who worked the mines of Portel, and of bringing back with him to Lisbon some thousands of reis. He could then take a vacation in September. He might take a trip to the North, to Porto, pass by Bussaco, ascend the mountains, drink the water of the fountains springing fresh from the rock under the cool shade of the trees; visit the beach of Espinho, and sit upon the sands, breathing in the pure atmosphere impregnated with ozone, contemplating the sea, of that metallic and brilliant blue peculiar to the ocean in summer, and seeing in the distance, in diminished size, some great steamer sailing southward. And thus they both continued to form plans, enveloped in an atmosphere of supreme content.

“If there were a little one in the house,” said Jorge at last to Luiza, “you would not be so lonely.”

Luiza responded by a sigh. She, too, ardently desired to have a child. She would have named him Carlos Eduardo; she pictured him to herself, now asleep in his cradle, now lying on her lap, his little hand playing with his bare toes, now nursing with his rosy mouth at her breast. A thrill of pleasure passed through her frame at the thought, and she stole her arm around Jorge’s waist. Why should not Heaven grant her this happiness? But she never pictured this child to herself as already grown up, and Jorge as an old man; she saw them both always of the same age: the one always enamoured, young, and vigorous; the other always hanging at her breast, or creeping about, prattling, with fair hair and rosy cheeks. And this existence, full of unalterable sweetness, guarded by an undying tenderness, tranquil and serene as the night around them, she pictured to herself as eternal.

“At what hour does the senhora wish me to call her?” said the harsh voice of Juliana, behind them.

“At seven,” responded Luiza, turning around; “I have told you so already.”

She went in and closed the window. A white butterfly was circling around the room in the light of the tapers. It was a happy omen.

“So you are going to remain without your husband,” said Jorge sadly, holding out his arms.

Luiza threw herself on his breast with all the sorrowful abandon of the hour; she fixed her gaze tenderly on him through her half-closed lids, her arms encircled his neck with languid grace, and pressing her lips to his,—

“Jorge, dearest Jorge!” she murmured, while her bosom heaved with a gentle sigh.

CHAPTER III.

COUSIN BAZILIO.

TWELVE days had passed since Jorge’s departure; and Luiza, notwithstanding the heat and the dust, resolved to dress herself and pay a visit to Leopoldina, although she was well aware that Jorge would be displeased if he should come to know that she had done so. But she was so weary of her solitude! The time hung so heavy on her hands! In the morning, indeed, she had her household cares, her work, her toilet to occupy her,—books to read. But in the evening! At the hour in which Jorge was accustomed to return from the office, it seemed to her as if solitude hemmed her in on all sides. His loud ring at the bell, his step in the hall,—she missed them both. When night closed in she became sad without knowing why, and yielded herself, an unresisting prey, to the vague melancholy that oppressed her. When she seated herself at the piano, sorrowful airs seemed to flow from it at her touch,—cavatinas full of tears, with which the keys seemed of their own accord to moan. A thousand foolish fancies would then occur to her mind. And later in the night, unable to close her eyes, and suffocating with the heat, she was equally a prey to the terrors and agitations of her widowed state.

Unaccustomed to solitude, she rebelled against it. She thought for a moment of inviting her aunt Patrocinio, an aged relative who lived in Belem, to stay with her; she would thus at least have some companionship in her loneliness. But she dreaded, on the other hand, to have always before her the sorrowful and depressed countenance of the widow, as she sat at her knitting, her large spectacles, framed in tortoiseshell, resting on her aquiline nose.

This morning the image of Leopoldina had suddenly presented itself to her mind, and it pleased her to think that she was free to come and go, to chat with her friend, and to spend in agreeable companionship the hottest hours of the day. Then her thoughts reverted to Jorge, and she said to herself that she would write to him to return home at the earliest possible moment. What a good idea it would be to go herself to Evora, she thought, to arrive there at about three in the afternoon when he would have returned from his work, in his blue spectacles, covered with dust and exhausted by the heat, and give him a joyful surprise, embracing him before the astonished landlady. And in the evening to put on a light dress, and go out to see the town, leaning, somewhat fatigued by her journey, on his arm. Every one would gaze at her with surprise as she passed through the narrow and solitary streets. The men would come out of the shops at the sound of her footsteps. “Who can it be?” they would ask one another. “She is a lady from Lisbon,” some one would say,—“the wife of the engineer.”

Luiza, absorbed in these fancies, and smiling to herself, was tying the ribbons of her gown before the looking-glass, when the door opened softly.

“Who is there?” she asked, turning round.

“Senhora, may I go and see the doctor?” asked Juliana in suffering accents.

“You may go, but do not stay long,” answered Luiza. And looking at her gown sidewise in the glass, in order to add a few artistic touches to its folds, she continued, “Pull down my skirt—a little more—so. What is the matter with you?”

“Palpitations, Senhora, and an oppression on the chest. I passed a bad night.”

Her countenance was, in truth, livid; the expression of her eyes was deathlike, and her body was bent with pain. She was attired in a well-worn black merino dress.

“Very well, go,” said Luiza; “but first, put everything in order. And do not stay long, do you hear?” Juliana went back to the kitchen. This was a spacious apartment, situated at the back of the house, on the second story, and lighted by two bay-windows. The floor before the fireplace was paved with brick.

“She says that I may go, Senhora Joanna,” said Juliana to the cook. “I am going to dress. The senhora is just finishing her toilet to go out.”

The cook, rejoiced at this news, began to sing; then she applied herself to the task of shaking a well-worn carpet out of the window, during which operation she did not remove her eyes from a little yellow house opposite, with a large door. This was the workshop of Uncle João Galho, in which her sweetheart, Pedro, worked. Poor Joanna was in love with him. He was a tall, pale young man, of a sickly appearance. Joanna was a native of Avintes, in Minho, and the daughter of peasants, and this thin and anæmic type, peculiar to Lisbon, had captivated her fancy and kindled a devouring flame in her heart. As she could not go out during the week, she would let him into the house by the back door, when she was alone; to which end she hung out on the balcony, as a signal, the old carpet, in whose threadbare texture could still be distinguished the shape of the stag’s horns that had formed part of its original pattern.

Joanna was a robust girl, broad of chest and large of hip. Her hair, soaked in oil of sweet almonds, shone like jet. She was not very intelligent, but to make up for this she was obstinate, and that to an extreme degree. Her thick eyebrows made her eyes, that at this moment glowed with eagerness, appear still blacker than they really were.

“Ah,” said Juliana, looking askance at her, and giving a little dry cough, “the Senhora Joanna has hung out the signal.”

The cook turned red.

“What harm is there in that?” Juliana went on. “I wish I were in your place. You are perfectly right.”

Juliana was well aware of the cook’s love-affair; but she had need of Joanna, for the latter gave her broths to strengthen her in her attacks of debility, or cooked her a beefsteak unknown to the senhora, if she chanced to feel herself worse than usual. Juliana had a horrible dread of becoming debilitated, and required something to strengthen her at every hour of the day. Her prudery as an old maid made her disapprove of this love-affair; but seeing that such a course provided an unlimited supply of dainties for her epicurean appetite, she forced herself to tolerate it.

“If I were in your place,” she continued, in order to conciliate Joanna, “I should give him the best part of the stew. A fine thing to have scruples of conscience on account of one’s masters! They would see one die with as little pity as they would a dog.” And with a bitter smile which disclosed to view her yellow teeth, she added,—

“She told me not to be long at the doctor’s, which is as much as to say, ‘Get well soon, or go to the devil!’”

She sighed profoundly, and took up a broom from a corner of the kitchen.

“Ah, Senhora Joanna, the lot of the poor is a hard one! They are beasts of burden,—nothing more!”

She went downstairs and began to sweep the corridor, brushing the dust noisily towards the landing. She had passed a bad night. In her room just under the roof she had felt as if she were suffocating; and the smell of the bricks heated by the sun had given her palpitations of the heart ever since the beginning of the summer. She drew her breath with difficulty. Yesterday she had been unable to keep anything on her stomach during the day 5 and to-day she had risen at six, and had not had a moment’s rest since then, dusting and putting things in order, notwithstanding the pain in her side, and a nauseated stomach. She had opened the door leading from the stairs, and continued to sweep, grumbling, and striking the broom against the banisters.

“Is the senhora at home?” asked a voice behind her.

She turned around quickly, and saw before her on the landing a gentleman with a dark complexion, and a mustache curling up at the ends, his hat pulled slightly over his brows, and a flower in his buttonhole.

“The senhora is going out,” said Juliana. “If the gentleman wishes to give me his name—”

“Say I wish to see her on business,” he replied,—“on business relating to mines.”

One of his hands was concealed in the pocket of his light striped trousers, and with the other, in which he held a cane, he was absently striking the plaster of the wall.

Luiza, standing pensively before the glass, with her hat on, was placing two tea-rose buds between the buttons of her jacket, when Juliana announced the visitor.

“On business!” she repeated with surprise. “It most be something concerning Jorge. Let him come up. What kind of a person is he?”

“A well-dressed gentleman.”

Luiza pulled down her veil, slowly drew on her light Suède gloves, gave a final touch to her lace necktie, and then opened the door of the parlor. But the moment she did so she drew back in surprise, blushing deeply. She had recognized the stranger at once; it was her cousin Bazilio.

They shook hands with dubious cordiality, and without a word. Both remained silent for a moment, she with her face suffused with blushes, he taking in every detail of her appearance with a glance of admiration.

But words soon came, and questions followed one another in quick succession. When did he arrive? Had she recognized him? How did he find out where she lived?

He had arrived the day before in the steamer from Bordeaux, he said, and had sought information concerning her at the Ministry. There they had told him that Jorge was in Alemtejo, and had given him her address.

“Good Heavens! how you have changed!” he added.

“Grown older?”

“No, indeed; grown more beautiful.”

They continued conversing in a natural tone and with animation. Luiza asked Bazilio what he had been doing in all these years, and if he intended to remain in Lisbon. Then she opened the blinds to let more light into the room. They sat down, he on the sofa, in a languid attitude; she near him, on the edge of an arm-chair, her hands trembling, her nerves unstrung.

He had abandoned, he said, the forced labor of exile, and had come to breathe awhile the air of old Europe. He had been in Constantinople, in the Holy Land, in Rome. The last year he had devoted to Paris. He had just come from there,—from delightful Paris!

He spoke tranquilly, leaning towards Luiza with a certain air of familiarity; his feet, encased in patent-leather shoes, were stretched out comfortably before him on the carpet.

Luiza observed him attentively, and thought him more bronzed than before, and more manly looking. A few threads of silver shone here and there among his black locks, but his mustache still preserved its former proud and intrepid air, his eyes their liquid softness. She glanced at the pin—a horseshoe set with pearls—in his black silk cravat, and at the little stars embroidered on his silk stockings. Decidedly, Brazil had not caused him to deteriorate; he had come back looking more interesting than ever.

“But you—” he said, smiling and leaning towards her; “tell me of yourself. Are you happy? You have a little one—”

“I!” answered Luiza, laughing. “No; who has told you that?”

“I was told so. Is your husband to be long away?”

“Three or four weeks.”

“Four weeks! Almost widowhood!”

He asked permission to come and see her often of a morning, to have a chat with her.

“Why not?” she answered. “You are the only relative I have left in the world.”

And this was the case. The conversation then took a tinge of sadness, turning on more familiar themes. They spoke of Luiza’s mother, Aunt Jójó, as Bazilio used to call her. Luiza told him how she had expired, tranquilly and without a sigh, in her easy-chair. These recollections caused her to shed a few tears.

“Where is she buried?” asked Bazilio. “In our vault, I suppose,” he added gravely, pulling down with a solemn air the cuffs of his colored shirt.

“Yes,” responded Luiza.

“I must go there—poor Aunt Jójó! But you were going out,” he said, after a few moments’ silence, half rising from the sofa.

“No,” she answered, “no. I was only going to the house of a friend to pass away an hour or so.” And she took off her hat. As she did so, Bazilio noticed the undulating grace of her figure.

“In other times I was the one intrusted with the task of putting on and taking off your gloves,” he said, caressing the ends of his mustache. “I think,” he added, “that I should still continue to enjoy the exclusive privilege of doing so.”

“I think not,” interrupted Luiza, laughing.

“Ah, true; times have changed,” said Bazilio, slowly, with eyes fixed on the carpet.

Then they spoke of Collares; his first thought on arriving in Lisbon had been of going to see the villa. Was the swing under the chestnut-tree still there? And the white rose-bush beside the plaster Cupid with the broken wing,—was it still in existence?

Luiza had heard that the place was now owned by a Brazilian, who had made many improvements in it. He had built an observatory commanding a view of the road, with a Chinese roof adorned with large glass balls; and the old family dwelling-house had been torn down, and replaced by a new one furnished by Garde.

“Our poor billiard-room, with its yellow walls,” said Bazilio, with a melancholy accent, “and its garlands of roses! Do you remember our games at billiards?”

“We were a pair of children, then,” responded Luiza, smiling in confusion, as she twisted her gloves between her fingers.

Bazilio crossed his feet, and with eyes fixed on the flowers of the carpet appeared to give himself up to remembrances of a happy past. “Those were my happiest days,” he said at last, in a voice full of emotion.

Luiza could contemplate, unobserved, the delicate head of Bazilio bent down by the melancholy weight of these recollections of past happiness, and his black hair, in which a silver thread shone here and there. She felt herself possessed by a vague emotion, and rising, she opened the window, as if she would dispel her agitation by letting in a flood of light. Then Bazilio spoke of his travels, of Paris, of Constantinople. Luiza said that she had always longed to travel in the East, with the caravans, seated on the back of a camel, fearless alike of the desert and of the wild beasts.

“How courageous you have become!” said Bazilio. “Formerly you were afraid of everything. Do you remember the wine-cellar in papa’s house at Almada?”

Luiza colored. She remembered the wine-cellar very well, with its slippery floor, and its damp coldness that made one shiver; its oil-lamp hanging from the wall, that illuminated with a red and smoky light the large dark beams covered with cobwebs, and its row of casks dimly visible in the shadow. He had often given her a stolen kiss there under cover of the darkness.

She asked Bazilio how he had spent his time in Jerusalem, and if it were a pretty place.

“It is worth seeing,” he responded. In the morning, after breakfast, he would go for a moment to the Holy Sepulchre; then he generally rode out on horseback. The hotel, too, was not altogether a bad one, and one met there occasionally charming Englishwomen; he had formed the acquaintance of several illustrious personages. He spoke of these with deliberation, swinging his foot to and fro,—his friend the Patriarch of Jerusalem; his old friend the Princess de la Tour d’Auvergne. But the time he most enjoyed, he said, was the evening, in the Garden of Olives, before him the walls of Solomon’s Temple, below the obscure village of Bethany, where Martha spun at the feet of Jesus, and in the distance the water, shining motionless under the rays of the setting sun. He had passed some delightful moments there, seated on a bench, tranquilly smoking his pipe.

“And were you never in any danger?” Luiza asked him.

“Ah, yes, indeed,” he answered. “I was once in a frightful storm of sand in the desert of Arabia Petrea. But what a delightful trip, travelling with the caravans in the daytime, and sleeping in a tent at night!” And he described his dress, consisting of a cloak of camel’s hair with red and black stripes, a dagger of Damascus hanging from a Bagdad belt, and the long lance of the Bedouins.

“That must have been very becoming to you.”

“Very; I have some photographs of myself taken in that dress. I will give you one. Do you know that I have brought you some presents?” he ended.

“Indeed!” she said, her eyes brightening.

“The best one first,—a rosary.”

“A rosary?”

“Yes; a relic blessed first by the Patriarch of Jerusalem on the tomb of Christ, and afterwards by the Pope.” For he had seen the Pope, he said,—a little old man dressed in white.

“Formerly you were not very devout,” said Luiza.

“No; but I don’t like to show a want of respect for those things,” he answered, laughing. “Do you remember the chapel in our house at Almada?”

In this chapel they had spent many a delightful hour. In front of it was a court, full of tall flowering plants, and the poppies, at the least breath of wind, trembled like red-winged butterflies balancing themselves on a stem.

“And the branches of the lime-tree, on which I used to practise my gymnastic exercises, do you remember?”

“Let us not speak of the past,” said Luiza.

“What would you have me speak of, then? The past is my youth, the happiest time of my life!”

“And in Brazil, what did you do?” she asked, smiling.

“What a country!” he exclaimed. “I made love there to a mulatto girl.”

“And why did you not marry her?”

“You are jesting. Marry a mulatto! Besides,” he continued, in an accent that was meant to disclose the presence in his soul of painful memories, “since I did not marry when I ought to have done so, since I lost the best opportunity I shall ever have, I shall always remain a bachelor.”

“And what other present have you brought me besides the rosary?” said Luiza, after a silence during which her cheeks had become suffused with crimson.

“Ah, Suède gloves for the summer,” he replied, “with eight buttons. Here they wear short gloves of two buttons, leaving the wrist exposed, which is horrible! From what I see, the women of Lisbon are the worst-dressed women in the world. It is something atrocious! Of course I do not include you among them, for you are dressed with simplicity, with chic, like every other woman of taste; but in general it is frightful! What fresh and delightful toilets I saw in Paris this summer! But in Paris everything is better than anywhere else. Since I have been here, I have been able to eat nothing,—absolutely nothing. There is no place like Paris for eating.”

Luiza, meantime, kept turning round and round between her fingers a gold locket attached to her neck by a black velvet ribbon.

So then he had been a whole year in Paris, she said.

“A delightful year,” he answered.

He had a charming apartment that had been occupied by Lord Falmouth, in the Rue St. Florentin. He had kept three horses—

“In a word,” he continued, bending forward, with his hands in his pockets, “trying to pass through this vale of tears as comfortably as possible. Is there any likeness in that locket?” he asked, after a pause.

“My husband’s.”

“Ah, let me see it”

And he opened the locket. Luiza’s face, as she bent forward to allow him to do so, was close to Bazilio’s breast, who breathed in the delicate perfume exhaled by her hair.

“He is a good-looking fellow,” said Bazilio.

There was a moment’s silence.

“How warm it is!” said Luiza. “It is suffocating, is it not?”

She rose and opened the window slightly. The sunlight no longer fell upon it, and a breath of air agitated the heavy folds of the curtain.

“It is as warm here as it is in Brazil,” said Bazilio. “Do you know that you have grown taller?” he added, abruptly.

Luiza was standing by the window. Bazilio’s glance, calm and cold, followed every line of her figure. In more familiar tones, his elbows resting on his knees, and his face turned towards her, he said,—

“Come, tell me frankly, did you think I would come to see you?”

“What a question! If you had not come I should have been very angry. Are you not the only relative I have left in the world? I am only sorry that my husband is not here.”

“It is precisely because I knew he was not here—”

Luiza turned crimson with confusion and emotion. Bazilio, himself somewhat confused, continued, repressing a smile,—

“I mean—perhaps he may know something of what passed between us.”

“Nonsense!” she interrupted; “we were only children then. All that took place so long ago.”

“Children! I was twenty-seven years old,” observed Bazilio, smiling and leaning towards her.

There was a moment of embarrassing silence. Bazilio twisted his mustache and looked around him.

“You are comfortably situated here,” he said at last.

She acknowledged that it was so. The house, although small, was commodious, and belonged to them.

“I find it all very comfortable,” said Bazilio. “Who is that lady with the gold spectacles?” he asked, yawning slightly, and pointing to a portrait on the wall, opposite the sofa.

“That is my husband’s mother.”

“Ah! Is she still alive?”

“No; she died some time ago.”

“That is the best thing a mother-in-law can do.”

He again yawned discreetly, glanced down at the pointed toes of his shoes, and with an abrupt movement took up his hat and rose.

“Are you going already?” said Luiza. “Where are you staying?”

“At the Central Hotel. When shall we see each other again?”

“Whenever you wish.”

“Is it permitted to kiss the hand of an old—friend and cousin?” he asked, smiling, and taking Luiza’s hand in his.

“Why not?”

Bazilio imprinted a long kiss, accompanied by a gentle pressure, on Luiza’s hand.

“Good-by,” he said.

In the doorway, holding back the portière, he again turned towards her.

“Will you believe that a little while ago, as I came upstairs, I asked myself how all this was going to turn out?”

“All this? What? Of course we had to meet again; of course! Why, what did you think?”

“I did not think that you were so good,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Good-by,” he added, “until to-morrow.”

At the foot of the stairs he lighted a cigar.

“The deuce! how lovely she is!” he thought; “and I—what a fool I was,” he added, throwing the match on the floor with violence, “to have almost resolved not to come! She is desirable—the cousin, much more so than formerly; and alone in the house, face to face with ennui, perhaps. It is well worth while.”

On reaching the Patriarchal he hailed a passing cab, entered it, and, his legs stretched out before him, his hat between his knees, gave himself up to reflection, while the hacks trotted on.

“And besides, it would seem that she takes care of her person, which is a rare thing here. Her hands are well cared for, her feet beautiful. To the attack, then!” he exclaimed, after some further thought. “To the attack, like Santiago on the Moors!”

When Luiza had heard the door close behind Bazilio she entered her room, laid her hat on the table, and went to take a look at herself in the glass. How fortunate to have been dressed! If he had chanced to find her in her morning-gown, or with her hair in disorder! She saw that her face was flushed, powdered it with rice-powder, and went over to the window, where she stood with folded arms, looking out at the street below, where the sunshine still fell on the wall opposite. The clock struck four, and Leopoldina would doubtless be dining. What should she do till five? Write to Jorge? But she felt lazy, it was so warm; and besides she had so little to say to him. She began to take off her gown, yawning, from time to time, with a feeling of pleasant languor. It was seven years since she had last seen her cousin Bazilio. He was darker than formerly, more bronzed by the sun; but this was becoming to him.

After dinner she seated herself in a long, low easy-chair beside the window, with an open book upon her knees. The wind had ceased; the atmosphere, still warm, of a deep blue in the more elevated regions of the sky, was motionless; the birds twittered among the branches of the wild fig-tree; and the regular and sonorous blows of a hammer could be heard from a neighboring forge. Little by little the blue of the heavens faded into a uniform whiteness; behind the roofs of the houses opposite stretched bands of a pale orange-color, like careless strokes of a painter’s brush. Then darkness, still, diffused, and warm, covered everything, one bright little star shining tremulously through it. Luiza leaned back in her chair, silent, absorbed, forgetting to call for a light.

“What an interesting life is that of Cousin Bazilio!” she thought. “How much he has seen!” If she too could only pack her trunks and set out in search of new and unknown sights,—the snow upon the mountains, foaming waterfalls! How ardently she longed to visit the countries she had read of in novels,—Scotland with its melancholy lakes; Venice with its tragic palaces; to cast anchor in bays where a silvery and luminous sea dies away upon the limpid sands, and from some fisherman’s hut to behold in the blue distance islands with sonorous names. To go to Paris,—Paris, above all. But no! she would never travel; they were poor. Jorge was very domestic, she an obscure Lisboeta.

What did the Patriarch of Jerusalem look like? Was he an old man with a long white beard, his garments weighed down with gold embroidery, only to be seen amid clouds of incense that ascended to heaven mingling with the strains of solemn music? And the Princess de la Tour d’Auvergne? She was doubtless beautiful, of regal stature, always attended by pages. Perhaps she was enamoured of Bazilio. The night grew darker; other stars appeared in the heavens. But what was the good of travelling, she asked herself,—to have the trouble of packing one’s trunks, to be forced to pass the night uncomfortably at inns, and to nod with sleep in the cold dawn, in jolting diligences? Was it not better to live comfortably in a cosey little house, to permit one’s self a night at the theatre occasionally, to have a tender husband, and to enjoy a good breakfast, listening to the canaries singing on sunny mornings? This was the lot that fate had assigned to her. She was very happy. Then she thought sadly of Jorge. She longed to embrace him, to have him here beside her, to see him in his velvet jacket, smoking his pipe in the study. She had everything she could wish for,—a husband of whom she was proud, and with whom she was happy, who was handsome, had magnificent eyes, was loving and faithful. She would not like a husband who led a sedentary and domestic life, but Jorge’s profession was an interesting one. It required him to descend into the dark recesses of mines; it might even call upon him some day to go armed with his pistols and face a brigade of workmen in insurrection. He was brave; he had ability. Nevertheless, involuntarily she allowed her thoughts to revert to Bazilio, with his white burnoose floating on the breeze in the plains of the Holy Land, or seated in his phaeton in Paris, quietly controlling the fiery horses. And this suggested to her mind the idea of a life different from her present one,—more poetic, more adapted to sentimental episodes.

“Does the senhora desire a light?” asked the tired voice of Juliana at the door.

“You may bring one,” responded Luiza.

“She is turning something over in her mind,” said Juliana to herself, as she went away.

Luiza went to the parlor, seated herself at the piano, played over by ear some fragments of “Lucia,” of “Somnambula,” of the “Fado;” then, letting her fingers rest on the keys, she began to think of Bazilio’s visit on the morrow. Should she wear her new dress of brown foulard? Her eyes began to close with sleep. She went to her bedroom. Juliana brought the lamp. She came in shuffling her feet along the floor, a shawl thrown around her shoulders, her countenance drawn and lugubrious. The sight of her face, with its air of chronic suffering, irritated Luiza.

“I declare, you remind me of a death’s-head!” she said to her.

Juliana did not answer; she set down the light, and counted out on the bureau, coin by coin, without once raising her eyes, the change from the marketing.

“Does the senhora want anything else?” she asked.

“Nothing; you may go.”

Juliana procured her kerosene lamp and went to her bedroom; she slept in a room under the roof, adjoining that of the cook.

“I remind you of a death’s-head, do I?” she muttered to herself, furious, as she went.

The room was low and small, with a wooden ceiling and slanting walls; the sun, falling all day on the tiles overhead, heated it like an oven. Juliana slept in an iron cot, on a straw mattress. On the rails at the head of the bed hung several scapularies and the braids of false hair she wore during the day. At the foot of the bed stood a large wooden chest painted blue, with a stout lock. On the pine table stood the little looking-glass belonging to her scanty toilet appurtenances, a hair-brush almost without hairs, a bone comb, and several little bottles of medicine. The only adornment of the dirty walls, disfigured by the traces of the numerous matches that had been lighted upon them, was a lithograph of Our Lady of Sorrows, and a daguerreotype, in which could be faintly discerned, amidst the changing lights of the plate, the badge, and the mustache stiff with pomade, of a sergeant.

“Is the senhora in bed?” asked the cook from the next room.

“Yes, Senhora Joanna, she is in bed,” returned Juliana. “She is in a bad humor to-day,” she continued with a bitter laugh; “she misses her husband.”

Joanna, turning over in her bed, made the worm-eaten boards creak under her weight.

“It is impossible to sleep,” she exclaimed; “it is suffocating.”

“Ah, how comfortable one is here!” cried Juliana, ironically. She opened the skylight in the roof, cast off her cloth slippers, and went out to Joanna’s room; but she remained standing in the doorway without entering: she was the parlor-maid, and avoided familiarities with the cook. With her long neck, and her head tightly bound with a yellow and black handkerchief, her face appeared more wrinkled than ever, and her ears stood out with greater prominence from her head. Her unhealthy leanness gave her a skeleton-like appearance. She folded her arms and began to scratch her elbows softly.

“Tell me, Senhora Joanna,” she said in discreet tones, “did you notice if that individual stayed long to-day?”

“He went away just as you returned,” replied Joanna.

At the foot of the bed a kerosene lamp, placed on a wooden chair, exhaled its suffocating odor.

“Oh, this is a hell!” exclaimed Juliana, in a tone of exasperation. “I shall not fall asleep till daylight. Ah, you have a Saint Peter at the head of your bed,” she added abruptly; “is that for devotion?”

“It is the patron saint of my sweetheart,” said the other, turning her large black eyes towards the picture. Then she sat up in bed. She could not endure the heat, she said, and all the evening she had been suffering frightfully from thirst. She got out of bed, and with footsteps that made the floor tremble, went over to a jug of water, and putting it to her lips took a long draught.

“I have been to see the doctor,” said Juliana. “Ah,” she continued with a sigh, “God alone knows what is the matter with me!”

But if that were so, her companion asked, why did she not make up her mind to go see the mulher de virtude, as she had advised her? There was not a doubt but she could cure her. She lived near the Poço dos Negros; she had prayers and ointments for every kind of sickness, and she sold them for a trifling sum.

“What is wrong with you is the humors—yes, it is the humors,” she ended.

Juliana had advanced a couple of steps into the room. When the question was one of sickness or of medicines, she grew more familiar.

“Yes, I have thought it might be well to go see that woman,” she answered; “but it would cost me half a pound, which is the sum I have set aside for a pair of boots.”

Boots were her vice; they kept her always poor. She had cloth boots with varnished toes, leather boots with laces, kid boots stitched in colors. She kept them locked up in her trunk, carefully wrapped in tissue-paper, and wore them only on Sundays.

“Ah,” Joanna would say to her in tones of disapproval, “I would rather take care of my stomach than be thinking of adornments.”

Joanna, too, now began to utter complaints. She had asked a month’s wages in advance from her mistress, she said. She had only two gowns left, and those were in ribbons.

“But what could I do?” she ended; “my sweetheart needed money.”

“You allow yourself to be eaten up by that man,” said Juliana, in accents of mingled disdain and reproach.

Joanna looked at her, and bringing down her hand with violence on the straw mattress, exclaimed,—

“Even if I had to gnaw my own bones, my last crust of bread should still be for him.”

“He is well worth it,” said Juliana, slowly, with a cold smile. But one could see that she was jealous of this sentiment of the cook’s, and of the pleasure it gave her.

“Yes, he is worth it!” Joanna repeated, with some violence.

“A handsome young man,—the one who came to-day to see the mistress,” said Juliana. “Better looking than the husband! And you say he stayed here more than two hours?”

“He went away, as I already told you, just as you came in.”

At this moment the light of the kerosene lamp went out, diffusing through the room a disagreeable odor and a blackish smoke.

“Good-night, Senhora Joanna; I am going to say my prayers,” said Juliana.

The cook lay down with so hasty a movement that all the joints of her bed creaked.

“Good-night, Senhora Juliana; I am going to say the rosary. Oh, Senhora Juliana,” she added, “if you would say three aves for the health of my sweetheart, who has been sick, I would say as many for you that you might get better of your ailments.”

“Agreed, Senhora Joanna!” said Juliana. But after a moment’s reflection she added, “My chest is better now, but I have severe pains in the head. Pray to Saint Engracia that I may get rid of the pains in the head.”

“As you wish, Senhora Juliana.”

“Yes; do me that favor. Good-night.”

Juliana returned to her room, said her prayers, and put out the light. An insupportable heat descended from the roof. She opened the windows again, but the hot air from the tiles made vain the hope of being able to draw an easy breath. And thus it was every night. Besides, the old wood was full of vermin. Never in any house where she had served before had she had a worse room.

The cook began to snore on the other side of the wall, and to Juliana, who felt herself alone in this misery, life seemed a bitter thing.

Juliana was a native of Lisbon. Her full name was Juliana Conceiro Tavira. Her mother had been a laundress, and had died a short time after she herself first went out to service. She had now been in service twenty years. As she herself said, she changed her masters, but not her lot. For twenty years she had been sleeping in filthy cots, rising with the dawn, eating the remnants that others left, wearing shabby clothes, bearing the rude answers and the hard words of her masters, going to the hospital when she was sick, enduring the pangs of hunger when she got well again.

This was too much. There were days now in which only to see the darning-needle or the smoothing-iron gave her nausea. She could never become accustomed to live out at service. From a child her ambition had been to keep a little shop, to order, to rule, to be mistress; but notwithstanding the strictest economy, the crudest privations, the utmost she had been able to save was a few coins at the end of every year. Her horror of the hospital was so great that when she had any slight illness she went to stay with a relative, so that the money so painfully saved was soon spent. She had never completely recovered from an illness she had had, and had now lost all hope of ever doing so. She must live at service till she was an old woman, and pass her life going from the house of one mistress to that of another. This certainty made her continually unhappy. Her disposition began to grow sour.

And then, she had no tact; she did not know how to take advantage of circumstances; she saw her fellow-servants amuse themselves, visit one another, stand at the windows, go out well-dressed on Sundays for a walk, rise with the sun singing, and when the master and mistress went to the theatre, open the door to their sweethearts, and enjoy the rest and the freedom from restraint. She could not do this; she had always been of a serious disposition. She performed her tasks, ate her dinner, and went to bed. On Sundays, when the streets were deserted, she would stand at the window, with an old towel thrown over the iron railing so as not to soil her sleeves, and there she would remain motionless, watching the infrequent passers-by. Others of her fellow-servants were liked by their mistresses, towards whom they conducted themselves with humility, whom they flattered, to whom they carried the gossip of the neighborhood, notes, and confidential messages to be delivered in secret. She could not reconcile herself to these meannesses.

Ever since she had lived at service, no sooner did she enter a house than she experienced a feeling of hostility, a dislike to her master and mistress; her mistresses seldom addressed her, and then with asperity; her fellow-servants conceived an antipathy towards her; while they were chatting and jesting, the severe and unbending countenance of Juliana annoyed them; they called her nicknames,—“the bean-pod,” “the witch,” and other unflattering names, imitating the nervous twitching of her nose; they made mocking verses about her. The only persons from whom she occasionally met with some sympathy were the taciturn Gallician servants,—exiles from beautiful Gallicia,—who cherished sad recollections of their native land, and who performed the humblest offices in the houses of their masters. Gradually she became suspicious and aggressive. She had continual disputes with her fellow-servants; she was not going to let any one tread on her neck, she said.

To the antipathy that met her on all sides she responded by isolating herself more completely, and her disposition grew constantly more sour and aggressive. She was unable to keep a place for any length of time. In a single year she had been in three houses. She had left each, causing a scandal in the neighborhood, bringing the people to their doors by her cries, and leaving her mistress pale and nervous. Her old friend Aunt Victoria, the inculcadeira, had said to her,—

“You will end by not having a roof to shelter you or a crust of bread to eat.”

“Bread!” This word, which is the terror, the hope, and the problem of the poor, frightened her. She endeavored to control herself. She began to play the part of an inoffensive creature, to perform her tasks with affected zeal, to put on an air of patient suffering, casting her eyes up to heaven; but her spirit writhed in secret within her. By the nervous restlessness of the muscles of her face, and the tic of her nose, it could be divined that this meekness was only superficial The necessity for controlling herself induced in her a habit of hatred; hatred, above all, towards her mistresses,—a hatred irrational and puerile. She had had mistresses,—rich, with luxuriously furnished houses, poor, the wives of clerks, old and young, ill-tempered and amiable; she hated all alike, without difference or distinction.

It was the mistress, and that was enough. She hated them for their simplest words, for their most trivial acts; if she saw them sitting down, “Yes, rest,” she would say in her own mind; “let the slave do the work!” If she saw them go out, “Go, go; let the slave stay behind to do what you ought to be doing!” Every action of theirs was an offence to her sadness and her sufferings; every new gown an affront to her gown of dyed merino.

She detested the gayety of children, and the prosperity of the houses in which she served filled her with bitterness. The day on which her master or mistress had any annoyance or showed a sad countenance she would sing from morning till night, in a falsetto voice, the Carta adorada. With what pleasure did she bring the bill the day on which the impatient creditor returned with it, divining that it would cause embarrassment in the household!

“Here is this paper,” she would cry with a harsh voice; “he says he will not go away this time without an answer.” Every occasion for putting on mourning delighted her; and under the black shawl provided for her she had palpitations of the heart through joy. She had seen young children die in some of the houses in which she had been, and not even the grief of the mother had moved her; she would shrug her shoulders, in its presence, with derisive bitterness.

As years passed, these sentiments became stronger. She began to grow old, and with age her conduct grew more odious. That her master and mistress should give a soirée or go to the theatre exasperated her. When some party of pleasure had been arranged, if it began to rain unexpectedly, what happiness for her! The sight of the ladies dressed and with their hats on, gazing through the windows with tedium depicted on their countenances, made her eloquent.

“Ah, Senhora,” she would say, “this is a flood let loose; it is pouring in torrents; it will not stop raining all day! See! see!”

In addition to all this she was very inquisitive; it was nothing unusual to surprise her leaning against a closed door, with attentive ear and eager glance. Every letter that came was minutely examined. She peeped slyly into open drawers; she read over the papers thrown into the trash-basket. She walked with catlike Step, and had a trick of appearing before one when least expected. She scrutinized every visitor. She was always on the watch for a secret, a good secret, which she could use to her advantage.

She was very fond of good eating. She cherished a desire—thus far ungratified—to dine well, with tarts and entrées. In the houses where she waited at table her reddened eyes followed eagerly each plate as it was handed round; and to serve any one twice from a favorite dish exasperated her, as if it were a diminution of her share. Her health had suffered from eating only what was left from her master’s table, and of that not always enough. She liked wine, and on certain days would buy a bottle at eighty reis,[4] which she would drink alone, lying in bed, and enjoying it drop by drop.

She had never had a lover. She had been always ugly, and had never attracted a glance of admiration from any one. The only man who had ever looked at her with anything resembling admiration was a servant in the Casino, of a filthy and villainous aspect. Her thinness, her air of being always dressed in her Sunday finery, had attracted him. He looked at her with the expression of a bull-dog. He inspired her with horror, but at the same time his admiration flattered her vanity. And the only man for whom she herself had ever felt any tender feeling was a servant, perfumed and handsome, who had laughed at her, calling her isca secca. Her interest in the other sex had never gone any farther than this, owing to a sentiment of pique and a lack of self-confidence. An outlet to human feeling was denied her, and from the want of this supreme consolation, both morally and physically considered, had sprung the misery of her life.

She had once entertained for a time strong hopes of bettering her condition. She had entered the service of Donna Virginia Lemos, a rich widow, and an aunt of Jorge, who was very ill with a catarrhal trouble. Aunt Victoria, the inculcadeira, had cautioned her beforehand.

“Treat the old woman with kindness,” she had said; “be a patient nurse to her. She is rich, and not miserly; it is not impossible that she may leave you a good round sum when she dies.”

For a whole year Juliana, devoured by ambition, served the old woman as her nurse. What zeal in her service! What attentions she bestowed upon her!

Donna Virginia had a strong love of life; the thought of dying made her furious. But when she scolded Juliana, in her harsh and guttural voice, the latter only grew more attentive, more affectionate than before. The old woman was at last touched by her devotion. She called her her providence; and when visitors came she praised her without stint. She had spoken very highly of her to Jorge.

“There is not another woman like her!” she exclaimed; “not another!”

“Ah, you have made your fortune,” Aunt Victoria would say to her. “At the very least she will leave you three contos de reis.”

A conto de reis! At night, when the old woman lay groaning on her antique bedstead of lignum-vitæ, Juliana would behold in fancy a conto de reis lying in refulgent brightness before her, in heaps of gold prodigious and inexhaustible. What should she do with the money? And seated at the bedside of the invalid, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes fixed and dilated, she would spend the hours forming plans,—she would open a millinery shop; and then she would dream of other joys, hitherto unthought of; a conto de reis was a dowry; she might marry and have a husband of her own. All her misery would be at an end. She would eat well, and only of what she liked,—of her own provisions. She would order; she would have a servant, her servant She was seized with nervous twitching in the stomach, from joy. She would be a good mistress; but let the servants take care to conduct themselves properly; she would tolerate no answering back, no angry glances. And dominated by these fancies she would walk softly up and down the room, shuffling her feet and talking to herself. No, she would countenance nothing that was not perfectly right and proper; she would be a model mistress.

Here perhaps the old woman would exhale a sigh.

“This one is going to die,” Juliana would say to herself; “she will certainly die to-day.”

And with eagerness in her eyes she would go presently to the drawers of the bureau where the money and the papers were kept. Then perhaps the old woman would want a drink, and Juliana would return to her bedside.

“How do you feel?” she would ask in lachrymose accents.

“Better, Juliana, better.”

“She always thinks herself better,” she would say to herself. “But the senhora has been restless,” she would say aloud, vexed at the improvement.

“No,” the patient would sigh; “I have slept well.”

“That is not sleeping; I heard you groaning; you have been moaning all night.”

She wished to persuade herself that the patient was worse,—that the improvement in her condition was only temporary, and that the old woman would soon die. Every morning she followed Dr. Pinto to the door, with her arms folded, and a long face.

“Is there no hope, Doctor?”

“It is a matter of days.”

She wanted to know how many days,—two days? five days?

“We cannot say, Juliana,” the old man would answer, settling his spectacles on his nose; “a few days,—seven or eight.”

Eight days! And as her good fortune drew near, she already began to fix her eyes on three pairs of boots in the window of Manoel Lourenço.

The old woman died at last: Juliana was not mentioned in her will!

Jorge, grateful for the care she had taken of his Aunt Virginia, paid the rent of a room for her, where she might remain for a few months, promising to take her at the end of that time into his house as chambermaid, as he was soon to be married. She fell ill shortly afterwards, and Jorge paid a bed for her in the hospital; when she left it for Jorge’s house she had already begun to complain of her heart. She had lost all her illusions; at times she wished to die. Luiza thought her, from the beginning, of sinister aspect. She would have dismissed her at the end of the fortnight, but Jorge would not consent to it; he did not regard her as Luiza did. Luiza respected his opinions, but she could not disguise her antipathy, and as a consequence Juliana soon began to detest her.

Soon afterwards Luiza began the arrangement of her house. The upholsterers came and renovated the furniture of the parlor. Aunt Virginia had left Jorge three contos de reis, and she, who for a year had been her nurse, treated by her with as much contempt as if she were a dog, and bound to her as if she were her shadow, enduring every species of discomfort, and deprived, night after night, of sleep, had been repaid with such ingratitude! She began to hate the house. For this she had many reasons, as she herself said: she slept in a noisome garret; at her dinner she had neither wine nor dessert; the ironing was heavy; both Jorge and Luiza took a bath every day, and it was a toilsome labor to fill and empty the bath-tub. She had served under twenty mistresses, and she had never before met with such folly. “The only advantage the place has,” she would say to Aunt Victoria, “is that there are no children.” She had a horror of children. Besides this, she found that quarter of the city healthy; and as she had the cook on her side, the latter gave her from time to time a bowl of broth or some dainty. Therefore she remained; if it were not for her—

Meantime she performed her duties, and no one had any fault to find with her. And as she had lost the hope of becoming independent, she no longer subjected herself to the restraints of saving. She thus took care of herself, indulging in some culinary fancy from time to time. She bought elegant boots, gratifying in this manner her puerile vanity.

“I go out to walk,” she would say, “with feet such as few can show.”

Her delight was to go on Sundays to the Passeio Publico, and sit there on a bench in the most frequented situation, with the edge of her gown slightly raised, in order to display to the passers-by with secret pleasure the point of her pretty little foot.

CHAPTER IV.

THE PUBLIC GARDENS.

AT about three in the afternoon Juliana entered the kitchen and threw herself down on one of the wooden chairs. She was so exhausted, she said, that she could scarcely stand. It had taken her two hours to arrange the parlor, which was like a pigsty. The visitor had left the ashes of his cigar on the table, for her, the poor slave, to clean away. And how warm it was I The heat was melting! Her yellow skin shone as if it had been anointed with oil.

“Is the soup not ready yet?” she asked, softening her voice. “Give me a little, Senhora Joanna.”

“You are not looking so well to-day,” said the cook.

“There are so many things the matter with me! I did not fall asleep this morning till the sun was up. This gives one an appetite,” she added, stirring with a greedy air the soup Joanna had placed before her.

The cook, standing before her with folded arms, contemplated Juliana with an expression of satisfaction on her countenance.

“The only thing wanting is that it should be to your taste,” she said.

“It is just right.”

Both smiled, pleased at the friendly feeling existing between them, to which they had just given expression. At this moment the door-bell, that had already sounded faintly, was heard for the second time with more distinctness.

Juliana did not move. Puffs of warm air came in through the window, in the silence could be heard the simmering of the pot on the fire, and the incessant sound of hammering from the forge near by; from time to time the melancholy and monotonous cooing of a pair of turtle-doves from their cage in the balcony mingled with the brightness of the afternoon a note of gentle sadness.

The bell sounded again, this time rung by an impatient hand.

“Now call with your tongue, imbecile!” said Juliana.

Both women laughed. Joanna went and seated herself in a low chair by the window, her large feet, encased in listing slippers, stretched out before her, and began to scratch her arms softly, enjoying to the full these few moments’ rest.

The bell sounded violently.

“Stay there, idiot!” growled Juliana, without moving.

But the angry accents of Luiza ascended from the floor below,—

“Juliana!”

“One cannot even eat in peace. Detestable house, plague take it!” exclaimed Juliana, striking the table violently with the bowl of her spoon.

“Juliana!” called Luiza a second time.

“The mistress is getting angry,” said the cook in a low voice, turning towards Juliana.

“The deuce take her!” said the latter.

She wiped her lips, greasy with the soup, on her apron, and went downstairs, furious.

“Did you not hear?” exclaimed Luiza. “The bell has been ringing for an hour.”

Juliana opened her eyes in amazement as she looked at her mistress; Luiza was dressed in her new morning-gown of brown foulard with little yellow dots.

“There is something up,” she thought to herself as she crossed the hall.

The bell rang again, and Juliana saw on the doorstep the gentleman who had come on business connected with the mines, dressed in a light suit, with a rose in his buttonhole and a package under his arm. She took in his appearance with a keen and rapid glance.

“It is the gentleman who was here yesterday,” she said in a low voice to her mistress.

“Admit him.”

“Come, this is progressing!” said Juliana to herself. Her eyes glittered, and going upstairs she said to Joanna with an accent of malicious joy, as she opened the kitchen door,—

“The gentleman who came yesterday is here again, and he has brought a package with him.”

Joanna turned her round black eyes slowly toward Juliana.

“What do you think of it, Senhora Joanna?” said the latter, standing in the middle of the floor with folded arms and lips tightly shut.

“He is some visitor,” returned the cook with indifference.

Juliana laughed dryly, sat down, and greedily finished her soup.

Joanna went about the kitchen, singing. In the pauses of her song could be heard the soft and tender cooing of the doves.

“Come, come; this is going on very well,” said Juliana.

She cleaned her teeth slowly with her tongue as she sat, her gaze fixed and dilated, plunged in thought; then she rose, took off her apron, and went down to Luiza’s room. Her searching glance descried in a moment the keys of the pantry, which Luiza had forgotten, lying on the bureau. She might have gone upstairs, drunk a glass of good wine and eaten a few spoonfuls of preserve; but she was devoured by an insatiable curiosity, and, walking on tiptoe, she went softly to the parlor door and put her eye to the keyhole. The portière was drawn on the inside, and she could hear nothing but the gay and animated accents of the visitor; she crossed the hall and went to the door beside the staircase. The key was in the lock, and she put her ear to the keyhole. The portière within was also drawn.

“Those cunning devils have taken care to secure everything,” she said to herself. Then she thought she heard a chair move, and afterwards the closing of a window. Her eyes glittered. She heard again the continuous murmur of a conversation carried on in low tones. All at once the gentleman raised his voice, and among the phrases which he pronounced, evidently walking up and down the room, Juliana heard clearly these words,—“You; it was you!”[5]

“What shamelessness!” she thought.

A timid tin tin of the bell startled her, and she went, running, to open the door. It was Sebastião, his face flushed with the heat, his boots covered with dust.

“Is your mistress at home?” he asked, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

“The mistress is with a visitor, Senhor Sebastião,” said Juliana,—“a young gentleman who was here yesterday,” she added, in a lower voice, closing the door. “Shall I tell her you are here?”

“No, no, thank you. Good-day.” And he went down the steps slowly and thoughtfully.

Juliana took up her station again beside the door, her ear close to the keyhole and her hands behind her back; but she could hear nothing of the conversation, which was carried on in a low voice, but a soft and confused murmur. She went upstairs to the kitchen.

“They call each other thou, Senhora Joanna,” she exclaimed. “That looks strange,” she continued in shrill accents, and very much excited.

The gentleman went away at five. When Juliana heard the door open, she went out to the landing and saw Luiza leaning over the banisters and saying in low and friendly accents to some one below,—

“Very well; I will be there. Good-by.”

Juliana was seized with an attack of curiosity that resembled an attack of fever. During the evening she devoured Luiza with eager glances that flashed like lightning. In her desire to surprise her mistress in an intrigue, the perfectly natural demeanor of the latter filled her with impatience, as might a chest securely fastened with lock and key, which she desired to open but could not.

“Go on!” she said in her own mind to Luiza; “I will catch you yet, you shameless creature!”

She fancied that Luiza’s eyes had a fatigued expression. She studied her attitudes, the tones of her voice. When she saw her help herself twice to the roast meat, she said to herself,—

“This has given her an appetite.”

And when she saw her lean back in her easy-chair, after dinner, with an air of fatigue, she said to herself that this was the exhaustion of excitement.

Luiza asked for coffee.

“Half a cup, but strong, very strong,” she said.

Juliana went to give her order to the cook. “She wants coffee, and it must be strong, she says. The devil’s in the whole lot of them! They are all the same,—one as bad as another.”

The following day was Sunday. As Juliana was getting ready to go to Mass, Luiza called her, and standing at the door of her room, half-dressed, gave her a letter for Donna Felicidade. As a general rule she sent her messages to her friend verbally; the curiosity of Juliana was therefore aroused by this closed and sealed envelope, bearing Luiza’s initial,—a Gothic L, surrounded by a garland of roses.

“Is there any answer?” she asked.

“No.”

When Juliana returned at ten o’clock, Luiza asked her if it was warm out, and if there was much dust. A dark-colored straw hat adorned with musk-roses was lying on the table.

Juliana, answered that there was some wind, but that it would probably cease before the afternoon.

“She has some excursion planned; she is going to meet that young man,” thought Juliana.

But Luiza, attired in her morning-gown, passed the whole day between her bedroom and the parlor; now reclining on a sofa reading, now absently playing fragments of a waltz on the piano. At four she dined, and shortly afterwards the cook went out. Juliana passed the afternoon at the window of the dining-room. Dressed in her new gown, her stiffly starched petticoats, and her best collar, she leaned her elbows, unsmiling, on the railing of the balcony, over which she had carefully laid her handkerchief.

At eight, Juliana entered Luiza’s room, and was struck with amazement to see her dressed in black, and with her hat on. She had already lighted the lamp, and the candles on her dressing-table, and seated on the edge of the sofa, was drawing on her gloves with a serious air. Her countenance revealed a feverish impatience.

“Has the wind ceased?” she asked.

“Yes, Senhora; it is a beautiful night,” responded Juliana.

A little before nine a carriage stopped at the door. It was Donna Felicidade. She came in very much excited, saying that the horses had been frightened by a fire-engine that had passed them on their way.

And how warm it was! she said. She had been suffocating all day. And now that there was not a breath of air stirring! She had preferred an open carriage to a coupé, where to a certainty they would have suffocated. Juliana came and went, closing doors, and putting things in order, devoured by curiosity, and with eyes and ears wide open. But Donna Felicidade, immovable in her chair, continued to talk without ceasing; she related in all its details the episode of the fire-engine, told of the attack of indigestion she had had on the previous day from eating pea-shells; afterwards how the cook had wanted to cheat her, and of a visit the Countess of Arruella had made her.

She rose and went to the dressing-table to powder her neck, which, as she said, was bathed in perspiration.

“Let us go, my dear,” said Luiza; “it is growing late.”

Juliana lighted them out. She was furious. Where could they be going? Not a single word on that point! How unseemly for two women to go out alone at night in a hired carriage! If a servant should remain out half an hour later than usual, what a scolding she would receive!

She went up to the kitchen. She wanted to gossip a little with Joanna,—to laugh a little. But Joanna said, yawning, that she was so tired that her knees were bending under her. She had been out all day.

“I must go to bed to get over my fatigue,” she added.

“That’s right,” returned Juliana, in a mocking voice. “Go play the sluggard! How little it takes to tire you!”

She went down to Luiza’s room, put out the lights, and opened the window. The air was heavy, dark, hot, and motionless. She drew out a low chair to the balcony, and disposed herself to spend the evening there with her arms folded, digesting an abundant dinner.

Footsteps were heard coming slowly down the street, followed by a gentle ring at the bell. Juliana leaned over the balcony and asked in tones expressive of annoyance,—

“Who is there?”

“Is your mistress at home?” asked the deep voice of Sebastião.

“She went out in a carriage with Donna Felicidade a little while ago,” replied Juliana.

“Ah! Good-night, then.”

Meantime Donna Felicidade and Luiza had arrived at the Passeio.

It was the evening of a benefit; a slow and monotonous murmur could be heard inside, and the air was filled with clouds of dust. They entered, and a little beyond the fountain they suddenly came face to face with Bazilio.

“What a happy chance!” he exclaimed in accents of surprise.

Luiza colored as she presented him to Donna Felicidade.

The excellent lady saluted him with a bow of marked politeness and smiles without number. She remembered him very well, she said; but if Luiza had not mentioned his name she would not have recognized him; she found him very much altered.

“The troubles of life, Senhora,” he said, bowing, “and old age; above all, old age,” he continued, laughing, and striking his cane against the stones of the fountain.

The gas-lights were reflected in wavering brightness in the dark water. The foliage of the trees, of a faded green, that looked artificial, was motionless. Between the two long parallel lines of stunted trees, interspersed with gas-lamps, a compact multitude of dark forms moved along, enveloped in clouds of dust; above the noise made by the crowd the animated strains of the orchestra rose through the heavy air in the lively measures of a waltz. They remained standing by the fountain chatting, and looking at the people as they entered: two young men with curly hair and lavender trousers, smoking with due deliberation their holiday cigars; an officer with breast swelled out and waist tightened in, as if he wore a corset, accompanied by two young ladies with their hair in curls, who showed through the thin fabric of their tasteless gowns, as they walked, every movement of their shoulder-blades; an ecclesiastic with a sallow complexion, and a cigar in his mouth, whose blue spectacles gleamed in the light; two young collegians walking along with a swinging gait, that they might be thought rakes; the melancholy Xavier the poet; a young man in a jacket, a heavy cane in his hand, his hat on the back of his head, and his eyes glittering with the brilliancy of the wine-cup. Bazilio laughed as two little boys, dressed in light blue, with scarlet sashes, lancer’s shakos, Hungarian hoots, and a sleepy air, entered hand in hand with their father, on whose countenance was depicted satisfaction and delight.

Luiza expressed a desire to sit down. A little ragamuffin in a dirty blouse of coarse fabric ran to bring chairs, and they seated themselves beside a family group composed of the mother, the father, and three daughters, who, sitting motionless in their chairs, looked around them with silent melancholy.

“What have you been doing to-day?” Luiza asked Bazilio.

He answered that he had been to see the bull-fight.

“What! do you like that kind of thing?” she said.

Bazilio confessed that he had found it tiresome. If it had not been for the gymnastic feats of Peixinho he should have died of weariness. The bulls were tame, the horsemen unskilful. Ah, the bull-fights in Spain,—they were worth looking at!

Donna Felicidade protested. He should not say such a thing; they were horrible; she had seen one in Badajoz when she was visiting her aunt Francisca de Noronha, who resided in Elvas, and she had fainted. The blood, the intestines of the horses,—pah!

“What would you say, Senhora,” said Bazilio, laughing, “if you saw the cock-fights?”

Donna Felicidade had heard of them, but those diversions seemed to her barbarous and unchristian; and here calling to mind a pleasure the recollection of which brought a smile to her broad countenance, she continued,—

“For me there is nothing like a night at the theatre,—nothing!”

“But the actors here are so poor!” responded Bazilio, with a disconsolate air.

Donna Felicidade did not answer; half risen from her chair, her eyes bright and humid, she was making persistent gestures of salutation to some one with her hand.

“They have not seen me,” she exclaimed at last, with an air of desperation.

“Is it the counsellor?” asked Luiza.

“No, it is the Countess of Alviella; she did not see me; she often goes to the Chapel of the Encarnação; she is a friend of mine; she is an angel; her father-in-law is with her; see!”

Bazilio did not take his eyes from Luiza’s face. Seen through her white veil, and in that dusty atmosphere, its features were defined in soft and uncertain outlines. Her blond, wavy hair, of a darker shade at night, followed the contour of her small head, giving her an expression of infantile and tender grace; her pearl-colored gloves displayed the elegant shape of her hands—the delicate wrists surrounded by a frill of lace—as they rested, holding her fan, on the dark background of her lap.

“And you,—what have you been doing?” asked Bazilio in his turn.

She had spent a very tiresome day, she said, alone from morning till night.

He, too, had spent the morning alone, lying on the sofa reading the “Femme de Feu,” of Belot. “Have you read it?” he asked her.

“No; what is it?”

“A new book; but one of a somewhat daring character. I advise you not to read it.”

Donna Felicidade confessed that she was reading “Rocambole,” because she had heard it praised very highly. But it was so confused that she could not understand it, and she forgot to-day what she had read yesterday. She was going to leave off reading it, she declared, for she noticed that it increased her indigestion.

“Are you in bad health?” asked Bazilio, with the interest of a well-bred man.

Donna Felicidade availed herself of the opportunity to describe the different phases of her dyspepsia. Bazilio recommended her to use ice, congratulating her because just now, as he said, disorders of the stomach were very chic, and asking her for details with interest.

Donna Felicidade was profuse in giving them, endeavoring to show by her words, by the animation of her glance, and by her friendly accent, the lively sympathy she felt for Bazilio.

“So then you recommend me to try ice,—with a little wine, of course.”

“Yes, with wine.”

“That ought to be very good,” said Donna Felicidade to Luiza, touching her on the arm with her fan, her countenance animated and hopeful.

Luiza smiled, and was about to answer, when she observed standing beside her a man with a pallid countenance, whose languid glance was fixed upon her with an annoying persistence. She turned her back to him, and he withdrew, twisting the ends of his imperial.

Bazilio observed her silence. Was she sleepy? he asked.

“Ever since her husband went away,” said Donna Felicidade, smiling, “she has worn this sorrowful countenance.”

“What folly!” responded Luiza, instinctively observing Bazilio. “All these days past I have been very gay.”

“We know, of course,” insisted Donna Felicidade, “that that little heart is in Alemtejo.”

“You wouldn’t want me, I suppose, to begin to dance and shout in a public place,” responded Luiza, in impatient accents, with an abrupt movement of her fan.

“Well, well, don’t get angry,” said Donna Felicidade. “What a temper!” she continued, turning towards Bazilio.

“Cousin Luiza had a terrible temper formerly,” responded Bazilio, laughing. “I don’t know how it may be now.”

“She is a dove, a little dove; is it not so? A dove,” insisted Donna Felicidade, regarding Luiza with a maternal glance.

Meantime the taciturn group at their side had risen silently, and with the air of somnambulists, the daughters in front, the father and mother bringing up the rear, now slowly and sadly withdrew.

Bazilio immediately took the vacant chair beside Luiza, and observing Donna Felicidade glancing around her with abstracted gaze,—

“I was on the point of going to see you this morning,” he said in a low and confidential tone.

“And why did you not come?” responded Luiza, speaking in her natural voice; “we might have had some music.”

Bazilio did not answer, and began to twist his mustache. Donna Felicidade wanted to know what time it was. She began to grow impatient. She had expected to meet the counsellor, and, in order to appear to advantage in his eyes, she had laced herself, which was for her a very great sacrifice. Accacio did not make his appearance, the gas began to incommode her, and the annoyance she felt at not seeing him increased the tortures of her dyspepsia.

The orchestra, in full force, began to play the first bars of the March from Faust. This reanimated her. It was a pot-pourri of the opera, and there was no music she preferred to it.

She asked Bazilio if he would be in Madrid for the opening of the S. Carlos.

“I don’t know, Senhora,” he responded with a meaning glance at Luiza; “that depends—”

Luiza remained silent and motionless. The crowd increased. In the lateral walks, freer, cooler, and without gas-lights, those who were shy, who were in mourning, or who were shabbily attired, were walking, while the bourgeoisie, dressed in their Sunday finery, crowded together in the central walk, and grouping themselves in the passages between the compact files of chairs, moving along with the slowness of a half-melted mass of metal, impeded at every step, their throats parched, and in almost unbroken silence, went back and forth incessantly, in that passive confusion in which indolent races delight. Notwithstanding the countless lights and the noise of the gay music, a melancholy weariness, penetrating as a mist, seemed to hover in the air; the impalpable dust rested on every countenance, bestowing on it uncertain and ill-defined tones; and on every countenance, as it came within the light of the gas-lamps, could be read an indefinable expression of dreariness and fatigue, such as is to be seen only on a holiday.

Donna Felicidade proposed to take a turn. They rose, and crossed slowly through the crowd. As they found it difficult to advance, Bazilio proposed to his companions that they should make their escape from this confusion.

They assented. While Bazilio was buying the tickets, Donna Felicidade sat down on a bench under a weeping willow, exclaiming in doleful accents,—

“Ah, child, I think I am going to burst!”

She passed her hand over her stomach.

“And the counsellor! What do you say to that? Truly, I have no luck! To-night when I came here—”

She sighed, and continued with a smile,—

“Your cousin is indeed interesting. And what good manners! A true gentleman! That may be seen at the first glance!”

They had scarcely left the Passeio when she declared she could stand no longer, and that they must take a carriage.

Bazilio thought it would be better to go on foot to the Praça do Loreto. The night was so pleasant! To walk would do Donna Felicidade good.

As they passed Martinho’s, Bazilio proposed that they should go in and take an ice; but Donna Felicidade was afraid of iced drinks, and Luiza had not the courage to consent. Through the open doors of the café could be seen the deserted tables, and the newspapers scattered about the floor. In the street the little ragamuffins were gathering up ends of cigars. In the Praça do Rocio people were strolling about under the trees; on the benches were to be seen a few motionless figures, apparently asleep; here and there through the darkness shone the burning end of a cigar; men were walking up and down, hat in hand, fanning themselves; women with silk handkerchiefs around their shoulders, and trailing after them long white petticoats very stiffly starched, to judge from the noise they made, were crying out on the street corners as they passed, “Water fresh from the Arsenal!” Open carriages were driving slowly around the praza. The heat was suffocating; and in the midst of the surrounding darkness the column that supported the statue of Dom Pedro wore the pallid aspect of a colossal taper.

Bazilio walked silently by Luiza’s side. “What a horrible city!” he thought. “What gloom! what tedium!” He recalled the summer he had spent in Paris: at night, he drove slowly in his phaeton through the Champs Elysées, and hundreds of victorias drove rapidly past him; the lamps of the carriages formed along the whole avenue a moving line of luminous points. Fair and lovely faces of women rested against the cushions, swayed by the movement of their luxurious carriages. The air had a warm and velvet softness; the chestnut-trees diffused around a penetrating odor; and on either side, from among the trees, streamed torrents of light from the concert cafés, filled with the noise of the gay crowd within, and the lively strains of the orchestra; laughter resounded from the restaurants; love and happiness, under their most seductive aspects, reigned everywhere; and farther on, through the windows of palaces and hotels, could be seen the soft and shaded lights that illuminated the treasures within. Ah, if he were only there!

But as they passed under the gas-lamps he glanced at Luiza’s countenance through her white veil; her profile was full of grace; her dress followed perfectly the curves of her figure, and there was an undulating languor in her gait. The thought occurred to him, and he gave utterance to it aloud, that it was a pity there was not in Lisbon a restaurant where they might go and eat the wing of a partridge, moistened with a bottle of champagne frappé.

Luiza did not answer, but she said to herself that that must be delightful.

“A partridge at this hour!” exclaimed Donna Felicidade.

“A partridge or anything else,” said Bazilio.

“Whatever it might be, it would give us an indigestion,” she replied.

In the Chiado a youth in a blue blouse followed them with tickets for the lottery; his shrill and doleful accents promising them good fortune in the form of many contos de reis. Donna Felicidade stopped. She felt a momentary temptation; but a group of drunken men came towards them, their hats pushed back from the forehead, gesticulating rudely and stumbling against the passers-by with the evident intention of provoking a quarrel. Luiza took refuge close beside Bazilio, whose arm Donna Felicidade, much frightened, had taken. The group passed on, shouting. Donna Felicidade insisted on taking a carriage immediately, and did nothing, till they reached the Praça do Loreto, but recount, with a voice still trembling from the terror with which the drunken men had inspired her, accidents and affrays with knives, all without loosening for a moment her hold on Bazilio’s arm.

They stopped; and a hackman who was opportunely in the Praça de Camões directed his carriage towards them. The two ladies entered. Luiza turned round to give a parting glance to Bazilio as he stood there motionless, his hat in his hand. Then she settled herself back in the carriage, stretched out her feet on the cushions before her, and, rocked by the trot of the horses, gazed silently from her corner, as they passed them in turn, at the dark houses of the street of S. Roque, the trees of S. Pedro de Alcantara, the narrow façades of the street of the Moinho de Vento, and the sleeping gardens of the Patriarchal.

They passed a group of musicians playing the fado of Vimioso on the guitar, in front of the Polytechnic School. The music penetrated her soul, awakening gently in her heart echoes of past emotions. A sigh escaped her half-closed lips.

“There is a sigh that goes to Alemtejo,” said Donna Felicidade, touching her on the arm.

Luiza felt the blood mount to her face.

When she reached home it was striking eleven. Juliana came to light her in.

“Tea is ready, when the senhora wishes it,” she said.

Luiza went upstairs, and putting on a loose white dressing-gown, threw herself, weary and depressed by the heat, into an easy-chair. She felt herself growing drowsy; her head began to nod, her eyelids were closing, and Juliana had not yet brought the tea. Luiza called to her. Where could she be?

She had descended to Luiza’s room, and was examining the pocket of the gown her mistress had worn; hearing her name called impatiently, she went into the parlor quickly.

Was it her tea the senhora wanted? If so it was ready.

“Senhor Sebastião was here,” she added as she handed her mistress the toast; “it was about nine when he came.”

“What did you tell him?” asked Luiza.

“That the senhora had gone out with Donna Felicidade. I could not tell him where, as I did not know. Don Sebastião,” she continued, “stayed talking with me more than half an hour.”

CHAPTER V.

PREPARING THE GROUND.

ON the following morning Luiza received a bouquet of magnificent red roses from Sebastião, which she placed in the vases in the parlor.

At three o’clock Bazilio came. Luiza was seated at the piano.

“The gentleman who was here the other day is outside,” Juliana came to announce in grave, almost reproachful accents.

“Ah, my cousin Bazilio,” said Luiza, blushing. “Show him in. And, by the way, if Senhor Sebastião, or any other visitor, should call, admit him.”

The gentleman, then, was a cousin. These visits had lost all their interest for Juliana. Her malicious curiosity, swelled out to its fullest proportions, suffered a momentary collapse, like a sail when the wind has fallen. He was her cousin!

She went slowly upstairs to the kitchen.

“I have news to tell you, Senhora Joanna,” she said. “The petit-maître is a cousin,—Cousin Bazilio, it seems. Bazilio! It turns out that we have a cousin at last; how nice!”

“Why, who should the man be but a relative?” said Joanna, with indifference.

Juliana did not answer. She looked to see if the irons were hot, as she had a quantity of clothes to iron, and while waiting for them she sat down at the window. The sky was gray, and the atmosphere charged with moisture and electricity; from time to time a slight breeze agitated the foliage without. “He is her cousin!” she thought, “and he comes only when the husband has gone away. How likely that is! When he goes she remains preoccupied; she sighs; she looks disconsolate. All that is the result of family affection!”

Her eyes glittered with malignant joy. And the irons, were they hot? she asked Joanna.

The bell rang softly.

“There it goes again! This is a dog’s life! To-day is a reception-day, it seems.”

She went down and opened the door. When she saw Julião standing before her, a book under his arm, she gave a little cry of surprise.

“Come in, Senhor Julião,” she said; “the mistress is with her cousin, but she has given orders to admit any one who may call.”

Delighted at being able to interrupt the conversation, she opened the door of the parlor.

“Senhor Julião,” she announced in a shrill voice.

Luiza presented the two gentlemen to each other. Bazilio hardly rose from the sofa, and with a glance expressive of something akin to terror examined Julião, from his disordered hair to his badly-polished boots.

“What a savage!” he said to himself.

Luiza, divining his thoughts, colored with shame. What idea would Bazilio form of the acquaintances, the friends of the house, by this badly-dressed man whose collar was soiled and whose coat was old and ill-fitting? She felt her chic diminished by this visit, and instinctively, influenced by a sentiment of futile vanity, her countenance assumed a reserved, almost a serious air, as if Julião’s visit were a surprise to her, and his attire an offence.

Julião vaguely comprehended that his presence was an annoyance, and with something of embarrassment said, settling his spectacles on his nose,—

“I was passing this way by chance, and I stopped in to ask if you have had any news of Jorge.”

“Thanks, yes; he has written to me. He is well.”

Bazilio, leaning back among the cushions of the sofa with all the familiarity of a near relative, was attentively observing his silk stockings embroidered with red, and languidly caressing his mustache, displaying, as he did so, two rings,—a ruby and a sapphire,—that glittered on his little finger. The affectation of this attitude, and the gleams of color shot forth by the jewels, confused Julião. Then, desirous of showing his intimacy in the family, he said,—

“I should be glad to stay with you a while, but that I am exceedingly busy.”

“A thousand thanks!” returned Luiza, blushing. And wishing to divest this apparent familiarity of any importance that it mighty possess in Bazilio’s eyes, she continued, arranging the folds of her morning-gown, “During the last few days I have not been quite well, and I have received no one, excepting, of course, my cousin.”

Julião understood, in a vague sort of way, that he was being reproved. Surprised, confounded, ashamed, he crossed one leg over the other, laying on his knees the book he carried; and, as his trousers were too short, the elastics of his well-worn boots were disclosed to view.

There was a moment of painful silence.

“What lovely roses!” said Bazilio, at last, looking with an air of indifference at Sebastião’s roses.

“Very lovely,” responded Luiza. Beginning to feel sorry for Julião, she looked at him with a smile, trying to think of something pleasant to say to him.

“How warm it is!” she said at last, precipitately. “The heat is killing! Have you many patients?”

“Some cases of cholera-morbus,” responded Julião. “The fruits are the cause of these disorders of the stomach.”

Luiza lowered her eyes, and Bazilio began at once to talk of the little Viscountess of Azeias; when he left Lisbon she was looking charming. And what had become of her elder sister?

These inquiries concerning ladies of the nobility whom Julião did not know excluded him completely from the conversation, and covered him with humiliation. He felt his neck bathed in perspiration, and he began to open and shut mechanically the thick yellow-covered volume he carried.

“Is that book you have there a novel?” Luiza asked him.

“No,” he responded in an important tone; “it is a treatise of Dr. Lee on the diseases of women.”

Luiza blushed, and Bazilio, repressing a smile, asked her what had become of Raphaela Grijo, who used to come sometimes to the house in the street of the Magdalena,—the lady who wore spectacles, and had a brother-in-law who stammered.

“Her husband died, and she married her brother-in-law afterwards,” Luiza answered.

“What! the one who stammered?”

“Yes; and they have a child who stammers also.”

“A family conversation in that house must be amusing! And Donna Eugenia, the wife of Braga?”

Here Julião, unable to endure his position any longer, rose.

“I am in a hurry,” he said in a choking voice, “and I can stay no longer. When you write to Jorge, remember me to him.”

He hardly bent his head to Bazilio. But when he looked for his hat he could not find it; it had rolled under a chair. He got entangled in the portière, he struck himself violently against the closed door, and went out at last, furious, his heart filled with hatred towards Luiza, Jorge, wealth, and life itself; and thinking too late of the ironical words, the apt retorts, with which he ought to have crushed that fool and that silly woman.

No sooner had the street door closed behind him than Bazilio rose, and standing before Luiza with folded arms,—

“Who is that savage?” he exclaimed.

“He is a young doctor,” stammered Luiza, turning very red.

“But he is an impossible being! He has the air of a charity student.”

“Poor young man!” said Luiza, confused. “He is not rich, by any means.”

“It is not necessary that he should be rich,” replied Bazilio, “in order that he should brush his coat, and keep his hair and his nails in order.” She ought not to receive such a man, he said. He was a disgrace to the house. If he was according to her husband’s taste, let him receive him in his office.

He said all this taking long strides up and down the room, very much excited, jingling his money and his keys in his pockets.

“Fine specimens the friends of the family are!” he continued. “What the deuce! you were not brought up in this manner. People like that never came to the street of the Magdalena.”

This was true. Luiza confessed it to herself. She began to think that her marriage had brought her into contact with some plebeian acquaintances. But a certain respect for the opinions and the likings of Jorge made her say,—

“My husband thinks he has a great deal of ability.”

“It would be better for him if he had boots.”

“I find him very amusing, for my part,” said Luiza, without venturing to contradict Bazilio.

“He is horrible, my dear child.”

These last words made her heart beat. Thus it was that he used to call her in former days. Before she could answer, the door-bell rang vigorously.

Luiza was disturbed. Good Heavens! if it should be Sebastião! Bazilio would find him still more common, still more vulgar than Julião.

Juliana came to say that the counsellor was outside.

“Shall I ask him to come in?” she added.

“Certainly,” said Luiza, delighted to find her fears unfounded.

The stately figure of the counsellor, in his alpaca coat and well-ironed white trousers that fell over his low shoes, advanced towards Luiza.

When she had presented Bazilio, he said to the latter, in accents of profound respect,—

“I was already aware of your arrival. I saw it announced among the interesting items of news of our ‘high-life.’ And Jorge?” he added, addressing Luiza.

“Jorge is in Beja, and, judging from his letters, he seems to be very much bored there.”

“In effect,” said Bazilio, with affability, “I cannot form to myself the least idea of how he can spend his time in Beja. It must be horrible.”

“It is, however, the capital of a province,” observed the counsellor, passing over his mustache a white hand adorned with a seal-ring.

“But if in Lisbon, which is the capital of the kingdom,” said Bazilio, pulling down his cuffs, “one does not know what to do with one’s self. It is enough to make one die of ennui!”

“Don’t say that before the counsellor,” said Luiza, laughing, enchanted with Bazilio’s affability. “He is a great admirer of Lisbon.”

“I was born in Lisbon,” said Accacio, bowing, “and I esteem Lisbon, dear Senhora. I recognize the fact, nevertheless,” he continued ingenuously, “that it is not to be compared to Paris, to London, or to Madrid.”

“Oh, of course not!” said Luiza.

“But,” continued the counsellor, with an air of pride, “Lisbon has beauties of its own that have no equal. The entrance to the harbor, as I have heard, for I have never been there, is a magnificent panorama that rivals the bay of Constantinople or that of Naples,—worthy to be described by the pen of a Garrett or a Lamartine,” he continued pompously.

But Luiza, dreading quotations and literary criticisms, asked him what he had done with himself last Sunday; saying she had gone with Donna Felicidade to the Passeio, and had been disappointed at not seeing him there.

The counsellor declared that he never went to the Passeio on Sunday. He could well understand that it might be very agreeable, but the crowd made him sea-sick. He had noticed—and in saying this his voice assumed the tone of a revelation—that many persons gathered together in one place were apt to cause vertigo in men of literary habits. Besides, his health was not very good, and he was overwhelmed with work. He was writing a book, and drinking the waters of Vichy.

“You may smoke,” said Luiza, abruptly to Bazilio, with a smile. “Do you want a light?”

She rose with joyful alacrity to get a match. She wore a fresh morning-gown of light-colored and semi-transparent material. Her hair looked brighter and her complexion clearer than usual.

Bazilio puffed out the smoke from his cigar, and said, settling himself on the sofa,—

“The Passeio on Sunday is simply a piece of stupidity!”

“Do not be so severe, Senhor Brito,” said the counsellor, after a moment’s reflection. “Formerly, indeed, it was a very agreeable resort. For one thing, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that can take the place of military music; then, there is the price of admission to be considered: I have studied the question closely. Low prices favor the agglomeration of the inferior classes. Far be it from my thoughts to look with contempt upon that part of the population. The liberality of my ideas is well known. I appeal to this lady; but it must be admitted that it is always preferable to meet select society. For my part, I assure you I do not go to the Passeio even when there are fireworks. On those nights I go, indeed, to enjoy the spectacle, but I remain outside the railings. Not from economy, assuredly not,—without being rich I can yet allow myself this expense,—but I fear that some accident might happen. I could give you an instance of an individual whose name I have forgotten, whose skull was pierced by a rocket. To go no further, a spark might fall on one’s head, or on a new suit. And it is well to be prudent,” he added in conclusion, passing over his lips his neatly folded handkerchief of India silk.

Then they spoke of the season. There were a great many people in Cintra. Lisbon was so hot in summer! The counsellor declared that Lisbon would be a city of no real importance until the opening of the Chambers and of the S. Carlos.

“What were you playing when I came in?” Bazilio asked Luiza.

“If you were having music,” said the counsellor at once, “I beg you will continue. For eighteen years I have been a constant subscriber to the S. Carlos.”

“Are you a musician?” said Bazilio.

“I was at one time, I will not deny it; when I was a young man I played the flute,—youthful follies,” he said, with a benevolent gesture. “Were you playing something new, Donna Luiza?”

“No, on the contrary, something very old,—the ‘Fisherman’s Daughter,’ of Meyerbeer.”

Luiza closed the windows and seated herself at the piano. “Sebastião plays admirably, does he not, Counsellor?”

“Our Sebastião,” responded the counsellor, in a voice of authority, “is the equal of Thalberg and of Liszt. Do you know him?” he added, addressing Bazilio.

“No, I do not know him.”

“A pearl among men.”

Bazilio slowly approached the piano, with his hands in his pockets.

“Do you still sing?” Luiza asked him, smiling.

“When I am alone.”

The counsellor immediately asked him for a song. Bazilio laughed, saying that he was afraid of shocking an old habitué of the S. Carlos.

The counsellor began to encourage him, and approaching him said, with a paternal smile,—

“Courage, Senhor Brito! Come, come, courage!”

Luiza played a prelude, and Bazilio began to sing, in a voice full and of good quality, his high notes resounding through the parlor. The counsellor, standing upright beside his chair, listened attentively, his head bent down, as by the weight of his responsibility as judge and critic, his dark spectacles forming a contrast to his bald forehead, which was rendered still more pallid by the heat.

Bazilio sang with simplicity, but his voice was full of a grave and passionate melancholy as he pronounced the words:—

“As in the dark sea,

There are depths in my heart.”

An anonymous poet had translated the verses for the “Ladies’ Almanac,” prefixing to them a mysterious dedication. Luiza had copied them with her own hand from between the lines of the music. Bazilio sang the last verses with an intonation of dignified melancholy:—

“On its surface are storms,

In its depths there are pearls.”

The expressive eyes of Luiza were fixed on the music before her, or cast from time to time a rapid glance at Bazilio. At the final note, which she prolonged on the piano, giving it an expression of passionate appeal, Bazilio’s voice had all the force of an invocation:—

“Come, come

To rest, my well-belovèd,—

Beside my heart, thy heart!”

His eyes fixed themselves upon her with an expression of such ardent passion that Luiza’s heart began to beat, her fingers trembled as they ran over the keys, and her countenance displayed an agitation that she hastened to conceal.

The counsellor applauded.

“An admirable voice!” he exclaimed; “admirable!”

Bazilio said that the quality of it was somewhat impaired.

“No, Senhor, no,” protested the counsellor; “you possess an excellent organ. I will even go so far as to say that there is no better voice in Lisbon society.”

Bazilio laughed, and said that since it pleased him he would sing a little Brazilian song of Bahia. He seated himself at the piano, and after a prelude of a few bars of melodious rhythm and tropical movement, sang:—

“Black I am, but in my breast

Beats a truer heart than thine.”

“This song was making a furore in the reunions at Bahia when I came away,” he interrupted himself to say. It was the story of a young negress born on a plantation, who gave utterance in commonplace verses to her passion for a white planter. Bazilio imitated the sentimental accents of the young ladies of Bahia, and his voice had a comic ring when he sang the lachrymose ritornela:—

“And her gaze the dark-skinned maiden

Fixes on the distant sea,

While myriad birds the palm-tree’s shadow

Vocal make with melody.”

The counsellor thought this charming, and deplored, apropos of the song, the condition of the slaves. His Brazilian friends assured him, he said, that the negroes were very well treated. But after all, civilization is civilization. Slavery is a disgrace. He had a great deal of confidence in the emperor.

“He is a monarch of rare intelligence,” he ended, with an expression of profound respect.

He took his hat, declaring with a bow that it was long since he had spent so pleasant a morning. In his opinion there was nothing to compare to agreeable society and good music.

“Where are you staying, Senhor Brito?”

“At the Central Hotel; but I beg that you will not trouble yourself.”

The counsellor declared that nothing ever prevented him from fulfilling his duty, and he would fulfil it now. He had but little influence, as Luiza knew; but if Bazilio needed anything,—the address of any one, a presentation in official quarters, permission to visit any public establishment,—he placed himself at his orders.

“Rua do Ferregial de Cima, No. 3, third floor,” he said, pressing Bazilio’s hand. “The humble abode of a hermit.” And turning to Luiza he continued, “When you write to our traveller, present to him my sincere good-wishes for the success of his enterprise. Your servant.”

And with grave and stately air he left the room.

“At least this one is cleaner,” murmured Bazilio, with his cigar in the corner of his mouth. Then, seating himself at the piano, he let his fingers run over the keys. Luiza drew near.

“Sing something for me,” she said.

Bazilio looked at her fixedly.

Luiza colored and smiled confusedly; through the light and transparent material of her dress could be seen the creamy contours of her neck and arms; in her eyes, on her lips, in the snowy whiteness of her teeth, glowed the ardor of a luxuriant vitality.

Bazilio said to her in a voice low and full of emotion,—

“You are more beautiful than ever, Luiza.”

His eager gaze confused her.

“Sing me something,” she repeated, resting her fingers on the keys of the piano, her heart beating violently.

“Sing you,” murmured Bazilio.

He continued to gaze at her fixedly; then he gave a quick sigh, and caught her hands in his. They remained a moment thus, their hands, moist and trembling, clasped together.

At that instant the door-bell rang softly. Luiza drew her hand away quickly.

“Some one is coming,” she said.

The confused murmur of voices conversing together in low tones at the door reached their ears. Bazilio shrugged his shoulders with an expression of annoyance, and took up his hat to go.

“What! are you going away?” said Luiza in regretful accents.

“One cannot be alone with you for a moment,” he answered.

They heard the street door close noisily.

“It is no one; whoever it was has gone away,” said Luiza.

They were both standing.

“Bazilio, don’t go!” she murmured. Her beautiful eyes had in them an expression of gentle entreaty.

Bazilio put down his hat on the piano, nervously biting his mustache.

“But why do you want to be alone with me?” asked Luiza, in some agitation. “What does it matter to you if visitors come?” The moment she had uttered the words she was sorry for saying them.

With a sudden movement Bazilio passed his arm around the waist of his cousin, and drawing her head towards him, pressed passionate kisses on her eyes and hair.

She freed herself quickly from his embrace, her eyes sparkling, her countenance crimson.

“Forgive me,” he said, with a passionate gesture. “Forgive me; I acted without reflection. But the truth is that I adore you, Luiza.”

He spoke with the sincerity of passion, taking her hands in his with an air of authority, almost as if he had the right to do so.

“No,” he said; “you must listen to me. From the first moment in which I saw you again, I loved you as madly as ever. I never ceased to adore you; but I was poor, as you know, and I desired to make you rich and happy! I could not take you with me to Brazil. That would have been to kill you, my beloved. You cannot picture to yourself what that country is! Therefore I wrote you that letter; but what have I not suffered! What tears have I not shed!”

Luiza, her head bent down, her eyes fixed on the floor, listened motionless to these accents, full of power and passion, that breathed in her ear the breath of love, overmastering and subjugating her; the contact of Bazilio’s hands transmitted to hers a feverish heat; a subtle languor stole over her, stupefying her senses.

“Speak to me, answer me,” he said with anxiety, crushing her hands in his, and eagerly seeking to meet her glance.

“What do you wish me to say to you?” responded Luiza in a languid voice. “Let us speak of something else,” she said, turning her head aside and sighing.

“But why, why?” asked Bazilio.

“No, Bazilio, no; leave me.”

Her voice had the fervor of a prayer and the sweetness of a caress.

Without further hesitation he caught her in his arms. Luiza was powerless to resist; her lips were pale, her eyes closed, and Bazilio, drawing her head to his breast, bent down, and softly pressed long kisses on her eyelids, her face, her mouth; her knees bent under her, her lips were slightly parted. But all at once she straightened herself, and drawing back from him, exclaimed in accents of desperation,—

“Leave me! leave me!”

With a violent effort she released herself from his arms, pushed him away from her, and passed her hands over her forehead and her hair, with a look of terror.

“Oh, my God!” she cried; “this is horrible! Leave me!”

Bazilio approached her, his lips firmly closed; but Luiza retreated.

“Go away! What do you want? Go away! Why do you remain here? Leave me!” she cried.

Bazilio, in tender accents, said he did not understand why she should be angry. A kiss! What was a kiss? What had she fancied? It was true that he adored her, but with a pure love.

“I swear it to you,” he said, laying his hand upon his heart.

He made her sit down on the sofa, and then sat down beside her, and began to reason with her. He would be resigned; circumstances demanded it from him. They would be friends, as if they were brother and sister, nothing more.

Luiza listened, unable to resist his persuasive accents.

It was true, he said, that his love for her was a torture to him; but he was strong, and he would control himself. All he desired was to see her, to speak to her. Theirs should be an ideal love.

As he spoke thus, he devoured her with his eyes. He took her hand in his, bent over it, and pressed a kiss upon the palm.

Luiza rose, trembling, and said, “No; leave me!”

“Very well; good-by!”

He rose with a resigned and melancholy gesture.

“Good-by,” he repeated sorrowfully, smoothing his silk hat with his hand.

“Good-by,” responded Luiza.

“Are you angry with me?” asked Bazilio, with tenderness.

“No.”

His glance brightened.

“Listen to me,” he murmured, approaching her.

Luiza stamped her foot upon the floor.

“Oh, what a man!” she cried. “Leave me. To-morrow! Good-by! go away—till to-morrow.”

“Till to-morrow,” said Bazilio tenderly, and left her.

Luiza returned to her room, her nerves quivering. As she looked at herself in the glass, she hardly recognized herself. Never before had she been so beautiful. She took a few steps in silence. Juliana was arranging the drawers of the bureau.

“Who rang the bell a little while ago?” asked Luiza.

“Senhor Sebastião. He would not come in. He said he would return.”

He had, in fact, said that he would return; but he began to be ashamed of coming every day, and always finding her with visitors. He was surprised at first when Juliana said to him, “She is with a gentleman,—a young man who was here yesterday.”

“Who could it be?” he asked himself. He was acquainted with all the friends of the family. It was probably some clerk in the Department, he told himself, or some proprietor of mines; the son of Alonso, perhaps, in relation to some business of Jorge’s,—yes, that must be it. And on Sunday evening, when he saw the windows of the parlor unlighted, he had felt a vague sense of oppression. He had brought with him the score of Gounod’s “Romeo and Juliet,” which Luiza wished to study; and when Juliana told him from the balcony that her mistress had left the house in a carriage with Donna Felicidade, he stood softly stroking his beard in momentary embarrassment, his heavy book under his arm. Then he remembered the enthusiastic admiration of Donna Felicidade for the theatre of Donna Maria. But, could they have gone alone to the theatre, and with this July heat? After all, it was possible; and so he went to the Donna Maria.

The theatre, which was almost empty, presented a lugubrious aspect. Here and there, in the boxes, were to be seen a few family groups who were enjoying the Sunday evening with a melancholy air, the children leaning, asleep, against the embossed morocco-covered railing. In the pit and in the almost deserted stalls were to be seen a few persons listening to the play with a sleepy air, wiping the perspiration from their foreheads from time to time with their silk handkerchiefs. The chandelier diffused a drowsy light. Every one was yawning. On the stage, which represented a ball-room furnished in yellow, an old man was speaking, with the monotony of water dropping from a fountain, to a very slender woman with her hair in curls. In the orchestra the musicians were fast asleep.

Sebastião went out. Where could they be? On the following day he learned. As he was going down the street of the Moinho de Vento, his neighbor Netto, who was coming towards him, his cigar in the corner of his mouth, which was shaded by a gray mustache, stopped him abruptly with the words,—

“Oh, friend Sebastião, I want to speak to you. Yesterday I saw Donna Luiza in the Passeio, with a young man with whose face I am familiar. But where have I seen him? Who the devil is he?”

Sebastião shrugged his shoulders.

“A young man, tall, fine-looking, with a foreign air,” Netto continued. “I know I have met him before. The other day I saw him go into a house down the street. Don’t you know who he is?”

Sebastião said he did not know.

“I have seen that face before. Let me try to think—” and he passed his hand over his forehead. “I have seen him somewhere. He belongs to Lisbon!” After a moment’s silence he resumed, “And what is there new, Sebastião?”

Sebastião had heard nothing new.

“Nor I either; it is all nothing but lies! Good-by.”

CHAPTER VI.

ON TRIAL.

AT about four in the afternoon Sebastião went again to Luiza’s. He found the same gentleman with her as before. He went away thoughtful, without seeing her. No doubt the visitor had come on some business of Jorge’s; for Sebastião could not comprehend that Luiza should think, speak, or feel, except with reference to the interests of the household, and with Jorge’s happiness in view. But the business must be a serious one to be the occasion of so many visits. Could anything of importance affect their interests and he not know of it? This seemed to him a piece of ingratitude on their part, and a diminution of their friendship for him.

Aunt Joanna noticed that something was the matter with him.

“A headache,” he said, in answer to her inquiries. That night he slept badly. Next day he learned that the gentleman was her Cousin Bazilio,—Bazilio de Brito. His uncertainty was at an end, but a more definite fear took possession of him.

Sebastião did not know Bazilio personally, but he knew the story of his youthful days. It is true that in this there was neither any exceptional scandal nor any piquant history. Bazilio had been simply a viveur, and as such had passed methodically through all the traditional episodes of Lisbon life,—parties of monte lasting till daylight, in the companionship of the wealthy bourgeois of Alemtejo; a carriage dashed to pieces on a Saturday at the bull-fights; dinners with some Lola or Carmen, followed by a lobster salad; a bull caught by the horns, applauses in the circus of Salvaterra or in Alhandra; nights spent in the taverns with guitar-players, eating codfish and drinking Collares; and a shower of flour eggs, thrown in the face of one of the municipal authorities during the Carnival. The only women who appeared in this story, with the exception of the Lolas and the Carmens, were la Pistelli, a German dancer with the legs of an athlete, and the little Countess of Alvini, a feather-head, and a great Amazon, who had separated from her husband after having given him a beating, and who once dressed in male attire to drive a coach from Rocio to Dá Fundo. All this was enough to make Sebastião regard him as a rake, as one who had already gone to destruction. He had heard that he was obliged to fly to Brazil from his creditors, and that he became rich by chance through a speculation in Paraguay; that not even when his fortunes were at their lowest ebb, in Bahia, would he devote himself persistently to work; and he took it for granted that the possession of a fortune would be the means of developing his vices. And this man came every day to see Luiza, staying with her for hours, accompanying her to the Passeio, with what purpose it was only too evident.

He was going down the street, oppressed by the weight of these thoughts, when he heard a hoarse voice saying in respectful tones,—

“Senhor Sebastião!”

It was Paula the furniture-dealer.

“I hope you are well, Senhor João.”

Paula spat on the pavement, and with his hands crossed behind him under the long skirts of his coat, said gravely,—

“Senhor Sebastião, is there any one sick in the house of the Senhor Engineer?”

“No,” returned Sebastião, in a tone of surprise. “Why?”

Paula coughed, spat again, and said,—

“Because I have observed a gentleman entering the house every day, and I thought it might be the doctor,—one of those new homœopaths.”

Sebastião turned scarlet.

“No,” he responded; “it is the cousin of Donna Luiza.”

“Ah!” said Paula. “I thought— Excuse me, Senhor Sebastião.”

And he bowed respectfully.

“They begin to gossip already,” thought Sebastião, as he continued on his way.

He returned home ill at ease. He lived in an old-fashioned house with a garden, belonging to himself. Sebastião lived alone. He possessed a small fortune in bonds, arable land, and his villa in Almada called the Rozegal. His two servants had been with him for many years; the cook was a negress from St. Thomas who had been in the service of the family since before his mother’s death; Joanna the housekeeper had served in the house for thirty-five years, and still called Sebastião the little one. She had now all the caprices of a child, but she was treated with the respect that might be shown to a grandmother. She was from Oporto,—Poarto, as she called it, for she had not lost her native accent. The friends of Sebastião called her uma velha de comedia. She was short and stout, with a round and jovial face, a smile full of kindness, hair white as flax, gathered in a knot on the top of her head, and fastened by an antique tortoiseshell comb; and she always wore a large white kerchief, freshly ironed, around her shoulders. She went about the house from morning till night, shuffling her feet and jingling her keys, repeating proverbs and taking pinches of snuff from a round box, on the lid of which was a picture of the hanging bridge of Oporto.

There was something in the aspect of the whole house that called an involuntary smile to the lips. The immense sofa and the easy-chairs reminded one of the days of José I., and the damask covering, of a faded red, recalled the pomp of a decrepit court; on the walls of the dining-room hung engravings of Napoleon’s battles, in all of which was to be seen the white horse standing on a height, towards which a hussar of high rank galloped furiously, brandishing his sabre.

Sebastião slept seven hours of tranquil sleep every night, in an antique bed of bent-wood, in a small dark bedroom. On a bureau with brass scutcheons, a St. Sebastian, pierced with arrows, had for many years past writhed—in the light of a little lamp kept carefully burning by Joanna—within the cords that bound him to the trunk of a tree. All the clothes put away in the drawers were perfumed by lavender-flowers.

The house resembled its master. Sebastião had old-fashioned ideas; he was shy, and he loved solitude. Years ago, in the Latin class, they had called him the bear; his comrades pinned rags on his back for sport, and unblushingly robbed him of his luncheon. To the strength of an athlete Sebastião joined the patience of a martyr.

He was always rejected in the first examinations at college. He was intelligent, but a question put to him, the glitter of the spectacles of a professor, the sight of the large black table, petrified him, and deprived him of the power of speech, leaving him with his face crimson, his knees trembling, his glance wandering.

His mother, who had come to Lisbon from a little village where she had kept a baker’s shop, who was very proud of her rents, her villa, her furniture, and who was always dressed in silks and weighed down with jewelry, would say,—

“Has he not enough to provide him with food and drink? Why trouble the boy with studies? Let him alone! Let him alone!”

Sebastião’s great passion was the piano. Following the advice of Jorge’s mother, who was her neighbor and her intimate friend, his mother provided a master for him. From the very first lessons, at which, in a red velvet gown, and covered with trinkets, she assisted, the old professor Achilles Bentes, who had a face and eyes like those of an owl, declared, in his nasal voice,—

“Dear lady, your son is a genius. Yes, he is a genius! He will be a Rossini! We must push him forward!”

But this was precisely what she did not wish to do,—to push forward the little one. Therefore he did not become a Rossini, which did not prevent old Bentes from continuing to say,—

“He will be a Rossini!”

Only that instead of proclaiming it aloud, brandishing his roll of music, he now murmured it softly under his breath, rubbing his knotty hands together.

At this epoch the two youthful neighbors, Jorge and Sebastião, became intimate. Jorge, the more active and enterprising of the two, ruled his comrade. In their sports in the garden Sebastião, if they played coach, was always the horse; if they played soldiers, he was always the defeated party. He carried the heavy things; he allowed Jorge to jump over his back, at leap-frog; in their feasts he contented himself with the bread and left the fruits to Jorge. This friendship, uninterrupted and unclouded, was to remain, throughout Sebastião’s life, an essential and permanent element in it.

When Jorge’s mother died, they thought for a time of living together in the house of Sebastião, which was larger than Jorge’s, and which had a garden. Jorge had some intention of buying a horse; but solitude inspired him with sentimental ideas of marriage. He saw Luiza in the Passeio, and for two months passed entire days in the street of the Magdalena.

Thus all that smiling plan which they had called laughingly the Society of Jorge and Sebastião fell to the ground like a house of cards. Sebastião felt for a long time a keen sensation of regret. Afterwards it was he who provided the bouquets of roses which Jorge carried Luiza, stripping them carefully of their thorns, and wrapping them in tissue-paper. He it was who made ready the nest; he looked for the upholsterer, discussed the prices of the stuffs, superintended the workmen who were putting down the carpets, and arranged the necessary documents for the marriage.

At night, no matter how fatigued he might be from all these labors, he was obliged to listen, with a smiling countenance, to Jorge, who, very much in love, would walk up and down the room in his shirt-sleeves till two o’clock in the morning, dilating on his happiness and smoking his pipe.

After the wedding, Sebastião found himself very lonely. He went to Portel to see his uncle, an eccentric old man, with the look of an imbecile, who spent his days inventing new graftings in his garden, and reading and re-reading the “Eurico.”

A month later, when Jorge came home, he said to Sebastião with a radiant countenance,—

“I need not tell you that this house is yours. You are to live with us.”

But he could never succeed in making Sebastião feel himself quite at home in his house. He rang the door-bell with timidity. He grew red in Luiza’s presence. The old bear of the Latin class reappeared. Jorge endeavored to make him feel at his ease with Luiza, to oblige him to smoke his pipe before her, and to prevent him from saying at every moment, “Senhora.”

He never came to dine with them without a previous invitation. When Jorge was not at home his visits were silent and short. He thought himself so stupid that he was afraid of being tiresome.

To-night, when he entered the dining-room, Joanna asked him for Luiza. She adored Luiza; she called her an angel,—a white lily.

“How is she? Have you seen her?” she asked.

Sebastião did not want to answer, as he had done yesterday, that he did not go in because there were visitors; and, leaning forward, he began to play with the ears of Trajan, his old hunting-dog, saying,—

“She is well, Joanna; she is well. How should she be? She could not be better.”

At this time Luiza received a letter from Jorge, dated in Portel, full of complaints of the heat, and the bad inns, of stories about Sebastião’s eccentric relative, of remembrances and kisses for herself. This sheet of paper, covered with minute characters that brought Jorge vividly before her mind, took Luiza by surprise. The recollection of his face, his voice, his love for her, caused her a sensation that was almost painful. All the shame of her cowardice and weakness in regard to Bazilio presented itself forcibly to her imagination. How horrible to allow herself to be kissed and embraced by him while he devoured her with his glances! She recalled everything,—his attitude, the ardor of his hands, the sweetness of his voice. Insensibly and by degrees these recollections faded away, and Luiza, dropping her arms by her side, let her thoughts drift idly, abandoning herself to the lassitude which they produced in her. But the thought of Jorge presented itself to her again, hurting her like the sudden stroke of a whip. She rose nervously and began to walk up and down the room; she felt a vague desire to weep, to cry out, to break something—

“Ah, no! this is shameful,” she said at last, bursting into bitter tears. “It must be ended at once!”

She came to the determination, at last, to refuse to see Bazilio again; she would write, entreating him to go away, and not to seek to see her again. She repeated to herself the words she would make use of,—serious, cold, dry. She would not address him as “My dear Cousin Bazilio,” but simply, “Cousin Bazilio.” What would he say when he received her letter? Doubtless he would shed tears, poor boy! She pictured him to herself, alone in his room at the hotel, pale and unhappy; and then, carried away by her feelings, she recalled the emotion revealed in his subjugating glance, the persuasive sound of his voice, and her memory lingered over these recollections with a sensation of pleasure, like that produced by the contact of the hand with the soft plumage of some rare bird. She shook her head with impatience, as if these thoughts were the stings of importunate insects. She wanted to think only of Jorge; but other thoughts assailed her, and she said to herself that she was very unhappy. She desired, without knowing why, to be with Jorge, to ask counsel of Leopoldina, to fly far away, wherever chance might lead her. Alas! how unfortunate she was! From the depths of her indolent nature arose an undefined anger against Jorge, against Bazilio, against feeling, against duty, against every one and everything that caused her thus to suffer and distress herself. Good Heavens! why could they not leave her in peace?

After dinner she seated herself again at the window, to read anew Jorge’s letter, recalling, as she did so, the beauties of his mind and person. She found arguments, some based on her happiness, others sentimental, for loving and esteeming him. All this had happened because he was absent. If he had only been at her side! But he was so far away from her, and he had been away so long! Notwithstanding all these reflections, the fact of his absence gave her a sensation of liberty; the thought of being able to do as she wished filled her heart at times with an intense happiness, as if she were intoxicated by a sudden breath of freedom. But of what use was it to her to be free and alone? All that she might do, feel, possess, appeared before her in distant perspective, then vanished suddenly. It was like a door opened and shut quickly, giving her a glimpse, as by a lightning-flash, of something marvellous and undefined, that moved and fascinated her. Oh, she must be mad!

Night fell. She went out to the balcony and opened the window. The night was warm and dark, and the atmosphere, charged with electricity, announced a coming storm. Luiza drew her breath with difficulty, as she sat gazing at the horizon, forming plans and cherishing desires, without knowing clearly what they were. The young man at the baker’s shop was playing the “Fado;” its sounds, softened by distance, filled her soul with a sweetness resembling that of a warm breeze, and a melancholy like that of a sigh. She leaned her weary head upon her hand. A thousand thoughts rushed through her mind, like tongues of flame running over the paper they consume. She thought of her mother, of the new hat Madame François had sent her, of the kind of weather it was now in Cintra, of long summer evenings passed under the shade of the trees.

She closed the window and remained sitting in her room motionless, thinking of Jorge, resolving to write to him and ask him to come home. But these remorseful feelings disappeared, little by little, like a veil torn down the middle, behind which appeared with luminous intensity the image of her cousin Bazilio. His travels had improved his appearance; the pangs of absence had silvered his hair. He had suffered so much on her account, he had said. And after all, what harm was there in it? He had sworn that his love should be a pure one, locked up forever in the inmost recesses of his breast. Why should she not see him again,—the poor fellow who had come from Paris only to be near her for a week or a fortnight, at least so he had told her? Was it indeed necessary that she should say to him, “Go away, and come back no more”?

“When does the senhora want her tea?” asked Juliana, opening the door.

Luiza exhaled a profound sigh, and saying she would not take tea, told Juliana to prepare the night-lamp.

Ten o’clock struck. Juliana, according to her custom, was taking her tea in the kitchen. The fire was going out, and the copper saucepans gleamed in the light of the kerosene lamp.

“To-day there is certainly something the matter with her, Joanna,” said Juliana, seating herself; “she is angry; she sighs. There is something serious.”

The eyes of Joanna, who sat at the opposite side of the table, her arms resting upon it, her face in her hands, were closing with sleep.

“You are always disposed to see evil in everything,” she said.

“One must be a fool not to see it where it is, Senhora Joanna!”

She was silent, and began to suck a lump of sugar. This was one of her favorite dainties; she liked it white, refined. Brown sugar, that gave the coffee, as she said, a taste of ants, was one of her vexations.

“It is even worse than it was last month,” she would complain with bitterness. “But, of course, for a poor creature like me anything is good enough. Yes, one must be crazy not to see it,” she repeated, returning to her former idea.

“Every one for himself,” said the cook, carelessly.

“And God for us all,” sighed Juliana.

At this moment Luiza rang the bell.

“What does she want now?” said Juliana, her mouth full of sugar. “Some new caprice!”

She soon returned, an expression of anger on her countenance, carrying an empty jug.

“She wants more water! What a fancy—to duck herself at midnight!”

She stamped her foot impatiently upon the brick floor. Putting the jug under the faucet she continued, while the water fell noisily into the sink, “She says she wants fried ham for breakfast,—something salt. She wants an appetizer.”

At midnight every one in the house was asleep. All the lights were extinguished. Without, the sky grew darker, at every moment a flash of lightning illuminated the darkness, followed by a clap of thunder.

Luiza awoke terrified. Large drops of rain began to fall heavily; the tempest sounded from afar; sleep had fled, and with her gaze fixed on the dim light of the night-lamp, a species of vision appeared before her, which resolved itself by degrees into the features of Bazilio.

Sebastião also had slept badly. At six he rose, and descended to the garden in his slippers. A glass door opened from the dining-room into a small corridor, in which were three painted iron chairs and some pots of carnations. From thence four stone steps led down to a small garden, containing several flower-beds, a piece of well-watered turf, some climbing rose-bushes, a well, a fountain under a grape-vine, and a few trees. At the farther end of the garden was another corridor shaded by a lime-tree, with a balcony looking out on a deserted street. In front it was shut in by the whitewashed wall of another garden. In this retired spot, quiet as a village, Sebastião was accustomed to smoke his morning cigar.

Six o’clock had not yet struck. The air was transparent, the sky was of the blue color of certain antique porcelains, with little white clouds softly floating here and there; the trees were of a fresh green, the water of the fountain was clear as crystal, the birds sang joyously as they flew from branch to branch.

Sebastião was looking out into the street, when the sound of a cane striking against the ground, and of steps slowly approaching, broke the silence. It was Cunha Rosado, a neighbor of Jorge; he walked slowly, and with a stooping gait, as if in pain, and was enveloped in a comforter and a chocolate-colored great-coat; his face was seamed with wrinkles, and his gray beard was long and neglected-looking.

“Up already, neighbor?” said Sebastião.

Cunha paused, and raising his head slowly, said, in a voice expressive of fatigue,—

“Ah, is that you, Sebastião? I am taking my pains out to give them an airing, my friend.”

“On foot?”

“Formerly I used to ride on a donkey as far as the city walls; but they say now that a short walk will do me good.” And he shrugged his shoulders with a gesture expressive of mingled doubt, sadness, and anger. He suffered from a disease of the intestines.

“And how do you get on?” Sebastião asked him, leaning forward with an air of interest.

Cunha smiled disconsolately, letting these words fall from his pallid lips,—

“I get on so fast that I shall soon be out of this.”

Sebastião coughed, unable to think of a single word of consolation.

The sick man stood still, resting both his hands on the head of his cane; suddenly his doll gaze brightened with interest.

“Tell me, Sebastião,” he said, “that good-looking young man that I see go into Jorge’s every day,—is he not Bazilio de Brito, the cousin of Jorge’s wife, the son of João de Brito?”

“Yes; why?”

“I was right! I was right! And that obstinate creature would persist in saying it was not so.”

He then proceeded to explain himself.

“My room looks out on the street, and as I am almost always sitting at the window, in order to divert my thoughts, I noticed this young man, dressed like a foreigner, entering there—every day. I said, ‘It is Bazilio de Brito.’ My wife insisted it was not. What the deuce! I was almost certain. I know him as well as I know anything. He looks just the same as when he was going to marry Donna Luiza. Oh, I have all that history at my fingers’ ends. She lived then in the street of the Magdalena.”

“Yes, it is Brito,” repeated Sebastião.

“I was right.” He remained an instant motionless, with his eyes fixed on the ground. Then, speaking in his former querulous tones, he said, “Well, I must drag myself home.” He sighed and looked up. “Ah, if I only had your health, Sebastião!” he said. And waving him a farewell with a hand encased in a dark woollen glove, he continued on his way, bending forward, and supporting himself by the wall as he went along.

Sebastião remained preoccupied. Every one began to notice that a man young and elegant called at Luiza’s house every day in a carriage, and remained there two or three hours. The neighbors lived in such close proximity, and they were so malicious! In the afternoon he went out. He wanted to see Luiza; but he felt, without knowing why, a sense of oppression, as if he feared to find her changed in some way. He was going slowly up the street under his umbrella, wrapt in thought, when he saw a coupé coming towards him at a trot. In another moment it had stopped at Luiza’s door. A gentleman descended hastily from it, threw away his cigar, and went into the house. He was tall, wore a mustache with the ends turning up, and had a flower in his buttonhole. Sebastião comprehended at once that this must be Cousin Bazilio. The coachman wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and crossing his legs, began to roll a cigarette.

At the noise of the carriage Senhor Paula came out to his doorstep, with his cap awry, his hands in his pockets, and looking askance. The coal-vender opposite, dirty and disfigured by obesity, also showed her greasy countenance at her door. The servant of the professor opened her window hastily. Paula crossed the sunny street quickly, and entered the shop in front. A few moments afterwards he reappeared in the doorway, accompanied by the shopkeeper, who had all the air of the inconsolable widow. They whispered together, their malicious glances fixed alternately on the windows of Luiza’s house and on the coupé. Paula, shuffling along in his carpet slippers, went to whisper with the coal-vender, eliciting from her, by his words, a laugh that shook her ample chest, and then took up his post in his own doorway, between a likeness of Dom João VI., on the one side, and two antique choir-chairs on the other, watching Luiza’s door with a jubilant expression of countenance. Through the silence resounded the notes of the “Virgin’s Prayer,” which some one in the neighborhood was practising on the piano.

Sebastião looked up mechanically, as he passed, at the windows of Luiza’s house.

“What a warm day, Sebastião!” said Paula, with an inclination of the head. “It is a pleasure to be in the shade.”

CHAPTER VII.

A CONSULTATION.

MEANTIME Luiza and Bazilio were seated, tranquil and happy, in the parlor within, the half-drawn curtains making a soft obscurity in the room. Luiza wore a fresh white morning-gown that diffused an agreeable odor of lavender.

“I shall present myself thus,” she had said, “without ceremony.”

She was charming thus; thus he would always like to see her, Bazilio had answered gayly, as if in this morning-gown he beheld a promise of friendlier relations between them. He had entered tranquilly, with the air of a real relative. He did not annoy her by bold words; he spoke to her of the heat, of a farce he had seen the night before, of old friends that he had met; but mentioned to her only en passant that he had been dreaming of her.

And why should he do otherwise? In his dream they were far away, in a distant land, that might be Italy, there were so many statues in the plazas, so many musical fountains falling into marble basins. It was in an antique garden, in the midst of a classic landscape; rare flowers filled the Florentine vase that rested on the stone balustrade; the peacocks spread out their tails proudly, and she herself walked slowly up and down, the train of her blue velvet dress sweeping the mosaic pavement. It was a landscape, he said, resembling that of San Donato, the villa of Prince Demidoff. Bazilio took pleasure in recalling the names of his illustrious acquaintances, and never forgot to place in their proper light the glories of his travels.

“And you,—did you dream anything?”

Luiza smiled and blushed. No, she had been too much afraid of the storm to sleep. As she spoke, Bazilio noticed the faint circles under her eyes.

“Did you not hear the storm?” she asked.

“I was taking supper at the time in the Gremio.”

“Are you in the habit of taking supper?”

Her cousin smiled sadly. Supper? If a tough beefsteak and a bottle of Collares could be called supper, then—

“And all for you, ungrateful one!” he added.

“For me?”

“For whom else, then, if not for you? What brought me to Lisbon? Why did I leave Paris?”

“On account of your affairs.”

“Thanks,” he said, leaning forward, and looking at her with severity. He puffed out the smoke of his cigarette with violence, and walked up and down the floor of the parlor with long strides. Suddenly he came over to her, and sitting down beside her told her that she was in truth unjust; that if he was in Lisbon, it was solely on her account. And throwing into his voice an expression of tenderness, he asked her if she indeed felt for him the least little bit of love,—“so much as that, even,” showing her the point of his nail.

They both began to laugh.

“That much? Perhaps!”

Luiza’s breast heaved with emotion.

Bazilio, taking her hand in his, began to examine her nails, admiring them, and recommended her to use a certain ointment for the purpose of giving them more brilliancy, and kissing the tips of her fingers, he lightly bit the little finger, saying it was very sweet, at the same time putting hastily in its place a stray lock of her hair. With a supplicating glance he said he had a petition to prefer.

“What is it?”

“To take a drive with me into the country. It must be so charming now!”

Luiza arranged the folds of her morning-gown in silence.

“It would be very easy,” he continued. “You meet me at some place, at a distance from here, of course. I will wait for you with a carriage; you enter it, and we drive away.”

Luiza hesitated.

“Do not refuse me!”

“But where?”

“Wherever you wish. To Paço d’Arcos, to Loires, to Queluz. Say yes.” His voice was urgent and entreating. “What are you afraid of? We take a friendly drive together, as brother and sister might do.”

She smiled.

“No, not that!”

Bazilio grew angry and called her a prude. He rose to go away. Then, half-vanquished, she took his hat out of his hands.

“Well, we shall see. Perhaps,” she said, smiling.

“Say yes,” insisted Bazilio. “Be a good girl.”

“Well, yes; we will speak about it to-morrow, and then we shall see.”

But on the following day Bazilio had the tact to make no allusion either to the proposed drive or to the country. Nor did he utter a single word about his love for her or about his hopes. He seemed in very good spirits. He had brought her the book of Belot, “La Femme de Feu.” Seated at the piano, he sang for her songs of the cafés chantants, of a somewhat free character, making her laugh by his imitations of the hoarse and shrill accents of the singers. Then he spoke to her a great deal about Paris; he retailed to her the gossip of the day,—anecdotes, love-affairs, fashionable news, in all of which figured duchesses and princes, who played tragic or sentimental roles, sometimes comic ones, but who were always surrounded by an ocean of delights. Of every woman whom he mentioned he said, “She was a woman of great distinction, and naturally she had a lover.” He made immorality appear like an aristocratic duty. Virtue, to listen to him, seemed the defect of a mean spirit, or the ridiculous prejudice of a bourgeoise temperament. Just as he was about to go he said, as if struck by a sudden recollection, “Do you know that I have still some thoughts of leaving Lisbon?”

“Why?” she asked, turning pale.

“What the deuce am I doing here?” he answered, with an air of indifference. He remained a moment with his eyes fixed on the floor; then, as if controlling himself, said,—

“Good-by, dearest,” and went away.

When Luiza entered the dining-room in the afternoon her eyes were red, as if she had been crying. On the following day it was she who spoke of the country. She complained of the heat, of the dust of Lisbon. How delightful it must be at Cintra!

“It is you who did not want to go,” he said. “We might have had a charming drive.”

It was because she was afraid, she answered. They might be seen.

“There is no danger,” he replied; “in a closed carriage, with the blinds drawn down.”

But that was worse than to be in the house, she returned. It was to suffocate, shut up in a box.

No, they might go to a villa, to the Alegrias, the villa of a friend of his who was in London; there would be only the farmer’s family there. It was in the neighborhood of Olivaes; there were long laurel-walks, delightful shade. They might take with them ices, champagne—

“Will you come?” he said abruptly, taking both her hands in his.

She turned red.

“Perhaps. We shall see on Sunday.”

Their eyes met. Luiza grew confused, and went to open the windows in order to let in the light, and thus take away from their interview its air of intimacy. Then she sat down on a chair beside the piano, afraid of the obscurity, afraid of herself, and asked Bazilio to sing something; for she feared equally to speak or to be silent.

Bazilio sang the sensual and touching music of the “Medjé” of Gounod. Those ardent notes affected her like the atmosphere of a night charged with electricity. When Bazilio left her she remained seated, motionless, bending forward, exhausted, languid, as after a fever.

Sebastião spent the three following days in Almada, at the villa of Rosegal, to which business had called him. On the morning after his return he was seated, at about ten o’clock, at the door of his dining-room, which opened into the garden, waiting for his breakfast, and caressing his cat Rolim, the friend and confidant of the illustrious Vicencia, enveloped in fur like a bishop, and ungrateful as a despot. The morning wore on, and the sun fell full upon the little garden. The water of the fountain flowed in wavering ripples, reflecting the leaves of the grape-vine. Within their cages two canaries were singing with all the power of their little throats. Aunt Joanna, who had just placed the breakfast, smoking hot, upon the table, approached him, and said in her husky voice,—

“Gertrudes was here yesterday, and she spoke in such a way! And what nonsense she talked!”

“And what about, Aunt Joanna?” asked Sebastião.

“About a young man who, according to her, goes to see Luiza every day.”

Sebastião rose as if moved by a spring.

“What did she say, Aunt Joanna?”

The old woman straightened the table-cloth which Sebastião’s hasty movement had disarranged.

“She talked gossip, full of curiosity to know who the young man could be! She says he is good-looking. He goes there every day in a carriage. On Saturday he stayed till evening. There was singing in the parlor, and Gertrudes says that not even in the theatre—”

“It is her cousin,” interrupted Sebastião with impatience. “What of it? It is her cousin who has returned from Brazil.”

Aunt Joanna smiled maliciously.

“I thought he must be a relative; Gertrudes says he is very good-looking. Yes, I thought he must be a relative,” she repeated, going out to the kitchen.

Sebastião breakfasted with a preoccupied mind. If the neighbors should begin to talk about these visits, what a scandal it would cause! Troubled and perplexed, he determined to speak to Julião. He was going down the street of S. Roque towards the house of the latter, when he perceived him coming towards him on the opposite side, with a roll of papers under his arm, his white trousers spattered with mud.

“I was just going to your house,” said Sebastião.

Julião was surprised at the unusual excitement betrayed in his voice.

Was there anything new? he asked. What had happened?

“Something diabolical,” answered Sebastião, in a low voice.

They stopped in front of a confectioner’s shop. In the glass case behind them was an exhibition of works of art in sugar; on a shelf below, arranged according to their sizes, were some bottles of Malmsey, with their parti-colored labels; here and there were rosy and transparent jellies, bonbons of egg, the very sight of which gave one nausea; in puff-paste moulds floated stale and discolored creams; masses of marmalade were melting in the heat; and on the counter some pies displayed their dried-up crusts. In the midst of them, on a showy pedestal, was coiled a horrible snake of almond paste, displaying a yellow belly that it made one’s stomach sick to look at; his back was covered with arabesques in sugar; his hideous mouth was open; the teeth, of almonds, held an orange between them; two chocolate eyes protruded from the head; and around this repugnant monster the flies buzzed incessantly.

“Let us go into a café,” said Julião. “In the street it rains fire.”

“I am very much disturbed,” began Sebastião.

In the café the faded blue of the paper and the air that entered through the half-open doors tempered the heat of the sun, and produced a still coolness. They seated themselves at the farther end of the apartment. The dazzling fronts of the houses, painted white, blinded the sight. Dirty newspapers lay scattered on the tables around. Behind the counter, covered with bottles, nodded a waiter, fast asleep. In another apartment a bird was singing. From behind a green screen came at intervals the sound of the billiard-balls; from time to time could be heard the voice of a huckster from the street; and then all these noises merged into the sound of carriage-wheels rolling past with accelerated speed. In front of them sat a dirty individual, with the face of a swindler, reading a newspaper. A few gray hairs were plastered over his bald yellow forehead; his gray mustache was sprinkled with the ashes of his cigar; nights spent in dissipation had given a reddish hue to his eyelids and a waxen tint to his shrunken skin. From time to time he lazily turned his head, spit through his eye-teeth, gave a mechanical shake to the newspaper, and then resumed his reading with an air of weariness. When the two friends entered the café and called for sherbets, he saluted them gravely with an inclination of the head.

“But at last what is the matter?” asked Julião when they were seated.

“It is something that concerns our friends,” responded Sebastião, drawing his chair nearer to Julião. “About the cousin—you understand?”

The vivid recollection of the humiliation he had suffered in Luiza’s parlor brought the blood to Julião’s face. But he was intensely proud, and only said, dryly,—

“Yes, I have seen him.”

“Well?”

“He seems to me an ass!” he replied, unable to control himself.

“A coxcomb,—no?”

“An ass!” repeated Julião. “Such manners, such affectation, such airs, his eyes fixed on his stockings,—very ridiculous ones, in truth, like those of a woman! I showed him my boots without hesitation,—these very ones,” he added, displaying to Sebastião’s view his unpolished boots. “I take pride in them; they are the boots of a man who works.”

Julião was accustomed to boast in public of a poverty that in secret humiliated him not a little. He sipped his sherbet, and added,—

“He is a fool!”

“Did you know he was at one time engaged to Luiza?” said Sebastião in a low voice, frightened at the importance of his disclosure. “Yes,” he added, in response to Julião’s astonished glance. “Hardly any one knows it, not even Jorge; but I heard it a short time since. They were on the point of being married; but his father died, he went away to Brazil, and wrote from there breaking off the engagement.”

Julião smiled, leaning his head back against the wall.

“But this is the story of Eugénie Grandet,” he said; “you are telling me one of Balzac’s romances.”

Sebastião looked at him in astonishment.

“One cannot speak seriously to you,” he said; “I tell you, on my honor, that it is true.”

“Very good, Sebastião; continue.”

There was a pause. The bald individual contemplated the stuccoed ceiling, which was blackened by smoke and by fly-marks, stroking his gray beard with his dirty hand. His mourning necktie was fastened by a pinchbeck pin. They could hear the sounds of a discussion going on in the billiard-room.

Sebastião, as if coming to a sudden resolution, said abruptly,—

“You must know, then, that now he goes there every day.”

Julião stretched himself on the divan where he was seated, and looked fixedly at Sebastião. The dark glasses of his spectacles glittered in the light.

“You want to confide something to me, eh, Sebastião?” he said. “You think the cousin is in love with her still?” he added, with a vivacity that had in it something of gayety.

Sebastião was shocked. “Julião!” he said severely, “one does not jest about these things.”

“But it is evident he is in love with her still,” replied Julião, shrugging his shoulders. “How innocent you are! He was her sweetheart when she was a girl, and now that she is married he wants to go back to their old relations.”

“Speak lower,” said Sebastião.

But the waiter still slept, and the bald individual was engrossed in his melancholy reading.

“The same story as always,” said Julião, lowering his voice. “Cousin Bazilio is right; he is in search of pleasure without responsibility. You know, friend Sebastião, what an influence that has over the feelings. She has a husband who clothes and maintains her; who watches by her when she is sick, and puts up with her when she is nervous; who bears all the burdens, all the annoyances, all the responsibilities of married life,—you know that is the law. Consequently the cousin has only to present himself, and he finds her amiable, attractive, charmingly attired, all at the cost of the husband, and—”

He began to laugh, and rolled a cigarette, with an evident sense of enjoyment in these malicious suggestions. “And he is right,” he added. “All cousins reason thus; Bazilio is her cousin; therefore— You know the syllogism, Sebastião,” he said, slapping him on the thigh.

“A thousand devils!” exclaimed Sebastião, frowning. “So, then, you think an honorable woman—” he added, rebelling against such a supposition.

“I think nothing,” responded Julião.

“Speak lower, for Heaven’s sake!”

“Well, then, I think nothing,” repeated Julião, in a lower voice; “I state her actual position; but, as she is an honorable woman—”

“She is so!” said Sebastião, bringing down his hand with violence on the table.

“Coming, sir!” said the waiter.

The bald old man rose; but seeing that the waiter went back yawning to the counter, and that the two friends continued sipping their sherbet, he rested his elbows on the table, and again taking up the newspaper, fixed his melancholy gaze upon it.

“The question is not of her,” said Sebastião, sorrowfully. “The question is—the neighbors.”

They were silent for a moment; the dispute in the billiard-room grew more violent.

“But what have the neighbors to do with it?” said Julião.

“They have this to do with it. They see the young man entering the house. He goes there in a carriage, and attracts the attention of the neighborhood. They have been gossiping about it already, and have gone with their stories to Aunt Joanna. Some days since I met Netto, who had observed it, and Correa also. Nothing takes place in that house which the furniture-dealer does not notice and talk about; they have dreadful tongues. Yesterday I went out to take a walk, and I met the cousin getting out of his carriage at the door. Immediately every tongue in the street was set going; every eye was on the watch. He goes there every day. They know that Jorge is in Alemtejo. He remains there two or three hours. It is a serious business,—a very serious business.”

“But is she mad?”

“No; but she sees nothing bad in all this.”

Julião shrugged his shoulders.

The door of the billiard-room opened; a man of tall stature, with a heavy black mustache, came out abruptly, much excited, and, pausing on the threshold, cried out to some one within,—

“Do not forget that I am at your service whenever you please!”

A hoarse voice responded from the billiard-room with an obscene expression.

The gigantic individual shut the door furiously, and passed through the café, muttering to himself. A thin young man, in a winter overcoat and white trousers, followed him, staggering.

“What I should have done,” cried the giant, waving his arms, “was to have given him a slap in the face.”

The thin young man answered with an expression of suavity and obsequiousness,—

“Disputes lead to nothings Senhor Correa.”

“The truth is, that I am too considerate,” yelled the giant; “and I do not forget that I have a wife and children.” And he went out, his hoarse voice lost in the noises of the street.

“Do you think it would be well to warn her?” said Sebastião, after a moment’s reflection.

Julião shrugged his shoulders, and puffed the smoke from his cigarette.

“Tell me,” said Sebastião in tones of entreaty, “will you go and speak to her?”

“I!” answered Julião, with a repellent expression on his countenance. “Are you mad?”

“But, in fine, what is your opinion?” There was something in Sebastião’s voice that bordered on anguish.

“Go you, if you wish. Tell her you have noticed—In truth, I don’t know—” And he began to bite the end of his cigarette.

His silence troubled Sebastião.

“I have come to you to ask your advice,” he said desperately.

“But, what the deuce do you want? That is her affair—yes, hers,” he repeated in answer to Sebastião’s glance. “She is twenty-five years old, and she has been married nearly four years; she ought to know that one does not receive daily visits from a good-looking young man in a little street, with the whole neighborhood on the watch. If she chooses to do so it is because it suits her.”

“Oh, Julião!” exclaimed Sebastião with severity. “You are wrong, very wrong,” he added, with emotion. And he relapsed into a sorrowful silence.

“Friend Sebastião,” said Julião, rising, “I say what I think; do you what you think right.” And he called the waiter.

“Stop,” said Sebastião. “Leave that to me.”

They were about to go out, when the bald individual, laying down his newspaper, hastened to the door and opened it for them with a bow, at the same time handing Sebastião a folded paper. Sebastião, surprised, read aloud mechanically,—

“The undersigned, a former employee of the State, reduced to poverty—”

“I have been the intimate friend of the noble Duke of Saldanha,” whined the bald individual.

Sebastião colored, bowed, and discreetly handed him five tostões. The bald individual bowed profoundly, and said in a sonorous voice,—

“A thousand thanks, your Excellency!”

CHAPTER VIII.

PLAYING WITH FIRE.

ON the following day, at an early hour in the afternoon, Joanna, leaning back in an old willow arm-chair, was already sleeping the siesta. As she rose at five every morning, and sometimes even earlier, she enjoyed to the full this hour of rest. The blinds were closed to exclude the light, the pot on the fire sent forth its drowsy murmur, all the house seemed sunk in a silent stupor by the torrid heat, when Juliana entered the kitchen with an angry air, and throwing a bundle of soiled clothes on the floor, exclaimed,—

“May I be struck dead by lightning if the scandalous behavior in this house does not end by becoming public talk!”

Joanna awoke in terror.

“Whoever wants to have things done to suit them should see to it themselves!” cried Juliana, her eyes bloodshot with passion. “There is no need to be all day in the parlor gossiping with visitors!”

The cook shut the door in alarm.

“What is the matter, Senhora Juliana? What has happened?” she said.

“What has happened? Why, that she has been stung by a wasp! I am ready to burst with anger.”

She spoke in shrill and strident accents.

“She avails herself of every pretext to scold,” she continued; “I am in no mind to put up with her any longer; no!” And she stamped her foot furiously on the floor.

“But what has happened?”

“She said her collars were badly ironed, and then she began to talk a string of nonsense. I am tired of it now. I have had enough of it. Let her not provoke me any more! I shall leave the house, but I will tell her the reason to her face. Ever since men have been coming here she has behaved shamefully. When one begins an intrigue—”

“Senhora Juliana, for the love of God!” exclaimed Joanna, putting her hands to her head. “If the mistress should hear you!”

“So much the better! I would say it to her face. I have had enough of it, and more than enough!” But all at once she was seized with a violent attack of faintness. She turned pale as death, and sank into a chair, her hands pressed to her heart, and her eyes turned up so that only the whites were visible.

Joanna shook her, and began to call her in a frightened voice,—

“Senhora Juliana! Juliana! Speak to me!” She sprinkled water on her face. “The Virgin help us! Are you better? Speak!”

Juliana gave a deep sigh of relief, and closed her eyes. She drew her breath slowly and painfully, as though completely exhausted.

“How do you feel? Do you want some broth? It is debility; that must be it.”

“It is the heart,” murmured Juliana.

“Of course; those fits of passion are killing her,” said the cook to herself, as she prepared the broth, pale as Juliana herself. “One must put up with one’s mistress,” she said aloud. “You should take nourishing food, and not allow yourself to get excited.”

Luiza, dressed in a white morning-gown, here opened the door and asked what was the cause of this noise.

“It is Juliana, who does not feel well.”

“A pain in the heart,” murmured Juliana, biting her pale lips with her yellow teeth. “If the senhora does not need me,” she added, rising with difficulty, “I will go to see the doctor.”

“Yes, do so,” returned Luiza, going downstairs again.

Juliana took her broth slowly, as if she had hardly strength enough to lift the spoon to her lips. Joanna consoled her in low tones. And then, the Senhora Juliana was too easily excited. When one’s health was poor, there was nothing worse than to allow one’s self to get excited.

“The thing is, that you do not know what all this may end in,” said Juliana, lowering her voice and lifting her eyebrows. “This cannot last; she is dressing herself now as if she were going out. She crumpled up a number of collars and threw them on the floor, saying that everything I iron is a disgrace to look at, and that I know how to do nothing. I say this is too much!”

“One must have patience. Every one has his cross to bear.”

Juliana gave a sickly smile, rose with a groan of pain, gathered up the soiled clothes, and went upstairs. A few moments afterwards she left the house, her hands covered with black gloves, her face of a yellow hue, and showing dark circles under the eyes. But on turning the corner of the street she paused in front of the tobacconist’s, as if undecided what to do. The walk to the doctor’s house was so long! Her knees were bending under her, but—to spend three tostões[6] in a carriage!

“Pst! pst!” some one called to her from the other side of the street.

It was the tobacconist, with her long black gown, her oily, lemon-colored face, and her sad smile.

“Where may the Senhora Juliana be going?” she said. “To take a walk?”

Then she complimented Juliana on her black parasol with its bone handle; she thought it in good taste. And how was her health?

Bad; she had just had an attack, and was going to see the doctor. But the tobacconist had not an atom of confidence in the doctors; it was throwing money in the street to consult them. She cited the illness of her husband, the expenses,—a gold-mine! And what for? To see him suffer and die as if nothing had been done for him. It was a waste of money that she had not yet forgotten.

And she sighed, “Well, we must take things as they come.” And what was there new at her house?

“Nothing.”

“Tell me, Senhora Juliana, who is that young man who goes there every day?”

“The cousin of the mistress,” responded Juliana.

“They are very fond of each other!”

“So it would seem.” Then she added, coughing, “Well, good afternoon, Senhora Helena.” And she continued on her way, muttering, “Go ask some one else for news, you scarecrow; you will get nothing out of me!”

Juliana detested the neighbors. She knew they made sport of her; that they mocked her, and called her old parchment; therefore she was resolved that it should not be through her they would know anything. They might burst with curiosity, for what she saw and heard she would keep to herself,—“to make use of when the occasion should offer,” as she angrily thought.

The tobacconist remained standing at her door, very much puzzled. Paula the furniture-dealer, who had seen her talking to Juliana, came up to her, shuffling his feet, encased in carpet slippers, along the ground.

“Has old parchment unbosomed herself to you?” he said.

“I have not been able to get a word out of her,” she answered.

Paula put his hands in his pockets, and said with a disgusted expression,—

“The wife of the engineer bribes her. It is she who carries messages, who opens the little door at night.”

“I cannot believe that!”

“Senhora Helena,” said Paula, looking at her with a superior air, “you are always in your shop; but I—I know what women of high society are, to the very tips of their fingers. They are a vicious lot!”

“That is all through the want of religion,” sighed the tobacconist.

“Religion,” said Paula, shrugging his shoulders, “is what it is, and the priests are what they are.” And he added with clenched fists, “The priests are a mass of living rottenness!”

“Senhor Paula, it ought to weigh upon your conscience to speak so.” And the yellow countenance of the tobacconist assumed a severe expression of reproach.

“All that is talk, Senhora Helena,” exclaimed Paula in derisive accents; and he added roughly, “Why are there not more convents? Why does everything go topsy-turvy in those there are?”

“Senhor Paula!” stammered Helena, retreating. “It is scandalous! At night the nuns go by a subterraneous passage to meet the friars, and such orgies! You read that in every book!” And raising himself on the points of his toes, he added, “And the Jesuits, what do you say of them? Come!”

But he paused suddenly, and taking off his cap, said respectfully, “Your servant, Senhora.”

It was Luiza, who just then passed by, with her veil down. They looked after her in silence when she had passed.

“She is certainly very pretty!” murmured the tobacconist.

“She is not a bad piece of goods,” said Paula, nodding his head,—“for him who likes the stuff,” he added with disdain.

There was a pause, which Paula broke by saying roughly,—

“I am not the one to waste my time running after petticoats.”

He went into the shop whistling, to roll a cigarette; but pausing suddenly, he fixed his eyes with an expression of indignation on one of the windows of the house of the engineer, in which he had just seen the dissipated countenance of Pedro the carpenter. He turned to the tobacconist, with folded arms, nodding his head.

“So, while the mistress goes in search of her pleasure,” he said, “the young fellow settles accounts with the servant!” And he went away slowly.

Luiza at last drove out into the country with Bazilio. She consented to do so only the day before they went, saying it was “simply to take a drive, without getting out of the carriage.”

They had agreed to meet in the Praça da Alegria. She arrived late at the rendezvous, which was for half-past two, hiding her face under her parasol, and looking frightened. Bazilio was waiting for her in a coupé, under the shade of a tree at the right of the Praça, smoking. He opened the door, and Luiza, closing her parasol, entered the carriage; her gown caught on the step, and she pulled it away with violence, tearing the silk flounce. Then she seated herself at his side out of breath and very nervous, her face suffused with blushes, and said in a low voice,—

“What madness!”

The horse set off at a trot.

“How tired you are, my little one!” said Bazilio, softly. He raised her veil; her large eyes shone with excitement, partly the result of fear, partly of the haste with which she had come.

“How warm it is, Bazilio!”

He wished to lower one of the windows of the coupé.

“No, not now; we might be seen,” she said. “When we are outside the city.”

“Where shall we go?”

Luiza raised up the little curtain, and looked out.

“Let us go towards Lumiar; that is the best place. Shall we?” she said.

He shrugged his shoulders. All places were alike to him.

Luiza recovered her tranquillity; she took off her veil and gloves, smiling, and fanned herself with her handkerchief, which diffused a delicate perfume around. Bazilio caught her hand and pressed on the fine skin with its delicate blue veins long and ardent kisses.

“You promised me to be sensible,” she said to him smiling, and looking at him from under her long lashes.

“One kiss, a single kiss on the arm! What harm is there in that? Don’t be prudish.” And he looked at her with an ardent glance.

The curtains of the coupé were of red silk, and the light that filtered through them enveloped her in a soft rose-colored aureole; her lips were of a humid red, like the petal of a rose, and in the liquid depths of her eyes gleamed a starry light. Unable to control his emotion, he passed his trembling fingers over her hair and brow with a tenderness that had something of cowardice in it.

“Not even a kiss on the cheek?” he said humbly.

“Only one?” asked Luiza.

He kissed her softly on the cheek near the ear; but this contact inflamed his desires. He caught her to his breast with ardor, and pressed kisses on her neck, her face, her hat—

“No, no!” she murmured, resisting. Then, with determination, “I want to get out!” she cried.

She endeavored to open one of the windows, shaking the glass, and bruising her fingers against the hard and dirty strap.

Bazilio begged her to forgive him. What folly! To get angry for a kiss! She was so beautiful! he said; her beauty had turned his head; but he swore he would be more rational in future.

The carriage jolted on towards the suburbs of the city; on either side stretched, motionless in the sunlight, rows of olive-trees of a dusty green; the rays of the sun beat down fiercely on the burnt grass.

Bazilio had opened one of the windows, and the curtain fluttered softly in the breeze. He began to talk to Luiza of himself, of his love for her, of his plans. He had resolved to establish himself in Lisbon, he said. He did not want to marry. He loved her, and his sole desire was to pass his life at her feet. He said he was weary of existence; that all his illusions were destroyed. What could life offer to him now? He had experienced the sensations produced by ephemeral passions, by adventures, by travel; he already felt himself old.

“Not so very old,” said Luiza, with humid eyes.

Ah, yes, he was old! he repeated. All he desired now was to live for her, to repose in the sweetness of familiar intercourse with her; she was all the family he had. He spoke of himself as her relative. He said family ties were the best thing the world had to bestow.

“May I smoke?” he interrupted himself to say, lighting a cigar. “The best thing life can give,” he resumed, “is a profound affection like ours; is it not so? I shall be contented with little,—to see you every day, to converse with you, to possess the certainty of your affection. ‘Eh, Pinteos,’ he called through the door of the carriage, ‘drive out into the country!’”

The driver obeyed. Bazilio raised the curtain, and a fresher atmosphere penetrated into the carriage. The sun shed a brilliant light on the trees, through whose leaves it filtered, casting their glowing shadows on the ground.

“I shall dispose of everything I possess abroad,” continued Bazilio, “and settle down in Lisbon, in a little house in the neighborhood of Buenos Ayres, perhaps. Tell me, would that please you?”

She was silent. These promises, to which the vibrating voice of Bazilio gave a passionate force, produced in her a confusion of the senses like that caused by wine; her breast palpitated.

“When I am at your side,” said Bazilio, “I am so happy; everything pleases me.”

“If all that you say were only true!” sighed Luiza, leaning back among the cushions of the carriage.

Bazilio put his arm around her waist, and swore to her that it should be true. It was his intention to dispose of everything he had, and to live upon his rents. He began to give her the proofs; he had already spoken to an agent, whose name he mentioned,—a dry old man with a sharp nose. And pressing her to his breast with an ardent glance,—

“And if it were true, what would you do?” he said.

“I do not know,” she murmured.

They reached Lumiar, and Bazilio, through considerations of prudence, lowered the carriage-blinds. Luiza raised one of them slightly, and looking out, gazed as they passed them by, at the trees covered with dust, the walls of a villa painted a dirty rose-color, some mean-looking houses, an empty omnibus, some women seated before their doors in the shade, combing their children’s hair, and a youth dressed in white, with a straw hat, who stopped to look fixedly at the drawn blinds of the coupé. She thought to herself that it would be delightful to live here in a villa standing back from the road, a cool little house with climbing plants festooning the windows, vines supported by stone pillars, rose-bushes, walks shaded by trees whose branches formed an arched roof overhead, and a little spring under a lime-tree, to which the servants would go in the morning, singing, to wash the clothes. And in the evening she and Bazilio would walk across the fields under the starry sky, listening in silence to the monotonous croaking of the frogs. She closed her eyes. The slow movement of the carriage, the presence of Bazilio, the contact of his hand with hers, set her blood on fire. She felt a vague desire expand her soul, as the wind expands the sail, and turned pale.

“What are you thinking of?” said Bazilio, in a low voice.

Luiza blushed and remained silent. She was ashamed to utter her thoughts aloud.

Bazilio gently took her hand in his, with respect and tenderness, as if it were something holy and precious, and kissed it softly, with the humility of a slave and the fervor of a devotee. This gentleness, so humble, so touching, moved her, made her nerves vibrate; and she leaned back in a corner of the coupé, unable to restrain her tears.

What was it? What was the matter with her? he asked. He caught her in his arms and embraced her, saying to her in passionate accents,—

“Shall we fly together?”

The bright tears rolling down her beautiful countenance made her look still more interesting, and gave to his feeling for her a tinge of sadness.

“Fly with me now! Let us go to the ends of the earth!” he cried.

“Don’t talk nonsense!” she murmured, sighing. She leaned back in the carriage silently, and covered her face with her hands.

“The fact is,” he said to himself, “that I do talk a great deal of nonsense.”

Luiza dried her tears with her handkerchief.

“This is only nervousness,” she said. “Let us go back. Shall we? I do not feel well; tell the driver to turn back!”

Bazilio obeyed. The drive back was somewhat silent. Luiza complained of a slight headache. He took her hands in his and repeated his former expressions of tenderness. He called her his dove, his ideal, and as he did so he said to himself that she was his.

They stopped in the Praça da Alegria. Luiza glanced cautiously around, and then sprang quickly out of the carriage.

“Until to-morrow,” she said. “Don’t fail.”

She opened her parasol and walked rapidly up the street, towards the Patriarchal. Bazilio lowered the windows of the carriage, drew a deep breath of satisfaction, and stretching out his legs said to the driver,—

“Hey, Pinteos! Quick, to the Gremio!”

In the reading-room his friend the Viscount Reynaldo, who had lived in London and Paris for many years, was buried in an easy-chair languidly reading the “Times.” They had come together from Paris, with the agreement to go also together to Madrid. But Reynaldo was overwhelmed by the heat; he found the temperature of Lisbon melting. He wore dark spectacles, and went about saturated with perfumes on account of the ignoble ill-odor of Portugal, as he said. As soon as he perceived Bazilio, he threw away the newspaper, and letting his arms fall by his side, said in a fatigued voice,—

“And the affair of the cousin? Is it to be settled or not? This is horrible, my dear fellow,—horrible! It is killing me; I must go north—to Scotland! Let us finish at once with this cousin.”

Bazilio threw himself into an easy-chair, and stretching himself, said,—

“Everything is going on well.”

“Make haste, my dear fellow, make haste,” said the viscount.

He took up the “Times” again, yawned, and called for soda.

“English soda!” he added.

They told him there was none in the house. Reynaldo looked with an air of consternation at Bazilio, and murmured in a hollow voice,—

“What a wretched country!”

CHAPTER IX.

DRAGON’S TEETH.

WHEN Luiza returned home, Juliana, who had not yet changed her dress, said to her at the door,—

“Senhor Sebastião is in the parlor. He has been waiting a long time; for he was here when I got back.”

He had been waiting, in fact, for half an hour. When Joanna, her face flushed, and looking as if she had been suddenly roused from sleep, opened the door for him and told him that her mistress was not at home, Sebastião’s first impulse was to go away, pleased at having escaped a difficult task. But he resisted this feeling, entered the house, and waited. He was resolved to speak to Luiza, to warn her that these frequent visits of her cousin in a neighborhood so given to gossips as was hers might compromise her. It was indeed terrible to say this to her; but it was his duty, for her own sake, for her husband’s, for the peace of the household. He was obliged to warn her; it was his duty to do so. At this thought his timidity vanished. In the face of an imperious duty he summoned all his energy to his aid. His heart beat a little faster, it is true; he turned pale, but he resolved to warn her. He walked up and down the parlor, with his hands in his pockets, mentally framing sentences that had a friendly and delicate turn. But when the bell rang, and a moment afterwards he heard the rustle of her dress in the hall, his courage collapsed, like a balloon from which the gas has escaped. He ran to the piano and began to play with spirit. When Luiza entered the room, her face flushed, without her hat, and taking off her gloves, he rose, and said, smiling,—

“I have come to chat with you awhile. I waited. Where have you been?”

Luiza seated herself with an air of fatigue. She had been to the dressmaker’s, she said. How warm it was! Why did he not come oftener? And a thousand thanks for the flowers! “I receive no visits of ceremony,” she added. “Only those of my cousin, who has returned from abroad.”

Sebastião remained seated on the piano-stool, and softly rubbed his knees.

“And your cousin,—is he well?” he asked.

“Quite well,” she returned. “He comes here often. The poor fellow is very lonely in Lisbon. He has been accustomed to live abroad.”

“True,” said Sebastião.

“And Jorge, has he written to you?” asked Luiza.

“I received a letter from him yesterday.”

She too had received a letter. They spoke of Jorge, of his ennui in Alemtejo, of the account he gave in his letters of Sebastião’s eccentric relative, of the length of time he would still remain away.

“I miss the rascal,” said Sebastião.

Luiza coughed; she was slightly pale, and she passed her hand from time to time across her forehead, closing her eyes with an air of weariness.

“I have come, my dear friend—” Sebastião began abruptly, as if he had adopted a sudden resolution. But seeing her seated on the edge of the sofa, her head bent down, her hand pressed to her eyes, he added,—

“What is the matter with you? Are you in pain?”

“A sudden headache. I felt it coming on in the street.”

“And I am troubling her,” said Sebastião to himself, taking up his hat. “Do you want anything?” he said aloud. “Do you wish me to go for the doctor?”

“No; I shall lie down awhile, and it will pass away.”

Sebastião charged her above all things not to allow herself to get chilled. Perhaps it would be well for her, he added, to apply a mustard plaster, or a couple of slices of lemon, to the temples; and in any case, if she did not feel better, to send for him.

“It will be nothing. Come again, Sebastião, and don’t forget me.”

Sebastião went away, drawing a deep breath, and saying to himself,—

“Good heavens! I have not the courage to speak to her.” But chancing to raise his eyes, as he stood in the doorway, he saw before him the dark interior of the coal-shop, and the broad face of the coal-vender, attired in a white morning-gown, on the watch to see who came out of the house. On the floor above, the three Azevedos put their ringletted heads together, behind the old muslin window-curtains, in diabolical conclave; behind her window the professor’s servant was sewing, looking out of the corner of her eye at every passer-by; and from the furniture-shop came forth the hoarse sounds of the patriot’s bronchitis.

“A rat cannot pass,” thought Sebastião, “without all these people taking note of it. And what tongues! Come, I must make up my mind, and at once! To-morrow, if I can bring myself to it, I will speak plainly to her if she is better.”

On the following morning, when Juliana wakened her mistress at nine o’clock to give her a letter from Leopoldina, Luiza was in fact as well as ever.

Leopoldina’s servant Justina, a thin and vulgar-looking woman, with a thick mustache and a squinting eye, was waiting in the dining-room. She was a friend of Juliana. They never met without an exchange of kisses and compliments. After putting Luiza’s answer into a little basket which she carried on her arm, Justina said with a smile, as she arranged her shawl,—

“What is there new here, Senhora Juliana?”

“Nothing, Senhora Justina. The cousin of the mistress,” she added in a lower voice, “comes here every day, that’s all. A good-looking fellow!”

Justina smiled again, showing her false teeth. Her squinting eye looking inquiringly at Juliana.

“I don’t think so,” said Juliana, in answer to that mute interrogation, “at least not for the present.”

“Well, good-by,” said Justina, arranging her shawl again. “It is growing late. My mistress is coming to dine here to-day. I have spent the whole morning, since seven o’clock, ironing petticoats.”

“And I too,” replied Juliana.

Just then Luiza rang.

“Good-by, Senhora Juliana,” said the other, putting on her hat.

“Good-by, Senhora Justina.”

She accompanied her to the landing, and they embraced each other once more. Juliana then hastened to Luiza’s room; she found her mistress already up and dressing herself, smiling gayly.

Leopoldina’s letter, written in slanting lines, and full of gross mistakes in orthography, was as follows:—

“My husband is going to-day to the country. I shall go to dine with you, but not before six. Will this be agreeable to you?”

The letter put her in a good-humor; it was now some weeks since she had seen her friend. How they would laugh and chat together! And Bazilio was to come at two. A perfect day!

She went to the kitchen to give orders for the dinner, and as she was coming downstairs Sebastião’s servant entered, with a bunch of roses, and a message inquiring how she was.

“Better, much better,” said Luiza. And to reassure Sebastião, in order that he might not call, she added that she was, in fact, quite well, and would perhaps go out.

“The roses,” she thought, “have come just in time.” And she placed them herself in the vases, singing as she did so, her glance animated, pleased with herself and with her manner of life, which was now interesting and full of incidents.

At two, already dressed, she went into the parlor, and seated herself at the piano to practise the “Medjé” of Gounod, which Bazilio had brought her, and which she took pleasure in singing, on account of its tender and passionate character. At half-past two she began to grow impatient, and her fingers no longer touched the keys with certainty. “He ought to be here now,” she thought. She opened the windows and glanced out into the street; but the professor’s servant, who was sewing at the window, raised towards her a pair of eyes so full of curiosity, that she closed it quickly, and began to play again with nervous haste. She heard a carriage coming down the street, and rose, with her heart palpitating; but the carriage rolled by.

Three o’clock! It seemed to her that it had grown warmer, that the heat was almost insupportable; she felt suffocating, and went to her room to powder her face. What if Bazilio should be sick! And in a hotel! Alone, at the mercy of careless and indifferent servants! But no; in that case he would have written to her. If he did not come it was because he did not want to come. Egotist! He did not deserve that she should distress herself in this way about him. But she was positively suffocating! She went to look for a fan, and with nervous hand shook it angrily because it did not open quickly enough. Since this was his character, she would refuse to see him. Thus everything would be at an end between them.

And all at once she beheld in imagination this passionate love vanish like smoke carried away by the wind. She felt relieved, and experienced an intense desire for rest. It was in truth absurd, with a husband like Jorge, to let her thoughts dwell on any other man,—on a feather-head, a weathercock.

Four o’clock struck. She was seized with a fit of desperation; she ran to Jorge’s writing-table, took a sheet of paper, and wrote feverishly:—

“DEAR BAZILIO,—Why do you not come? Are you sick? If you knew the anguish you make me suffer—”

The bell rang. Was it he? She folded the letter, put it into her pocket, and waited with a beating heart. Masculine steps sounded on the floor of the parlor. She looked up with radiant eyes. It was Sebastião,—Sebastião, looking somewhat pale,—who affectionately pressed her hands in his. Was she better? Had she slept well? he asked.

“Yes, thanks,” she answered; “I am better.”

She seated herself on the sofa, her face suffused with blushes; she was scarcely conscious of what she was saying, and repeated with a vague smile, “I am much better.” And she thought to herself, “Now, this tiresome man will stay here all day.”

“You did not go out?” asked Sebastião, seating himself in an arm-chair, his hat in his hand.

No; she was rather tired, she answered.

Sebastião passed his hand slowly over his forehead, and, in a voice that his embarrassment rendered deeper than usual,—

“I understand,” he said, “that you do not want for society.”

“No,” returned Luiza, casting down her eyes and arranging the folds of her dress. “My cousin has arrived in Lisbon. It is so long since we have seen each other! We were brought up together, and he comes to see me almost every day.”

Sebastião drew his chair a little nearer to the sofa, and said in a low voice,—

“It was to speak of this matter that I have come.”

“What matter?” asked Luiza in astonishment.

“They begin to notice already. The neighbors are the worst of all, my dear friend. They see everything. They begin to gossip already; the professor’s servant,—Senhor Paula. These rumors have even reached the ears of Aunt Joanna; and as Jorge is not here,—as these people are ignorant of your relationship, and Bazilio comes to see you every day—”

“So that,” said Luiza, rising abruptly, and pale to the lips, “I cannot receive my relatives without being insulted!”

Sebastião had risen at the same time. This sudden burst of anger from a woman so sweet-tempered as Luiza frightened him as a tempest from the serene sky of summer might have done.

“But, my dear friend,” he said hesitatingly, “I speak of this because the neighbors have done so; I do not say that. It is on account of the neighbors.”

“But what can they say?” asked Luiza, in a voice trembling with passion, and clasping her hands together. “It is in truth strange! I have but one relative in the world, with whom I was brought up, and whom I have not seen for years; he comes to see me a few times, stays each time a few moments, and people begin to gossip about it already!”

She spoke as if she really believed what she said, forgetful of Bazilio’s words, of his kisses, of the coupé. Sebastião stroked his hat with a trembling hand.

“I thought it right to warn you,” he said; “Julião too—”

“Julião!” she exclaimed. “What has he to do with the matter? By what right does he meddle with what takes place in my house?”

The intervention of Julião seemed to her another insult. She threw herself into a chair, pressing her hands to her heart and raising her eyes to heaven.

“My God! if Jorge were only here!” she exclaimed. “If Jorge were only here!”

“It is for your own good,” stammered Sebastião.

“But let us discuss the matter. What harm could come from this? He is my only relative. We were brought up together. He was always at our house in the street of the Magdalena, and he dined with us every day as if he had been my brother. When I was little he used to carry me in his arms.”

And she accumulated details of their intimacy, exaggerating some, inventing others, haphazard, on the impulse of her anger.

“He comes,” she continued, “he remains a moment, we have some music,—for he plays admirably on the piano,—he smokes a cigarette, and then he goes away.” She thus sought instinctively to justify herself.

Sebastião was struck dumb. This woman, who inspired him with terror, seemed to him to be not Luiza, but some one else, and he was almost overwhelmed by the force of her angry voice, which he had never thought could be so stern, so eloquent.

“I thought, Senhora,” he said, rising with an air of dignified sorrow, “that it was my duty to let you know.”

There was a moment of solemn silence. His firm, almost severe accents compelled Luiza to pause in her torrent of words; she cast down her eyes, and said in a low and troubled voice,—

“Forgive me, Sebastião; but, in truth, I assure you I am infinitely obliged to you for warning me. You have done right, Sebastião.”

“It was in order to avoid the calumnies uttered by those vipers’ tongues. Am I not right?”

He sought to justify his intervention, happy in seeing her pacified. He reminded her that a complete intrigue is often fabricated out of a word, and that being forewarned—

“You are right, Sebastião,” she repeated. “You have done well to let me know.”

She sat down. Her eyes still sparkled, and from time to time she passed her handkerchief over her lips.

“But, finally, what ought I to do, Sebastião?” she asked.

“I am at a loss to say, my dear friend!” He was moved at seeing her thus yield and ask to be advised, and he reproached himself for disturbing, by his interference, the pleasure of her friendly relations with her cousin.

“It is clear,” he said, “that you ought to receive your cousin; but it is well to observe a certain reserve in the matter, on account of the neighbors. In your place I should tell him—I should say to him—”

“But tell me,” she interrupted, casting down her eyes, “what do these people say?”

“They ask one another, ‘What is the matter?’ ‘What is going on?’ ‘Who enters the house?’ ‘Who leaves it?’”

“I have already said so to Jorge,” cried Luiza, rising abruptly; “and not only once, but many times. It is impossible to live in this street; a leaf cannot stir without being noticed.”

“It cannot be helped.”

There was another pause. Luiza paced up and down the room with bent head and frowning brow; then, stopping before Sebastião, she said to him with an uneasy glance,—

“If Jorge were to hear of this, how it would annoy him!”

“There is no need for him to hear of it,” answered Sebastião quickly. “All this should remain between ourselves.”

“So as not to distress him; is it not so?”

“Of course. Then you are not angry with me?” he added, holding out his hand to her almost with timidity.

“I, Sebastião? What folly!”

“I am very glad. I thought it my duty; for, after all, my dear friend, you knew nothing of all this.”

“Far from it.”

“Just so. Good-by, then; I do not wish to trouble you further.” And he added, much moved, “I am always at your service.”

“Good-by, Sebastião. But what a hateful set of people they are! All for having seen that poor fellow enter the house three or four times.”

“Canaille!” replied Sebastião. And he took his leave.

Luiza followed him with her eyes, and when the door had closed behind him, said to herself,—

“What an outrage! This could happen to no one but me!”

In reality, the interference of Sebastião irritated her as much as the gossip of the neighbors. Her manner of life, her visitors, her domestic arrangements, were discussed, noted, by Sebastião, by Julião, by tutti quanti. At twenty-five she had a mentor. It was amusing! And why, good heavens! Because her cousin and only remaining relative came to see her!

But she paused abruptly. The glances of Bazilio, his ardent words, his kisses, the drive to Lumiar, all came back to her memory. She blushed before herself, but her anger still continued to protest. It was true she felt some tenderness for him, but it was a feeling for which she had no cause to blush,—pure, ideal, platonic,—for never should it be any other. She might feel in the depths of her heart a weakness for him, but she would be always, always a virtuous woman, faithful to her husband. This sense of self-security produced in her a feeling of irritation towards the gossips of the neighborhood. Why should they, only because they saw Bazilio enter her house four or five times at two o’clock in the afternoon, begin to gossip about her, and tear her character to pieces? Sebastião was a ridiculous fellow, with all the timorousness of a hermit. What an idea was his to call Julião into consultation! Julião!—he it was who had instigated him by his bourgeois fears to trouble and annoy her. And why? Through envy, because Bazilio was good-looking, elegant, and rich.

The good qualities of Bazilio presented themselves to her imagination as splendid and as numerous as the attributes of a deity. And he adored her, and desired to be always near her! The love of this man, who had tasted of so many pleasures and scorned the affection of so many women, seemed to her the glorious confirmation of her beauty and her irresistible charms. The very pleasure she felt in his adoration of her made her fear to lose it. She feared to see it diminish; she desired to see it rather always increasing, floating around her like a cloud of incense. Could she bear to part from Bazilio? But, on the other hand, if her friends or the neighbors made her the subject of gossip or remark, Jorge might come to know of it. This thought struck a chill to her heart. After all, Sebastião was evidently right. In a small neighborhood, consisting of a dozen houses or so, this handsome and elegant young man visited her every day in the absence of her husband. The matter looked serious. What ought she to do? The bell rang loudly, and a moment later Leopoldina entered. She was furious with the coachman, who had wanted to make her pay double fare because he had been detained on the way. The scoundrel! And how warm it was! She took off her hat and gloves and held up her hands, moving them gently that the blood might flow from them and thus leave them whiter. She arranged her curls before the looking-glass, her cheeks glowing, her perfectly-fitted figure displayed to advantage.

“What is the matter, child?” she said to Luiza. “You look angry; your face is flushed.”

“Nothing,” answered Luiza; “annoyances with the servants.”

“They are insupportable.”

And Leopoldina recounted the exactions of Justina, her carelessness. But she thought herself very fortunate to be able to keep her, since one has need of that class of people. She shrugged her shoulders and sighed. Then, powdering her face, she added slowly,—

“My lord and master is in Campo Grande, and I had an engagement to dine with—” She stopped with a smile, and turning to Luiza said to her frankly, “The truth is, I did not know where to go, and I had no money. The poor fellow, with nothing but his salary, cannot work miracles; and I said to myself, ‘Let us go to see Luiza.’ What have you for dinner—without ceremony, eh?”

“That of course.”

There was the same as always, she added, some delicious veal-cutlets.

“Have you no codfish?” said Leopoldina abruptly.

“There ought to be some. But why this caprice?”

“Tell them to prepare me a morsel. That stupid husband of mine detests codfish. I dote on it, fried, with oil and garlic.”

She stopped, as if some disturbing thought had suddenly occurred to her.

“What is the matter?” asked Luiza.

“That I cannot eat garlic to-day,” she answered. She went into the parlor, laughing, and taking one of Sebastião’s roses, fastened it in her bosom. She would like to have a parlor like this one, she thought, furnished in blue rep, with two large mirrors, and a portrait in oil of herself, full length, the shoulders bare, standing beside an elegant vase. She sat down at the piano and played a few fragments of “Blue-Beard.”

“Have you given orders to prepare the codfish?” she asked Luiza, as the latter entered.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Fried?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks,” she answered, and began to sing with an arch expression her favorite song from the “Grande Duchesse,”—

“Once a grandfather I had,

As the chronicles relate.”

But Luiza thought this music too boisterous; she wanted something sad—sweet—a fado, for instance.

“Yes, the new fado,” answered Leopoldina; “have you heard it? It is charming, and the words are divine.”

She struck a few chords, looked up at the ceiling and sang, keeping time with her head to the music:

“Yesterday a dark-eyed youth

I saw, whose grace and elegance—”

“Have you not heard it, Luiza? There can be nothing more touching; it brings tears to the eyes.”

She resumed with infinite sweetness,—

“His face looks at me from the skies,

And from the mist that veils the sea;

And still his presence do I feel

Beside me, though he absent be.”

“It is ravishing!” Luiza murmured, with a sigh.

Leopoldina finished with an “ah!” on which her voice lingered with inexpressible languor.

Luiza, seated near the piano, inhaled the perfume of new-mown hay which Leopoldina was accustomed to use; the fado and its words inspired her with a gentle melancholy, and her dreamy gaze followed Leopoldina’s slender and agile fingers, covered with rings, as they ran over the keys.

Juliana, dressed in her best, and wearing her new collar, entered the room and announced dinner.

Leopoldina rose. The announcement came in time, for she was dying of hunger. The view from the dining-room, through the open windows of which could be seen the green branches of the trees, the blue horizon flecked with white clouds, charmed her, and she praised it volubly. Her own dining-room was so dreary that it took away her appetite. It looked out on an alley, so that—

She pecked like a bird at the grapes, olives, and candied fruits, and her glance chancing to fall on the portrait of Jorge’s father, she said, unfolding her napkin,—

“How amusing your father-in-law must have been! He has the face of a monkey. What a long time it is since we have dined together!” she added abruptly. “How long ago is it?”

“Not since the year after my marriage,” answered Luiza.

Leopoldina colored slightly. In those days they used to see each other with frequency. Jorge allowed them to go together to shop, to the confectioner’s, to Graça. The recollection of this former intimacy brought to her mind their school-days. She had met Rita Pessara a few days ago, she said, with her nephew.

“Do you remember him?” she asked Luiza.

“Espinafre?”

“Espinafre or not, he was for the pupils of the school a man, an ideal, a hero; the girls all wrote love-letters to him, sent him drawings of hearts pierced by arrows, and ornamented his greasy cap with paper flowers.”

Leopoldina was in the humor for gossip; her glance was animated; she helped herself abundantly; then she took up a morsel here and there on the point of her fork, tasted it, put it down, ate slices of bread and butter. She was exhilarated by these recollections of her school-days. What happy times!

“Do you remember when we quarrelled?”

Luiza could not remember.

“It was because I was jealous of Thereza, on account of your kissing her.”

They spoke of their school-fellows, their quarrels, their reconciliations, Juliana, meantime, taking note of all they said. Her perfidious smile, her flat face, and the metallic tic-tac of her heels gave them an uncomfortable feeling. When she left the room Luiza said to Leopoldina,—

“Take care what you say before her.”

“Ah, yes,” responded Leopoldina, smiling; “you are right; we must remember we are not alone.”

And when Juliana returned with the codfish she rewarded her by a torrent of praises.

“Bravo! Superb! Delicious!”

She touched the codfish with the point of her fork. It was fried a light brown, and fell apart in flakes.

“Now you shall see. You do not like this? You are the loser; it is delicious.”

And she added with decision, “Bring me some garlic, Senhora Juliana, and plenty of it.” And when the servant went out, she added, “I should like to go by-and-by to make a visit, but—so much the worse. Ah, thanks, Juliana,” as the latter returned with the garlic. “There is nothing like garlic.”

She crushed the garlic between her fingers against the plate, and sprinkled the pieces of codfish with oil, with a serious air. “Divine!” she exclaimed.

She filled her glass anew, declaring that this was a holiday. “But what is the matter with you?” she said abruptly, looking at Luiza.

Luiza, in truth, seemed preoccupied. She had more than once smothered a sigh, and on two occasions had risen uneasily from her chair, saying to Juliana,—

“I think the bell rang; go see.”

There was no one at the door.

“Who could ring?” said Leopoldina. “Were you expecting your husband?”

“Oh, no!”

“And your cousin, does he come to see you?”

“Yes,” answered Luiza, blushing; “he has been here several times.”

“Ah! And is he still as handsome as ever?”

“He is not ugly.”

“Ah!”

Luiza hastened to ask her if her check gown was finished yet. She said it had not yet been sent home. They began to speak of gowns, stuffs, shops, purchases. Then the roast meat was brought. Leopoldina’s cheeks were now of a vivid red. She asked Juliana to bring her her fan, and leaning back in her chair, declared she was as happy as a princess. She drank her wine in little sips. What a good idea it had been to dine together!

When Juliana had placed the fruit on the table, Luiza told her that she might retire, and that they would ask for coffee when they wanted it. She went herself and closed the door leading into the parlor, and drew the portière.

“How tiresome that Juliana is!” she said. “I cannot raise my eyes without seeing her. It makes me feel rebellious to see her always beside me!”

“And why do you not dismiss her?”

“Because Jorge does not wish it. If it were not for that—”

“Husbands should have no will of their own,” Leopoldina protested.

She took a bite out of a peach, and declared that she detested men who troubled themselves about the servants, the kitchen, the oil, the vinegar—

“My lord and master weighs the meat!” she added. “But, after all, that suits me, for the very thought of going into the kitchen sickens me.” She sighed. She would have taken more wine, but the bottle was empty.

“Will you have some champagne?” asked Luiza with a laugh. “I have some of a very good brand, that a Spaniard, the proprietor of a mine, sent to Jorge.”

And she herself went to bring the bottle, took off its blue wrapper, and amid bursts of laughter and little cries of affected terror uncorked it. The sight of the foam in their glasses put them both in good-humor, and they looked at the wine with an air of unspeakable well-being.

Leopoldina said she knew exactly how to open champagne, and spoke mysteriously of a certain supper. The Tuesday of Carnival-week two years ago! If she were rich she would drink nothing, she said, but champagne.

Luiza’s tastes were different; her ambition was to have a coupé. They talked of what they would do if they were rich. Luiza’s desire was to travel,—to go to Paris, to Seville, to Rome. The desires of Leopoldina were more ambitious; she wished for a long life, carriages, a box at the theatre, a season at Cintra, suppers, balls, dresses, play. She loved monte, she said, which it made her heart beat to play; and she felt sure that she would adore roulette.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “men are happier than we are. Nature meant me for a man. How well it would have suited me!”

She rose and seated herself lazily in the easy-chair beside the window. Twilight was softly falling; beyond the green plot of ground in front golden clouds fringed with a brilliant red floated in the atmosphere.

“A man may do anything he wishes; nothing he does is criticised. Has it never occurred to you, Luiza, to run away,—but entirely alone?”

Luiza laughed.

“Never!” she replied. “What nonsense!”

Besides, she thought the position of a woman alone in the world horrible, she said,—at hotels hampered by luggage.

“You are right,” returned Leopoldina. “I should like to smoke a cigarette,” she added abruptly.

“Yes; but Juliana might perceive the smell of the smoke, which would have a very unpleasant effect upon her.”

“This is a convent, my dear,” replied Leopoldina. “Your prison is not an ugly one,” she added.

Luiza did not answer. She leaned her head on her hand, her gaze fixed on vacancy, like one absorbed in thought.

“All this is folly,” she said. “The sole reality in this world is to be happy in one’s house with one’s husband and children.”

Leopoldina gave a jump in her chair. “Children!” she exclaimed. She did not want even to speak of them. She thanked God every day of her life for not giving them to her.

“Horrible!” she exclaimed in accents of conviction. “They are a burden,—expense, trouble, sickness. Heaven deliver me from them! When they grow up they stick their noses into every corner; they tell tales. A woman with children is good for nothing; tied hand and foot; without any pleasure in life. Not to speak of how it disfigures a woman,” she continued; “there is no beauty of figure that can resist that. One loses one’s chief attraction. If one were like your friend Donna Felicidade, it would not matter; but when one is tall and well-formed, it is different.”

She rose, displaying her figure airily, in a graceful attitude.

“Thanks,” she said, sitting down again. “We have troubles enough without that one in addition.”

Just then an organ in the street began to play the final aria of “Traviata;” night was falling, and the open ground in front began to take on a uniform grayish tint. The façades of the houses were disappearing in shadow. The notes of the “Traviata” brought to Luiza’s mind the “Dame aux Camelias;” they began to speak of the novel, and to interchange opinions concerning it.

“How deeply I was in love with Armand when I was a girl!” said Leopoldina.

“And I with Artagnan!” responded Luiza, ingenuously.

And they both laughed heartily.

“We began early. Early?” Leopoldina continued. “Every woman begins early. At thirteen we are already in love. We are all of us women, and have the same feelings.” And swaying her body to and fro, while she kept time with her foot, she sang to the air of a fado:—

“Love is like a fever

Whose seeds are in the air;

Open but the window,—

It sets the blood on fire.”

“In a word, it is the best thing life can give us. Everything else is a weariness. Is it not so? What do you say?” she added, rising, and clapping Luiza lightly on the shoulder.

“Yes,” returned Luiza, in a low voice; “I suppose so.”

“You suppose so!” repeated Leopoldina. “How innocent! Look at the angel, the hypocrite!”

The organ in the street began to play a waltz. Leopoldina, who was in the humor for dancing, hummed softly, keeping time with her body. Without doubt she was a graceful woman! She approached the window, looked out at the night falling slowly, and suddenly said with emphasis,—

“Is it in truth worth while to pass privations, to lead the life of an owl, and spend one’s days doing penance, in order some day to get a fever, a sunstroke, or the pneumonia, and be carried to the cemetery of S. João? What a piece of stupidity! What do you say?”

Luiza was disturbed by these remarks. She felt herself blush; and the influences of the hour, together with Leopoldina’s words, produced in her a dangerous languor. Notwithstanding this, she pronounced Leopoldina’s ideas immoral.

“But why immoral?” asked Leopoldina.

Luiza spoke vaguely of duty, of religion. But the word “duty” was displeasing to Leopoldina. If there was anything she disliked to hear spoken of, it was duty.

They were silent. Luiza called for coffee. Juliana entered with the tray, and a light. Shortly afterwards they went into the parlor.

“Do you know who spoke of you to me yesterday?” said Leopoldina to Luiza, leaning back on the divan.

“Who?”

“Castro.”

“What Castro?”

“The one who wears eye-glasses,—the banker.”

“Ah!”

“He is still in love with you.”

“He is a silly fellow,” said Luiza, laughing.

The parlor was dark and the windows were open. The growing darkness and the softness of the air diffused a sense of peace around. At that instant the sound of heavy steps was heard in the street below, and almost at the same moment a flood of light from the gas-lamp on the sidewalk streamed into the room, filling it with a soft brightness.

Leopoldina rose. “What!” she cried; “are they already lighting the gas? And my friend will be waiting for me.”

She went into the dressing-room in the dark to put on her hat and get her parasol. But to go alone,—and so far! If Juliana might accompany her.

“Of course,” answered Luiza.

Luiza rose languidly, breathing a deep sigh; opening the door, she stumbled on the threshold against Juliana.

“Heavens! what a fright you gave me!” she exclaimed.

“I came to see if the ladies wanted a light.”

“No; put on your shawl to accompany the Senhora Leopoldina. Be quick!”

Juliana hurried away.

“When shall I see you again?” asked Luiza.

“As soon as possible,” Leopoldina said. She thought of going to Oporto in a few days to see her Aunt Figueiredo, and afterwards of spending a fortnight in Foz.

The door opened.

“When the senhora is ready,” said Juliana, in her harsh accents.

They embraced each other warmly, and Luiza said in a low voice to Leopoldina,—

“How much I have enjoyed myself!”

When she was alone she opened the blinds, lighted the candles, and began to walk up and down the floor. Presently she seated herself languidly at the piano, and began to sing sotto voce, and with sorrowful intonation, the fado of Leopoldina,—

“And still his presence do I feel

Beside me, though he absent be.”

This picture of solitude and abandonment saddened her. What tedium,—to be always alone! The beauty of the night, warm and tranquil, filled her with a longing to take a romantic walk, or to sit quietly in some garden, her hands clasped together, gazing at the heavens. What a stupid life she led! And Jorge—what an idea to go off to Alemtejo! Her conversation with Leopoldina recurred to her at every moment, and the effects of the champagne began to be felt in the feverish excitement of her blood. The clock in her dressing-room slowly struck nine, and at the same instant the bell rang. She was startled. It was too soon for Juliana to have returned. She listened in agitation; she could hear the sound of voices in conversation on the landing.

Joanna appeared in the doorway.

“Senhora,” she said in a low voice, “it is your cousin, who has come to say good-by.”

“Ask him to come in,” stammered Luiza, suppressing a cry.

Her large eyes were fixed eagerly, and with steadfast gaze, upon the door. The portière was raised, and Bazilio entered, pale and smiling.

“You are going away!” she said, standing in front of him.

“No,” he answered, embracing her,—“no; I thought you would not receive me at this hour, and I invented this pretext.” He pressed her more closely to his breast; she allowed him to do so unresistingly, and their lips met in a kiss.

“My life! my love!”

“You frighten me,” said Luiza, sighing profoundly.

“Is that true?”

Luiza did not answer; little by little she lost the clear perception of things; she felt a drowsy languor stealing over her senses, and murmured faintly,—

“No! no!”

At ten o’clock the bell rang loudly. It was Juliana. She went upstairs to the kitchen, gave a little cough, and said with a smile to Joanna,—

“At what time, then, is the cousin coming to see the mistress?”

“He came this evening, after you went out.”

“Ah!”

She went downstairs with the lamp, and hearing Luiza moving about in her bedroom, “Does the senhora want anything?” she asked with interest.

“No,” responded Luiza.

Juliana went into the parlor; she closed the piano, and walking with stealthy step, glanced eagerly around. Suddenly she paused. At the foot of the sofa she saw something shining on the carpet. It was a brooch of Luiza’s,—an amethyst set in gold. She re-entered Luiza’s bedroom on tiptoe, and placed the trinket on the toilet-table.

“Who is that?” asked the sleepy voice of her mistress from the alcove.

“It is I, Senhora; I was shutting up the parlor. Good-night, Senhora.”

CHAPTER X.

IN THE TOILS.

NEXT morning Juliana entered her mistress’s bedroom with a letter in her hand, saying, with an air of mystery, that a servant from the hotel had brought it, and was waiting downstairs for an answer.

Luiza with a trembling hand opened the large blue envelope, with its monogram, “B. B.,” in purple and gold, surmounting a count’s coronet.

“Very well; there is no answer.”

“There is no answer,” Juliana repeated to the man, who was waiting in the little passage, smoking a cigar and twirling the ends of his black mustache.

“There is no answer? Very well. Charming weather!”

He saluted her stiffly with his hand, and went down the steps, humming a tune.

“Who rang, Senhora Juliana?” the cook asked her.

“It was nothing,” Juliana muttered,—“a message from the dressmaker.”

From this time forth Joanna observed a change in her fellow-servant. When she took her coffee in the kitchen she no longer chatted with the cook as before; she seemed preoccupied, as if her thoughts were in some other place. Joanna was so struck by this that she even asked her,—

“Do you feel worse, Senhora Juliana?”

“I? Thank God, I never felt better.”

“You are always so silent!”

“Thoughts that I have here within my head. One is not always in the humor for talking.”

As she was shaking out the skirt of the gown her mistress had worn the day before, her hand came in contact with a paper in the pocket. It was the letter Luiza had written to Bazilio:—

“Why do you not come? If you knew what you make me suffer—”

There was an instant during which Juliana silently bit her lip, and gazed at the letter fixedly, with greedy looks. Finally she put it back again into the pocket. She folded the gown and laid it carefully on the tête-à-tête. Then, hearing the cuckoo-clock striking, she went to call Luiza, saying in mellifluous accents,—

“It is half-past ten, Senhora.”

Luiza, still in bed, had read and re-read Bazilio’s letter. He could wait no longer, he wrote, to tell her that he adored her. He could not sleep. He had risen with the dawn to tell her that he was madly in love with her, and that he placed his life at her feet.

He had composed this letter at three o’clock in the morning, in the Gremio, after a few rubbers of whist, a beefsteak, two glasses of beer, and a glance at the “Illustração;” and he ended it by saying:—

“Let others desire fortune, fame, honors; I desire only you! Only you, dearest, because you are the only tie that attaches me to life; and if to-morrow I should lose your love, I swear to you that I would put an end to this useless existence with a bullet.”

He called for more beer, and laid the letter aside in order to date it at his hotel and put it into an envelope bearing his monogram, because that always had a better effect.

Luiza sighed, and kissed the paper devoutly! It was the first time he had employed these expressions of tenderness in writing to her, and her pride expanded in the warmth of the affection they breathed, as the pores of the body open in the warmth of an aromatic bath. She was conscious of an increase of affection on her own part, and she felt she was entering at last on a more interesting existence, in which each hour had its own peculiar charm, in which every step led to a new transport, and in which the soul was steeped in a blissful wealth of sensations.

She sprang from bed, hastily put on her dressing-gown, and raised the window-shades. What a beautiful morning! It was one of those days at the end of August in which summer seems to pause, reluctant to depart. There was a stillness in the warm air, and a certain autumnal tranquillity in the light; the sun sent down his rays in unclouded splendor, and the blue of the firmament shone with a limpid brightness; one could breathe more freely, and the passers-by did not manifest the depressing languor that had ushered in the summer. She anticipated a few hours of happiness; she felt joyous; she had slept with a peaceful sleep the whole night through, and all the agitation and the impatience of the past days seemed to have vanished during that repose. She looked at herself in the glass, and saw that her complexion was clearer, fresher, that there was a humid tenderness in her glance. Perhaps what Leopoldina had said was true,—“that there was nothing like a spice of wickedness for making one beautiful.” She had a lover! Motionless in the middle of the room, her arms folded, her gaze fixed, she repeated to herself, “I have a lover!” She recalled the scene in the parlor last night, and those periods of silence in which life seemed to pause, while the eyes in the portrait of Jorge’s mother—eyes whose blackness was enhanced by the pallor of the countenance in which they were set—gazed at her from the wall with the fixed gaze of a portrait. At this moment Juliana entered the room with a basket of freshly-ironed linen. It was time to dress.

What care she bestowed upon her toilet that morning! She perfumed herself with eau-de-Lubin; she selected the finest of her embroidered wrappers. And how she longed to be rich! She desired to possess finer linen, more elegant furniture, costly jewels, a coupé lined with satin. For in impressionable temperaments the joys of the heart have a tendency to round and complete themselves with the sensualisms of luxury. The first fault of the hitherto innocent soul prepares the way for graver transgressions, as the thief who steals into the house he designs to rob unscrupulously opens the doors to his ravenous followers.

At the hour of breakfast she appeared in the dining-room, looking cool and fresh in her white morning-gown; Juliana hastened to close the blinds. She waited on her at table with tenderness, and seeing that she was eating a great many figs, said to her, almost with tears in her eyes,—

“They will hurt you, Senhora.”

She hovered noiselessly around her, a servile smile on her lips. She seemed to regard her with pride, as if she were a dear and precious being, all her own, her little mistress; while in her mind she said, glancing askance at her,—

“Ah, you cunning fox!”

Luiza threw herself on the sofa after breakfast to look over the “Diario de Noticias,” but she could not read. Remembrances of the night before surged up in her soul at every moment. She remained motionless, her humid gaze fixed, feeling those remembrances vibrate slowly and softly along the chords of her memory. The recollection of Jorge had not yet abandoned her; his spirit had hovered over her since the night before, but it neither tormented nor frightened her. It was there, but motionless, causing her neither fear nor remorse. It was as if he had died, or as if he were so far away that he could not return, or had abandoned her. She was terrified to find herself so tranquil; but she grew impatient at perceiving that this idea remained constant in her spirit, impassable, with the obstinacy of a spectre; and she instinctively nought to justify herself. Then she thought of Bazilio. She resolved to answer his letter, and went to the study. On entering it her glance fell on Jorge’s portrait, life size, in its black enamelled frame. A shudder passed through her; she felt chilled to the heart, as if she had suddenly descended into a vault out of the warm sunshine; she let her eyes dwell on his waving locks, on his black beard, on his dotted necktie, on the two swords placed crosswise over the portrait. If he were to know of it he would kill her!

She turned pale; she looked vaguely around her; his gun hung on the wall; the rug in which he wrapped his feet lay folded in a corner; on a table at the farther end of the room were his large sheets of drawing-paper, his tobacco-canister, and his pistol-case. He would assuredly kill her! The room was so pervaded by Jorge’s personality that she felt as if he might return at any moment and enter it. What if he should return without writing to let her know! It was three days since she had received a letter from him, and perhaps now, while she was here writing to her lover, the other might appear before her and surprise her at her task. But it was folly to think it. The steamer from Barreiro did not arrive till five o’clock; and besides, he had Said in his last letter that he would probably remain in Alemtejo a month longer. She sat down at the table, took a sheet of paper, and began to write, in her somewhat large hand, “MY ADORED BAZILIO.”

But an importunate terror seized upon her; she felt something like a presentiment that Jorge would come home and suddenly appear before her in the study. She rose, went slowly to the parlor, and sat down on the sofa; then, as if the recollections of the night before had inspired her with the courage of a guilty love, she returned with decision to the library, and wrote rapidly:—

“You cannot imagine with what joy I received your letter this morning—”

The rusty pen refused to write. She dipped it once more in the ink and shook it, making, through the trembling of her hand, a dark blot on the paper This disturbed her, for it seeming to her a bad omen. She hesitated a moment, and resting her elbows on the table, leaned her head in her hands, listening to Juliana as she swept the pavement outside, humming the “Carta Adorada.” Finally she tore up the letter with impatience into little bits; and threw them into a varnished box with two metal handles which stood beside the table, and into which Jorge threw old and useless papers; they called it the sarcophagus. Juliana was certainly careless in emptying it, Luiza thought, for it was overflowing with papers. She took another sheet and began again:—

“MY ADORED BAZILIO,—You cannot imagine what I felt when I received your letter this morning on rising—”

The door opened discreetly, and Juliana said from the threshold,—

“The seamstress is here, Senhora.” Luiza, startled, hid the letter with her hand.

“Let her wait,” she answered.

And she continued writing, when Juliana had gone:

“What a pity it was the letter and not you yourself that came! I am astonished at myself,—to see how, in so short a time, you have taken possession of my heart. But the truth is that I never ceased to love you. Do not judge lightly of me for this; do not think ill of me because I desire your affection. I never ceased to love you, and on seeing you again after that stupid journey to a place so far away, I could not conquer the feeling that impelled me towards you, my adored Bazilio. When that hateful servant came to tell me that you had come to say farewell, I was as if paralyzed; but when I learned that this was not the truth, I cannot tell you how I adored you! If you had asked my life, I would have given it to you, for I love you so much that I myself am amazed at it. But why that piece of deception? Why did you come? I wished to bid you farewell forever, but I could not, adored Bazilio. This feeling is stronger than I am. I always loved you, and now that I am yours, heart and soul, it seems to me that I love you more than ever, if that were possible—”

“Where is she? where is she?” cried a voice in the parlor.

Luiza sprang up from her seat, livid. “It is Jorge!” she thought. She crushed the letter convulsively in her hand, and tried to hide it in her pocket, but there was none in her morning-gown. Without stopping to think, and half distracted, she threw it into the sarcophagus. She remained standing, waiting in suspense, her hands resting on the table.

The portière was raised, and disclosed the blue velvet hat of Donna Felicidade.

“Shut up here? What were you doing? But what is the matter? You are as white as chalk.”

Luiza dropped into the arm-chair, pale and cold, and answered with a languid smile,—

“I was writing, and I had an attack of faintness.”

“Ah, I am the one for fainting,” said Donna Felicidade. “It is a real misfortune. The moment least expected I am obliged to catch hold of the furniture to keep from falling; and I am even afraid to go out alone. It all comes from biliousness.”

“Let us go to my room,” said Luiza; “we shall be more comfortable there.”

They traversed the parlor. Juliana was beginning to put it in order. Luiza, in passing, noticed some ashes on the marble of the console, under the oval mirror; it had been left there the night before by his cigar. She wiped it away, and on raising her eyes was frightened to see how pale she was.

The seamstress, dressed in black, with a bright red hat, was waiting, seated on the edge of the sofa, with her disconsolate air, and her bundle resting on her knees. She had come to try on the waist of a gown she was making over. She sat down and basted it, with an expression of sorrowful humility, and a little dry cough; and scarcely had she gone, gliding out like a shadow, when Donna Felicidade began to speak of him,—of the counsellor. She had seen him at the Moinho de Vento. Well, he had not spoken to her. He bowed to her very coldly, markedly so, indeed, and left her so suddenly that one might suppose he was running away from her. She asked Luiza what she thought of that. Ah, this indifference was killing her. And she could not understand it,—no, truly, she could not understand it.

“In short,” she exclaimed, “I know very well what I am. I am no beauty, but neither am I, on the other hand, a scarecrow,—is it not so?”

“It is, indeed,” assented Luiza, absently, her thoughts fixed on the letter.

“Look at me, as I sit here, with my forty years [by her own account, in reality fifty]. I am still worth something. As for my neck and shoulders, they are as good as any one’s.”

Luiza was about to rise, but Donna Felicidade repeated,—

“Yes, as good as any one’s! How many there are who would like to own them!”

“I believe it,” responded Luiza, smiling vaguely.

“And he is no boy, either.”

“No.”

“But he is very well preserved.” And her eyes shone. “He might still make a woman very happy.”

“Very.”

“A very interesting man,” sighed Donna Felicidade.

“Wait an instant,” interrupted Luiza. “I am going inside; I will be back in a moment.”

“Go, child, go!”

Luiza ran to the library, and went straight to the sarcophagus. It was empty! And her letter! Good Heavens! Terrified, she called Juliana.

“Did you throw away the papers in this box?” she asked.

“Yes, Senhora, I emptied it,” Juliana answered tranquilly. And she added, with an air of interest, “Why? Has the senhora lost anything?”

Luiza turned pale.

“Yes; a paper I threw into the box. Where did you put the papers?”

“In the rubbish-basket, as usual. I did not suppose there was anything of any use among them.”

“Ah! I will see if it is there.”

And Luiza went quickly upstairs to the kitchen. Juliana followed her, saying,—

“It was just this instant; it is not five minutes ago. The box was so full. I went to put the library in order. Good Heavens! if the senhora had only told me!”

But the rubbish-basket was empty; Joanna had just that moment emptied it in the drain. Seeing Luiza’s disquietude, the cook asked her,—

“Has the senhora lost anything?”

“A paper,” Luiza answered, very pale, looking around her on the floor.

“It might have fallen from the basket outside,” Juliana suggested, hesitatingly.

“Go; go see, Joanna!” said Luiza, with a gleam of hope.

Juliana appeared distressed.

“Heavens! if I had only known it! Why did not the senhora tell me?” she said.

“Well, well, it is no fault of yours.”

“I am very much distressed about it. Was it anything of importance, Senhora?”

“No; it was a bill.”

“Good Heavens!”

Joanna returned, smoothing out a crumpled paper.

Luiza snatched it from her, and read: “The diameter of the first pit to be explored.”

“No; this is not it,” she exclaimed with an air of vexation.

“Then it has been thrown into the drain, Senhora.”

“Did you search well for it?”

“I have done so thoroughly.”

And Juliana added, in the greatest distress,—

“I would rather have lost ten tostões. If I could only have guessed it!”

“No matter, no matter,” murmured Luiza, with apparent tranquillity. But she was secretly terrified; a vague suspicion tormented her. She suddenly remembered the letter she had written to Bazilio the day before, and which she had crumpled up and put into the pocket of her gown. She returned to her room very much agitated. Donna Felicidade had taken off her hat, and was comfortably seated on the tête-à-tête.

“You must excuse my absence,” she said to her.

“Of course, of course, child. What was the matter?”

“I have lost a bill,” said Luiza.

She went to the wardrobe, and found the letter in her pocket. This reassured her; doubtless her other letter had been thrown into the drain. But how imprudent she had been!

“Well, there is nothing more to be done about it,” she said, seating herself resignedly.

Donna Felicidade, lowering her voice to a confidential tone, at once began,—

“I have come to speak to you about something. It is a secret.”

Luiza was startled.

“You know,” continued Donna Felicidade, very slowly, and dwelling on each word, “that my servant Josefa is going to be married to the young man who goes on errands for me. The man is from Tuy, and he says that in his part of the country there is a woman who has a gift for making marriages which is truly miraculous. He says there is nothing for it,—that as soon as the cards are dealt for a man, he conceives for the woman who causes it to be done so violent a passion that the marriage is arranged immediately, and the greatest happiness follows.”

Luiza, reassured, smiled.

“Listen,” continued Donna Felicidade; “don’t begin now with your usual objections.”

In the solemn accents of Donna Felicidade there was a note of superstitious respect.

“He says she has wrought miracles,” she continued; “men who had abandoned girls after deceiving them, others who neglected their sweethearts, husbands who had ceased to care for their wives,—in a word, in every case of the kind it operates with magic speed. The man first grows melancholy, then enamoured, and ends by being madly in love with the woman he has scorned. The man has told me all about it, and I have resolved at once—”

“To employ this magic charm with the counsellor,” said Luiza.

“What do you think of it?” returned Donna Felicidade.

Luiza burst out laughing. Donna Felicidade was almost angry.

“Among other instances I might mention two in which the magic virtue of the spell acted in a striking manner. But the servant,” she continued, growing excited, “says that in order to go to his native place and speak with this woman it is necessary to take the likeness of the counsellor with him, and mine also; and for going there, consulting her, and returning, he demands seven pieces of silver.”

“Oh, Donna Felicidade!” exclaimed Luiza, reprovingly.

“Hush! don’t begin now with your objections. Heaven grant that I may be another instance of her miraculous powers!” And straightening herself, “But those seven pieces of silver—seven pieces of silver!” she exclaimed, with wide-open eyes.

Juliana appeared at the door, and said in a low voice, with a smile,—

“Will the senhora do me the favor to come here a moment?”

Luiza followed her into the hall.

“This letter,” she said, “has just come from the hotel.”

Luiza turned crimson.

“Very well,” she answered; “but there is no need of all this mystery.”

She did not return to the room immediately, however. Presently she tore open the envelope. The letter was written in haste, and with a pencil.

When she had read the letter, which was from Bazilio, she rejoined Donna Felicidade, making an effort to appear composed.

“What is your opinion?” asked the latter, completely absorbed in her idea. “Do you think I ought to send this man to Tuy?”

Luiza shrugged her shoulders; she was seized with a sudden contempt for those plots and magic arts employed in the service of a decrepit love. Beside the poetical superiority of her own romantic intrigue there was to her something repugnant in this senile sentimentalism.

“Follies!” she said, with an accent of profound disdain.

“Oh, my dear, don’t say that to me!” responded Donna Felicidade, disconsolately.

“Very well, then; send him, send him,” said Luiza, impatiently.

“But those seven pieces of silver!” exclaimed Donna Felicidade, almost weeping.

“For a husband, it seems to me cheap.”

“And if the cards deceive?”

“Then it is dear.”

Donna Felicidade exhaled a profound sigh. She was very unhappy. This struggle between the impulses of the heart and the counsels of economy made her suffer intensely. Luiza was sorry for her, and said to her, as she took one of her gowns from the wardrobe, “Never mind it, my dear; those magic arts will not be necessary.”

Donna Felicidade raised her eyes towards heaven.

“Are you going out?” she asked Luiza in a melancholy voice. And she proposed to her that they should go together to the Encarnação; they would call to see poor Donna Ana Silveira, who was afflicted with a boil; and they could also take a look at the preparations being made in the chapel, where they were about to use for the first time a new altar-front exquisitely carved.

“I should like to make the stations for the relief of my indigestion,” she added, sighing.

Luiza agreed; she felt a desire to see altars blazing with lights, to hear the murmur of the prayers in the choir, as if devout phrases were in harmony with the sentimental mood of her spirit. She began to dress herself quickly.

“How plump you are!” exclaimed Donna Felicidade, looking at her bare neck and shoulders in surprise.

Luiza looked at herself smilingly in the glass, pleased with the graceful contours of her figure, and with the fineness and whiteness of her skin.

“I am rather plump,” she said.

“Plump! you are getting to be like a ball,” said her friend; and she added enviously, “Look at you with your dresses, with a husband like yours, with everything you want, and without a single care!”

“Come,” said Luiza, banteringly, “your troubles do not seem to make you thin.”

“But they affect me, nevertheless,” she said disconsolately, as if she were weighed down under the burden of her cares. “Everything inside is in a deplorable condition,—my stomach, my liver.”

“If the woman of Tuy works a miracle, they will be as good as new again.”

Donna Felicidade smiled, with an expression of mingled doubt and sadness.

“Do you know that I have a charming hat?” suddenly exclaimed Luiza. “Have you seen it?”

She went to the wardrobe and took it out. It was of straw, adorned with myosotis.

“What do you think of it?” she asked.

“It is beautiful!”

Luiza looked at it, giving the little blue flowers a touch with her fingers here and there.

“It makes one feel cool to look at it,” said Donna Felicidade.

“Does it not? Try it on.”

The elder woman put it on carefully, with a serious air.

“It is very becoming to me,” said Luiza.

“Bazilio will find you charming in it,” replied her friend.

At this unexpected mention of Bazilio’s name a sudden ecstasy of happiness took possession of Luiza. Everything seemed to her delightful,—to exist, to go out, to visit the Encarnação, to think of her lover,—and she went about as if she floated on air, without even feeling the weight of her own person. Where had she left her keys? She wanted them to get something she needed. On the bureau? Perhaps. She went to see. She ran out, giddy with happiness, singing,—

“Amici, la notte è bella.

La ra, la ra.”

She nearly stumbled over Juliana, who was sweeping the dining-room.

“Do not forget to iron my embroidered petticoat for to-morrow, Juliana,” she said to her.

“No, Senhorita; it is already starched.” And following her with a ferocious glance, “Yes, sing,” she said; “sing, accursed one; sing, vile woman!”

She herself, seized with a sudden fit of merriment, rapidly giving the floor a few light strokes of the broom, began to sing in shrill accents,—

“Day after to-morrow the campaign begins again,

They say here; if it be not an idle tale.”

And she added with emphatic intonation, “I shall be very happy!”

On the following day, at about two o’clock in the afternoon, Sebastião and Julião were walking in S. Pedro de Alcantara. Sebastião had just given his companion an account of his interview with Luiza, adding that since then his estimation for her had increased. At first, indeed, she had been very angry; but she was excusable for being so. It was a mistake to take her by surprise, as he had done. But when the poor child had had time for reflection she had shown herself very much distressed, very jealous of her honor. She had asked his advice with tears in her eyes.

“I thought afterwards that it would be better to speak to the cousin, and tell him what is going on. What do you think?”

“Yes,” returned Julião, vaguely.

He had been listening to Sebastião abstractedly, biting the end of his cigar. His countenance, of a clay-like pallor, looked still more sombre than usual.

“Do you think I have done right? Tell me,” Sebastião continued. And after a pause, “She is a virtuous woman in the fullest sense of the word, Julião,” he added.

They remained silent. The day was cloudy, and there were signs of a coming tempest in the air. Large clouds, heavy and gray, had been gathering in the heavens, and now darkened the horizon in the direction of Graça; a creeping wind came from time to time from behind the hills, setting the leaves of the trees in motion.

“You are now convinced of that,” resumed Sebastião. “Is it not so?”

Julião shrugged his shoulders, and a melancholy smile passed over his lips.

“What would I not give if my troubles were like yours!” he said.

And he then began to speak with bitterness of his own anxieties. Within a week the examinations for the place of a substitute in the School were to take place, and he was preparing for it. It was the plank on which he hoped to escape shipwreck, he said. If he could obtain that position he would be able to make a name afterwards, and get sufficient practice to enable him to live,—perhaps, after a time, to amass a fortune. And what the deuce! At least he would not have to go out. But the certainty of his own superiority did not tranquillize him, for in Portugal,—was it not so?—in these matters, science, study, talent, are all a farce if one has not influence, and he had none. And his competitor, an ignorant fellow, was the nephew of a director-general, had acquaintances in the Chamber, was in fact a formidable opponent. So that while he worked hard to pass the examination, he was also seeking a wedge with which to displace his adversary. To whom should he apply?

“Do you know no one, Sebastião?” he asked.

Sebastião thought of a cousin of his, a deputy from Alemtejo, a person of importance among the conservatives. If Julião wished, he would speak to him. But he had always heard it said that nothing was obtained in the School by favor or by intrigues. Besides, Julião had at his disposal Counsellor Accacio.

“An idiot,” said Julião; “a bombastic fool! Who pays any attention to him? Your cousin, eh? Your cousin seems to me a good idea. It is necessary that some one should speak in my favor,—should work for me.”

He was going on to explain his thesis, when Sebastião interrupted him, saying,—

“Here she comes!”

“Who, Luiza?”

Luiza was in fact just then passing by, dressed in black. She responded to the salutation of the two gentlemen with a smile, waving an adieu to them in some confusion.

Sebastião, motionless, following her devoutly with his eyes, said,—

“If that does not breathe of purity! God be with you, virtuous creature! God be with you!”

CHAPTER XI.

A LOYAL FRIEND.

AS soon as Luiza began to go out regularly every day, Juliana said to herself,—

“Good; now I am certain, when she goes out, that it is to meet that coxcomb.”

And her attitude towards her mistress became more servile than ever. She ran joyfully, with an obsequious smile upon her lips, to open the door for Luiza when she returned home at five o’clock. And what zeal in her service! What exactitude! If a button were wanting in a garment, if a bill had been mislaid, it was, “A thousand pardons, Senhora; forgive me this once,” followed by the humblest lamentations. She interested herself, with real devotion, in the matter of Luiza’s health, of her clothing, of what she ought to eat. Since her mistress had begun to go out daily, Juliana’s work had increased; she was obliged to iron every day; she was often obliged to wash stockings and cuffs till eleven o’clock at night, or even later.

At six o’clock in the morning, and sometimes still earlier, she was already with the smoothing-iron in her hand. Yet she did not complain. On the contrary, she would say to Joanna, when washing or ironing,—

“It is a pleasure to look at so elegant a lady. Will you believe me,—I can almost say that this gives me pleasure? And then, thank God! I have good health now, and work has never frightened me.”

She no longer criticised her mistress; she affirmed repeatedly,—

“The senhora is a saint. I have never seen any one better.”

Her countenance lost something of its bilious hue, and of its bitter contraction.

At times at dinner, or sewing in the evening, by the light of the kerosene lamp, a sudden smile would cross her face, and her glance would kindle with a genial light.

“The Senhora Juliana seems to be thinking of something pleasant,” Joanna would say to her.

“The procession is going on inside, Senhora Joanna,” she would answer, with an air of satisfaction.

To such a degree was her envious nature apparently changed, that she even spoke with indifference of a silk gown which the professor’s Gertrudes had worn for the first time on a certain holiday in September. All she said was,—

“The day will come when I too shall be able to wear silk gowns, and fine ones,—gowns made by a dressmaker.”

And by other words like these she betrayed her hopes in a time that was drawing near. Joanna went so far as to say to her,—

“Does the Senhora Juliana, then, expect a legacy?”

“Perhaps,” she answered dryly.

And, notwithstanding, she detested Luiza more and more every day. When she saw her in the morning adorning herself, perfuming herself with Cologne-water, looking at herself in the mirror, going about singing, she would leave the room, for she was seized with a fit of hatred, and she feared to betray herself. She hated her for her dresses, for her fine linen, on account of the man she went to meet, on account of all her comforts and pleasures. When Luiza left the house she would stand at the window gazing after her as she walked up the street, exclaiming,—

“Amuse yourself, wanton, amuse yourself! My day, too, will surely come!”

Luiza did, in fact, amuse herself. She went out every day at two in the afternoon. The neighbors would say to one another, as they watched her,—

“The engineer’s wife has her S. Miguel now.”

Hardly had she turned the corner than the council would meet to sit in judgment on her. They held it for certain that she went to meet a gentleman. But where? This was the constant theme of the coal-vender.

“At a hotel,” Paula said on one of these occasions. “There is a great deal of scandalous work going on in the hotels of Lisbon.”

The keeper of the tobacco-shop grew indignant: “A lady who had always been so virtuous!”

“A cow let loose can easily take care of herself, Senhora Helena,” Paula growled. “Women are all the same.”

“Not all; for I have always been an honest woman,” the keeper of the tobacco-shop protested.

“And I,” added the coal-vender. “No one has anything to say against me.”

“I speak of high society, of ladies, of those who wear silks; it is a class that has gone to perdition. I know very well what I am speaking about;” and he added, with an air of gravity, “There is more morality among the people; the people are a different race.”

And with his hands buried in his pockets, and his legs wide apart, he remained lost in thought, his head bent down, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Sebastião, who had remained nearly a fortnight at his villa in Almada, was terrified when, on his return, Aunt Joanna told him that Luiza left her house every day at two o’clock, and that the cousin had not returned there. Gertrudes had told her of it, and the neighbors talked of nothing else.

“Then a poor lady cannot even go to the shops to buy what she wants,” exclaimed Sebastião. “Gertrudes is a shameless creature; and I don’t know, Aunt Joanna, how you can consent that she should put her foot in this house, with her vile slanders.”

“No, you are unjust,” Joanna answered, angry in her turn. “The poor woman only repeats what she hears in the street. She defended her,—she defended her with obstinacy. But the neighbors say it, and every one repeats it, and if they say it—”

Sebastião, recovering his serenity, replied,—

“But who are those who say it, Aunt Joanna?”

“Who are they? Every one in the neighborhood says it; every one in the neighborhood,—every one in the neighborhood,” she repeated with emphasis.

Sebastião was confounded. Every one in the neighborhood! Perhaps, then, it was true! She went out every day now, and when Jorge was at home she hardly ever left the house. The neighbors, who had gossiped about the visits of the other one, began to make remarks about her going out. This would injure her reputation. And he could do nothing. Should he go and warn her? What for? To have another scene like the former one? That could not be. He tried to see her,—not that he wished to touch on this matter at all; he only wanted to see her. She was not at home. He returned two days later. Juliana said to him at the door, with her nauseously sweet smile,—

“She left the house a moment ago; she went in the direction of the Patriarchal.”

At last he met her one day at the head of the street of S. Roque.

Luiza appeared very much pleased at seeing him.

“Why did you remain so long in Almada? What a desertion!” she said.

He told her the carpenters had been there, that it was indispensable to superintend the work, and that he had, in truth, found it somewhat tiresome.

“Jorge writes that he will be obliged to remain away some time longer,” Luiza said; “I begin to lose patience, now. Without Julião, without the counsellor, without any one—”

Donna Felicidade was the only person who went to see her occasionally, and then only to stay a moment. She was always now at the Encarnação. Those pious people—

And she burst into a laugh.

Where was she going now? Sebastião asked her.

“To make some purchases, and afterwards to the dressmaker’s.”

“Come to see me, Sebastião,” she added.

“I will.”

“In the evening I am always alone.”

That same afternoon Sebastião received a letter from Jorge. “Have you seen Luiza?” it said. He was uneasy because he had not heard from her for five days. “And then,” it continued, “she seems to be always very busy, and writes only half a dozen lines, as the mail is just leaving. Go tell the mail to wait. What the deuce! She complains that she is lonely, that she is ennuyée, that all her friends have abandoned her, that she lives in a desert. Go bear her company,” etc.

On the following day, towards evening, Sebastião went to see her. She made her appearance dressed in white, and looking very much flushed, as if she had been crying. She had reached home much tired, and had fallen asleep on the sofa after dinner. And what news was there? she asked. They spoke of the work done at Almada, of the counsellor, of Julião, and then they were silent. There was something that retained the words unspoken on the lips of both.

Luiza then lighted the candles on the piano; she showed Sebastião the new music she was practising,—the “Medjé” of Gounod; there was a phrase in it in which she always found some difficulty. She asked Sebastião to play it over for her; and, standing beside the piano, keeping time with her foot, she accompanied, in a low voice, the music, to which the skilful execution of Sebastião gave a touching charm. She wished to try it after him; but found the same difficulty as before, and she went and sat down on the sofa, saying,—

“I hardly ever play now; my fingers are beginning to grow stiff.”

Sebastião did not venture to ask for her Cousin Bazilio. Luiza did not even mention his name; and Sebastião, seeing in this reserve either a diminution of friendship or a remnant of displeasure on her part, said that he was obliged to go to a meeting of the General Society of Agriculture. He went away very much grieved. Every day that passed brought with it some new annoyance. Sometimes it was Aunt Joanna, who would say to him in the afternoon,—

“Luizinha went out again to-day. With this heat, that is dangerous for her health.”

Again it was the council of the neighbors, whom he saw, from a distance, gathered together, and who were, to a certainty, tearing to pieces the poor girl’s reputation. It seemed to him a repetition of the aria of the Calumnia in the “Barber of Seville.” The voice of slander, at first soft as a zephyr, rises in a terrible crescendo, until it bursts forth all at once like a clap of thunder. He took a roundabout way so as not to have to meet the eyes of Paula and the keeper of the tobacco-shop. He was ashamed of every one. He chanced to meet Teixeira Azevedo, who said to him,—

“Has not Jorge come home yet? What the deuce! Does he intend to remain away forever?”

And this trivial remark filled him with terror. At last he went one day to look for Julião. He found him in his room in his shirt-sleeves, and in slippers, uncombed, with a coffee-pot beside him. The dirty floor was strewn with cigar-ends. Books were lying open on the unmade bed, and on all sides were signs of great disorder.

At his entrance Julião straightened himself up; he shook himself, rolled a cigarette, and said that he had been at work since seven o’clock in the morning. Ah, it was a fine thing to work! He would like to see how the Senhor Sebastião would stand it!

“For the rest, you have come just in time. I was about to send a message to your house. I was to have received money, and it has not come. Give me a libra.”

And then he began to speak about his thesis. The thing was turning out well. He read paragraphs to Sebastião from the prologue, with paternal delectation, well pleased with his labor. In a burst of confidence resulting from his excitement he said, taking rapid strides up and down the room,—

“I am going to show them that there are still Portuguese in Portugal, Sebastião. I am going to open their eyes; you shall see.”

He sat down and began to number the sheets already written. Sebastião, reluctant to disturb with private anxieties these lofty scientific interests, said hesitatingly, and in a low voice,—

“I have come to talk to you about our friends.”

But the door opened suddenly, and a young man with a neglected-looking beard and weak eyes entered the room. He was a student at the School, and a friend of Julião. Almost immediately they recommenced a discussion which they had begun in the morning, and which had been interrupted at eleven o’clock, at which hour the young man with the weak eyes was obliged to go to Aurea to breakfast.

“No, my dear fellow, no!” exclaimed the student, “I hold to my assertion. Medicine is only a half-science; physiology is another half-science; they are both conjectural sciences, because their foundation—which is a knowledge of the principle of life—eludes our research.”

And standing before Sebastião with folded arms, he added,—

“What do we know of the principle of life?”

Sebastião, with a sense of humiliation, lowered his eyes; but Julião grew indignant.

“You are demoralized by the vitalist doctrine, unhappy man!” he cried. “A theory which pretends that the laws which govern matter are not the same as those which govern life is a scientific heresy, and Bichat, who teaches it, an idiot.”

“Bah!” cried the student, beside himself with anger.

To call Bichat an idiot,—that was indeed idiocy. But Julião treated the insult with contempt, and continued excitedly,—

“What does the principle of life matter to us? It matters as much to me as the first shirt I put on. The principle of life is like every other principle,—a secret of which we must remain forever in ignorance. We cannot know the principle of anything. Life, death, the origin of things, the purpose of them, are mysteries, are first causes with which we have nothing to do, absolutely nothing. We may continue the struggle for centuries, without advancing a step. The physiologist, the chemist, have nothing to do with the principles of things. What concerns them are phenomena. Very well, then. Phenomena and their proximate causes, my dear friend, may be determined with as much exactness in regard to dead matter as in regard to the living body; in regard to a stone, as in regard to a man. That physiology and medicine are sciences as exact as the science of chemistry has been proved from the time of Descartes.”

Then they began an incidental dispute about Descartes, and all at once, without Sebastião, who listened in amazement, being able to discover the connection, they attacked each other fiercely about the idea of God. The student seemed to have need of God in order to explain the universe; but Julião attacked God with rage. He called him an “outworn hypothesis,” an “antiquated fable of the Miguelist party.” And then they attacked each other like two fighting cocks on the socialist question. The student, with bloodshot eyes, and bringing down his clenched fist upon the table with violence, sustained the principle of authority. Julião cried out in defence of “individual anarchy,” and after quoting with fury from Proudhon, Bastiat, and Jouffroy, they descended to the arena of personalities. Julião, who dominated the other by reason of the superior loudness of his voice, reminded the student roughly of his six-percent bonds, and of the absurdity of the position of the son of humble parents with aristocratic aspirations. At this they cast glances of hatred and contempt at each other, and shortly afterwards the student, letting fall a few disdainful words about Claude Bernard, the dispute was renewed again in all its former violence.

Sebastião took up his hat.

“Good-by,” he said to Julião, in a low voice.

“Good-by, Sebastião, good-by,” returned Julião, promptly.

He accompanied him to the head of the stairs.

“Ah, when do you think I had better speak to my cousin?” said Sebastião in a low voice.

“Ah, yes; we shall see; I will think about it,” returned Julião with an air of indifference, as if his pride in his labors had dissipated his fear of being treated with injustice.

Sebastião went downstairs in silence, thinking it useless to say anything to Julião now. But an idea suddenly presented itself to his mind. What if he were to speak to Donna Felicidade, to consult with her frankly? Donna Felicidade, it is true, was not very wise, but she was a woman of mature years, and she was a friend of Luiza. She had more influence with her, besides being possessed of more tact. He made up his mind to do so, called a carriage, and drove to the street of S. Bento. The servant of Donna Felicidade made her appearance at the door, tearful and disconsolate.

“But do you not know what has happened?” she said.

“No.”

“Ah, it seems impossible!”

“But what is it?”

The mistress—such a misfortune!—had dislocated her foot at the Encarnação. She had been ill, very ill; she was now staying at the Encarnação,—on the ground floor; she was unable to go upstairs. She was with the Senhora Donna Ana Silveira. Such a misfortune! And she was so distressed about it!

“And when did it happen?”

“The day before yesterday, in the evening.”

Sebastião sprang into the carriage and ordered the driver to go with all speed to Luiza’s. So Donna Felicidade was ill, at the Encarnação. Luiza, then, might well go out every day. She went, no doubt, to see her friend, to bear her company, to chat with her. The neighbors to gossip so wickedly, when the poor girl went to see her sick friend! It was two o’clock when the carriage stopped at Luiza’s door. Sebastião met her coming down the steps, dressed in black, with her veil down.

“Ah, come in, Sebastião, come in; won’t you come in?” she said.

“No; many thanks. I came to tell you,—do you not know that Donna Felicidade—”

“What about her?”

“She has dislocated her foot; she is very ill.”

“What do you tell me, Sebastião!”

Sebastião gave her all the details.

“You should go to see her,” he added.

“I will go there now.”

“I cannot go, for they do not allow men to enter the Encarnação. How unfortunate! They say she is very ill.”

He accompanied her to the corner of the street, giving her many messages for Donna Felicidade. He was sorry not to be able to see her, poor lady!

He then went in the direction of the Patriarchal. Those daily excursions of Luiza would be henceforth justified in the eyes of the world,—she would go to nurse poor Donna Felicidade. It was necessary that every one should know it,—Paula, the keeper of the tobacco-shop, Gertrudes, the Azevedos, every one; so that when they saw her leave the house to-morrow they should say, “She is going to stay with the invalid, poor lady!”

Paula was standing at the door of his shop, and Sebastião, struck by a sudden idea, was astonished to find himself so fertile in expedients, so full of tact. He pushed his hat back a little from his forehead, and pointing with his umbrella to the portrait of João VI.,—

“How much do you ask for that, Senhor Paula?” he said.

Paula was struck with astonishment.

“Senhor Sebastião is in the mood for jesting,” he returned.

“Jesting!” exclaimed Sebastião; “I am very much in earnest. I want some pictures for the entrance-hall at Almada, but old ones, without lustre, that will harmonize with the dark paper on the wall.”

“I beg your pardon, Senhor Sebastião.”

“I like this João VI. How much is it worth?” Paula replied without hesitation,—

“Seven thousand two hundred; but it is a masterpiece.”

Sebastião thought it dear; but Paula showed him the price written on a slip of paper at the back. He explained to him the merits of the picture, pointed out its beauties, spoke of his honor as a merchant, characterized others of his fellow-merchants as bandits without conscience, gave him to understand that the portrait had belonged to the house of Queluz, and that he had bought it at public auction. Sebastião interrupted him, saying,—

“Very well, I will take it. Send it to my house, and the bill with it.”

“You will have a fine work of art.”

Sebastião looked around the shop. He wished to speak of Donna Felicidade’s dislocated foot, and sought for an opportunity of introducing the subject. He looked at some Indian vases, at a large china jar, and seeing an invalid’s chair,—

“How nice that would be for Donna Felicidade,” he exclaimed,—“a handsome and comfortable easy-chair!”

Paula opened wide his eyes.

“For Donna Felicidade Noronha,” replied Sebastião, in answer to his mute inquiry, “to recline in. Is it possible you do not know that she hurt her foot, and has been and is still very ill?”

“Donna Felicidade, the friend of the people here?” and he indicated with his thumb the house of the engineer.

“Yes, my friend, yes. She dislocated her foot in the Encarnação, and was obliged to remain there. Donna Luiza goes to see her every day. She has gone there just now.”

“Ah!” said Paula, slowly, after a moment’s silence. “Well, it is not a week since I saw Donna Felicidade going in there.”

“The accident happened the day before yesterday,” said Sebastião. He coughed, and added, attentively examining some engravings, “Donna Luiza went every day to the Encarnação before, but it was to see Donna Ana Silveira, who was sick. It is three weeks now since the poor girl has been acting as sick-nurse. She hardly leaves the Encarnação; and now, to cap the climax, Donna Felicidade!”

“I knew nothing of it,—absolutely nothing,” said Paula, in a low voice, his hands in his pockets.

“Send me home that João VI.”

“At your orders, Senhor Sebastião.”

Sebastião returned home. He went up to the parlor, and throwing his hat on the sofa,—

“Good!” he said to himself. “How, at least, appearances are saved.”

He took a few turns up and down the room, with bent head, sad and thoughtful; for that he had been able by chance to justify those excursions of Luiza’s in the eyes of the neighbors made the thought only the more cruel to him that he was not able to explain them to himself. The suspicions the neighbors had for some time past entertained he had shown to be unjust; but what of his own? He desired to prove them false, childish, unreasonable, and against his will, his common-sense, and his principles he was involving himself in greater and greater difficulties. After all, he had done his duty, and with a sorrowful gesture he said aloud, breaking the silence around him,—

“The rest is a matter for her own conscience to settle.”

That same afternoon the whole neighborhood knew that Donna Felicidade had dislocated her foot in the Encarnação; some of the neighbors declared that she had broken her leg, and that Donna Luiza never left her bedside; and Paula affirmed in authoritative accents,—

“She is a very good girl, a very good girl!”

The professor’s Gertrudes went in the evening to ask Aunt Joanna if it was true that Donna Felicidade had broken her leg. Aunt Joanna set her right; it was a dislocated foot, and nothing more. Gertrudes went back to tell the professor, adding that the accident had taken place at the Encarnação, where the sick lady now was. All the neighbors praised Luiza. A few days afterwards Teixeira Azevedo, who of late had hardly saluted her, meeting her by chance in the street of S. Roque, stopped her, and with a profound bow said,—

“I beg your pardon, Senhora; how does your patient get on?”

“Better, thank you.”

“It is truly a very charitable action on your part, Senhora, to go every day to the Encarnação.”

“She does not want for society,” returned Luiza.

“A very charitable action, indeed,” repeated Azevedo, with emphasis. “I have said so everywhere,—a very charitable action on your part. Good-day.”

And he went on his way much moved.

Luiza went, in fact, shortly afterwards to see Donna Felicidade. A simple sprain was all that was the matter with her; but lying in bed, in the Senhora Silveira’s room, with compresses of arnica on her foot, she thought with terror that she was going to lose her leg; and she spent the day, surrounded by friends, crying, eating Recolhimento peaches, and nibbling azaroles. No sooner did any new visitor arrive than she redoubled her exclamations and her complaints; then followed a minute, circumstantial, and prolix history of the misfortune. Then, when she saw the excitement was beginning to die away, she would raise herself on her elbow to exclaim,—

“Ah, our Lady of Health! this was a miracle; I might have died.”

All the ladies agreed that it was indeed a miracle; they were full of sympathy for her, and went in turn to kneel before the saints to ask their intercession for the alleviation of Senhora Noronha’s suffering.

Luiza’s first visit was a great consolation for Donna Felicidade, who complained greatly of being obliged to remain in bed without hearing of or being able to speak of him. On the succeeding days, as soon as Luiza entered the room, she would call her to her bedside to ask her in low and mysterious accents,—

“Have you seen him? Have you heard from him?”

Her chief trouble was that the counsellor did not know she was ill, and that consequently he could not dedicate to her those compassionate thoughts to which her foot had a right, and which would be a consolation to her heart. But Luiza had not seen him, and Donna Felicidade, throwing herself back in the bed, exhaled bitter sighs.

On two or three occasions Luiza, returning home, had come face to face with Juliana, returning also in great haste by the Moinho de Vento.

“Where do you come from?” she had asked her, on reaching the house.

“From the doctor’s, Senhora,—from the doctor’s.”

She complained of sharp pains, of palpitations, of a want of breath.

“Flatulence, flatulence,” Luiza said.

For some days past Juliana would set the house in order in the morning, and no sooner had Luiza turned the corner of the street at one o’clock than she would go to her room to dress herself, and then, looking very fine in her merino gown, her hat, and her parasol, would go say to Joanna,—

“I am going to the doctor’s.”

And Joanna would answer, delighted, “Yes; go.”

Juliana’s way led her by S. Pedro de Alcantara into the Rua do Carmo, and finally to an alley in front of the barracks. There, on a third floor, lived her intimate friend Aunt Victoria. She was an old woman who had once kept an employment agency, but of late years her business had been of a more complicated and varied character. For some time past Juliana had been in the habit of visiting her frequently; and no sooner did she make her appearance than the old woman, notwithstanding her many occupations, would rise, take her to her private room, shut the door, and remain closeted with her for half an hour or more. Juliana always came out from these interviews flushed, her eyes sparkling, and looking happy. She would return home in haste, and her first words on entering the house always were,—

“Has the mistress returned, Joanna?”

“Not yet; she is in the Encarnação.”

“Poor thing! And afterwards she will naturally take a walk. She is very right to amuse herself.”

Joanna was by nature stupid and obtuse. Nevertheless she noticed that of late the Senhora Juliana manifested great affection for her mistress, and she said to her one day,—

“It seems that you are better friends with the mistress now than formerly, Juliana.”

“Better friends?”

“Yes; I mean more—more—”

“More attached to the mistress?”

“Yes; more attached.”

“I always was so. Besides, people have their whims and caprices. But I am now convinced, Joanna, that I could nowhere be better off than I am here. The mistress is very good-tempered; she is not exacting or capricious. I return thanks to Heaven daily for the comfort and happiness I enjoy here.”

The house had, indeed, an air of tranquil happiness. Luiza went out every day, and found fault with nothing. Her antipathy to Juliana seemed to have disappeared; and she seemed to regard her now as an inoffensive creature. Juliana continued to take her soups, to go out, and to complain of her ailments. Joanna, who had much greater liberty than formerly, and who was almost always alone in the house, enjoyed the society of her carpenter. There were no visitors. Donna Felicidade was in the Encarnação steeped in arnica. Sebastião was in Almada, where he had gone to superintend the repairs going on at his villa; the counsellor had left the city for Cintra, “to feast his spirit,” as he had told Luiza, to “gladden himself in contemplating the wonders of that Eden;” Senhor Julião, “the doctor,” as Joanna called him, was working at his thesis. The household kept regular hours; silence and repose reigned everywhere. In the kitchen one day Juliana, vividly impressed with the quietude and contentment that pervaded the house, exclaimed,—

“Ah, Joanna, one could not be better off! Our boat sails in a sea of roses.” And she added, with a little laugh, “This is happiness!”

At about this time, as Luiza was one day going to meet Bazilio, she suddenly saw emerge from a gateway, a little beyond Santa Barbara, the figure of Ernesto.

“You here, Cousin Luiza,” he exclaimed in astonishment,—“in this neighborhood! What brings you here? It is a surprise indeed to see you in such a street!”

His face was flushed; he held up the skirts of his great-coat behind with one hand, and with the other brandished in his excitement a thick roll of paper. Luiza paused, very much startled. She told him she was going to see a friend.

“You do not know her,” she added; “she has just arrived from Oporto.”

“Ah, very well; very well! And what have you been doing? How have you spent your time? When is Jorge coming home?”

Then he began to excuse himself for not having gone to see her. He had not a free moment, he said, from morning till night,—always busy with the rehearsals.

“So the drama progresses?” said Luiza.

“Yes, indeed!” And he added enthusiastically, “And how! It is a masterpiece! when one works, one works.” He had just come from the house of the actor Pinto, who took the lover’s part,—that of the Count of Monte Redondo. He had been listening to him reciting the final words of the third act. “Malediction! Fate pursues me; be it so then; I shall fight hand to hand with Fate! To the combat!” It was wonderful. He had just been receiving notice, too, to remodel the monologue in the second act. The manager thought it a trifle long.

“So then the manager continues to annoy you with his exactions,” said Luiza.

Ernesto shrugged his shoulders with a look of irritation. Then he said, with a joyful countenance,—

“Every one is wild about it. Yesterday he said to me, ‘Ledesma, all Lisbon will come in a body to the first representation; you will ruin the other theatres.’ He is not a bad sort of man. I am going now to the house of Bastos, who writes for the ‘Verdade.’ Do you know him?”

Luiza could not well remember.

“Bastos, of the ‘Verdade,’” he repeated. And seeing that Luiza was trying in vain to recollect, he added, “There is no one you know better.” And he went on to describe him.

But Luiza, impatient to put an end to the conversation, interrupted him,—

“Ah, yes; now I remember.”

“Yes; I am going to his house.” And he added confidentially, “We are great friends. He is a very good fellow, and he has a beautiful boy.” He pressed her hand, and said, “Good-by, Cousin Luiza; I have not a moment to lose. Would you like me to accompany you?”

“No; it is quite near.”

“Good-by. Remembrances to Jorge.”

She had only taken a few steps when he ran after her.

“Ah, I forgot,” he cried. “Do you know that I have forgiven her?”

Luiza looked at him in astonishment.

“The heroine—the countess,” said Ernesto.

“Ah!”

“Yes; the husband forgives her. He obtains a diplomatic mission, and goes to live abroad. It is more natural.”

“Assuredly,” Luiza assented in confusion.

“The piece ends by the Count of Monte Redondo, the lover, saying, ‘He has gone to die in solitude, the victim of this fatal passion.’ It produces a great effect.” And looking at her a moment, he added, “Good-by, Cousin. Remembrances to Jorge.”

CHAPTER XII.

BROUGHT TO BAY.

HOW heavily did the solitude of her room weigh upon Luiza in the evening! She felt impatient to renew the sensations of the past few hours. She tried to read, but after a few moments threw the book aside. The candles on her dressing-table seemed to burn with a melancholy light. She went to the window to look out at the night; the air was calm and still. She called Juliana.

“Put on your shawl,” she said; “I want you to accompany me to Donna Leopoldina’s.”

On arriving there, Justina told them that her mistress had gone to Oporto, and would remain away a fortnight.

Luiza arose on the following morning feeling very happy. She felt, indeed, a vague sense of shame at all the follies of the day before, and almost resolved to meet Bazilio no more. But her desires, which impelled her to go, furnished her with reasons for doing so. To remain away would be to offend Bazilio; the same reasons that would prevent her seeing him to-day ought to prevent her seeing him any more; and to see Bazilio no more—she could not bear the thought! Besides, the beauty of the morning inspired her with a longing to go out into the open air; it had rained during the night, and there was a pleasant freshness in the atmosphere. At half-past eleven she was going down the Moinho de Vento, when she observed the dignified figure of the Counsellor Accacio advancing slowly up the Rua da Rosa, his umbrella closed, his head erect. When he saw her he hastened his steps, and bowing profoundly, said,—

“A truly fortunate meeting!”

“How do you do, Counsellor? What a wonder it is to see you!”

“And you, dearest lady? You are looking well.” He gave her the right of the street with a dignified gesture, saying at the same time,—

“Will you permit me to accompany you in your walk?”

“Certainly; with the greatest pleasure! But why have you not been to see me? I must give you a good scolding.”

“I have been in Cintra, dear lady.” And he added, momentarily retarding his pace, “Were you not aware of it? It was announced in the ‘Diario de Noticias.’”

“But since your return from Cintra?”

“Ah,” he replied, “I have been very much occupied,—very much occupied, indeed; completely absorbed in the collation of certain documents indispensable to my book, of the title of which I believe you are not ignorant.”

Luiza did not remember it exactly. The counsellor mentioned the title and the headings of some of the chapters, and explained to her the advantages of the work; it was called “A Description of the Principal Cities of Portugal, and their most Celebrated Buildings.”

“It is a guide-book, but a scientific guide-book,” he added. “For instance, you desire to go to Braganza. Without my book, it is probable, I may say certain, that you would return without enjoying a view of any of the local curiosities. With my book, you see all the principal buildings, and store up a fund of knowledge at the same time that you amuse yourself.”

Luiza, who was smiling vaguely under her white veil as he spoke, scarcely heard him.

“What a pleasant day!” she exclaimed.

“Exceedingly pleasant!”

“How cool it is here!”

They had entered S. Pedro de Alcantara. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the trees. The ground, hard and free from dust, still showed traces of the rain of the night before, and, notwithstanding the brightness of the sun, the blue sky seemed far off. The counsellor spoke of the summer; it had been a horrible one. In his dining-room the thermometer had stood as high as 102 degrees in the shade,—102 degrees! And he added ingenuously, by way of apology for this excessive heat,—

“It has a southern exposure. Let us be just,—it has a southern exposure. But to-day it is truly delightful.”

He invited Luiza to take a turn through the Garden. Luiza hesitated, and the counsellor took out his watch—which he held at a distance from him as he looked at it—and said it was not yet twelve o’clock. It kept time with the clock of the Arsenal; it was an English watch.

“Very much preferable to the Swiss ones,” he added, with an air of conviction.

Dominated, notwithstanding her annoyance, by the pompous tones of the counsellor, Luiza descended the steps that led into the Garden. There was time enough, she thought, and if necessary she could take a carriage. They seated themselves on a bench. Through the trees they could see, in gradual descent, the dark roofs of houses interspersed with courtyards and walled gardens, and in the background the mass of foliage of the public gardens, with here and there some bare spot; farther on, the façades of the houses of Oriental Street, their windows brilliantly illuminated by the sunlight; and behind these green slopes, intersected by the dark walls of the Encarnação, of a sad-looking yellow, and by those of other detached buildings, the hill of Graça, covered with religious edifices, with their rows of conventual windows, and spires showing white against the blue sky; the Penha da França, more distant still, its solitary wall over-topped by a line of blackish green foliage. To the right, sharply defined against the bare slope, were the dark walls of the castle; the broken line of the roofs and projecting cornices of the houses of Mouraria and Alfama descended in abrupt angles to the massive and ancient towers of Sé. Farther on could be caught a glimpse of the river, shining in the sunlight, and two white sails gliding slowly by; on the opposite bank a row of houses gleamed white in the sun. From the city arose a monotonous murmur in which were blended the noise of carriages and wagons, the metallic vibration of iron transported in heavy carts, and the occasional shrill cry of a huckster.

“A fine panorama!” said the counsellor, with emphasis.

Then he proceeded to launch forth in praise of Lisbon. It was one of the most beautiful cities of Europe, he declared; its harbor was unrivalled, except, perhaps, by that of Constantinople. It was regarded with envy by foreigners. It had once been a celebrated emporium, and it was a pity that the municipality were so negligent, and that the water-works made so little progress.

“That ought to be in the hands of Englishmen,” he exclaimed.

But he repented immediately of this unpatriotic remark. He said it was only a form of expression that meant nothing. He desired the absolute independence of his country,—neither English nor Spanish interference.

“Ourselves alone—and God!” he added, in reverential tones.

“How beautiful the river is!” said Luiza.

Accacio agreed with her, murmuring in solemn accents,—

“Oh, Tagus!”

He proposed a turn through the Garden; yellow-and-white butterflies fluttered over the flower-beds; the water of the fountain fell with a musical sound; an odor of heliotrope predominated over every other; and from time to time birds alighted on the marble busts among the shrubbery.

Luiza admired the Garden, but the high railings were not to her taste.

“They are on account of the number of suicides that have taken place here,” the counsellor hastened to say. But in his opinion these were diminishing in Lisbon, a fact which he attributed to the severe and praiseworthy manner in which suicide was condemned by the press. “For in Portugal, believe me, Senhora, the press is a power,” he added.

“Shall we walk?” said Luiza.

The counsellor bowed in assent; seeing Luiza was about to pick a flower, he stopped her hastily.

“Ah, Senhora,” he exclaimed, “the rules are peremptory. Let us not infringe them. A good example should be set by the higher classes.”

When they ascended the steps, Luiza thought to herself,—

“He is going home now; I will part from him at Loreto.”

In the street of S. Roque she glanced at the clock in a confectioner’s; it was half-past twelve. Bazilio was already waiting for her. She quickened her pace, and when they reached Loreto she paused. The counsellor looked at her smiling, and waited.

“Ah, I thought you were going home, Counsellor,” she said.

“No, I shall accompany you, if you will allow me. Am I indiscreet?”

“By no means!”

At this moment one of the carriages of the Company passed by, followed by a cabinet-courier on horseback.

The counsellor hastily took off his hat.

“The Senhor President of the Council!” he said. “Did you see him? He saluted me.”

And he proceeded to pronounce a eulogium on the President. He was one of our greatest orators, he affirmed; his abilities were extraordinary, his language a model of style.

He was doubtless about to begin a dissertation on politics; but Luiza crossed over to the Church of the Martyrs, raising her dress a little on account of the mud, and paused, smiling, at the door.

“I am going to say a prayer, and I do not wish to make you wait. Good-by, Counsellor,” she said, closing her parasol and extending her hand.

“How, Senhora! I will wait if you do not stay too long; I am in no hurry;” and he added, with an air of respect, “such piety is very praiseworthy.”

Luiza entered the church, desperate. She remained standing under the choir, thinking,—

“I shall stay here; he will get tired of waiting and go away.”

The windows above gleamed softly; the church was filled with a diffused and mellow light. The white walls, the freshly-painted woodwork of the vestry, and the stone balustrades at each side formed a background against which stood out the gilding of the chapel, the red fronts of the pulpits, the interior of the confessionals, of a darker red, and under a violet canopy the gilding of the chief altar. In front of the baptistery a boy was washing the floor, with a zinc pail at his side. Here and there before the altars devotees were kneeling, their bent shoulders covered with shawls; an old man in a jacket knelt in the middle of the church, muttering his prayers in a melancholy sing-sing voice, his bald head and the enormous soles of his shoes standing clearly forth out of the shadow as he fervently beat his breast at short and regular intervals. Luiza went up to the chief altar. Of a certainty Bazilio would be desperate. She timidly asked a sacristan who was passing by what time it was. The man raised a face the color of a lemon towards one of the windows, and said, glancing askance at her,—

“It is almost two.”

Two o’clock! Bazilio might grow tired of waiting for her. She was filled with the fear of not seeing him, and glanced confusedly at the images of the saints, at the virgins transfixed by swords, at the Christs pierced by wounds, full of a voluptuous impatience. Nevertheless she waited; she hoped to tire out the counsellor, to compel him at last to go away. When she thought he had gone, she went slowly towards the door of the church. There he stood in the doorway, erect, his hands clasped behind his back, reading the list of jurors. He began to commend her piety; he had not entered with her, he said, in order not to disturb her devotions; but her conduct had his approval. Want of religion was the cause of the prevailing immorality.

“Besides,” he added, “it is good form. You may notice that all the nobility comply with their religious obligations.”

He relapsed into silence; he walked erect, pleased to be going down the Chiado in the company of a woman who was so beautiful, and who attracted so much attention. They passed a group of persons in the street, and he bent towards her with an air of mystery to whisper in her ear,—

“What a charming day!”

When they reached Baltreschi’s he invited her to have some tarts; she declined.

“I am sorry,” he said, “but I too like to be careful in regard to my hours of eating.”

His voice affected Luiza like the importunate humming of an insect; although the day was cool, she felt suffocating; her blood ran like fire through her veins. She felt a sudden impulse to run away; but she continued to walk on slowly, like a somnambulist, longing to cry. Without having any object in view she went into Valente’s, the counsellor following her. It was only half-past one. She hesitated a moment, and then asked a clerk with fair hair and a good-natured countenance to show her some foulard neckties.

“White? colored? with dots?” he asked.

“I will decide afterwards; show me some of different kinds.”

She did not like any of them; she unfolded them, set them aside, and then glanced around her with a pale countenance. The clerk asked her if she was indisposed, and if she would like a glass of water.

It was nothing, she answered 5 the air would do her good, and she would come back some other time. They left the shop. The counsellor, with an air of solicitude, offered to accompany her to a pharmacy, where she might take some orange-flower water. They walked down the Rua Nova do Carmo, the counsellor declaring that the clerk had behaved very courteously. He was not surprised at it, however, for there were many sons of good families engaged in commercial pursuits; and he mentioned some instances; but seeing that his companion remained silent,—

“You do not feel well yet,” he said.

“I am quite well now,” she replied.

“We have had a delightful walk.”

They reached Rocio, walked to the end of the square, and returned, crossing it diagonally. At the arch of Bandeira they turned into Ouro Street. Luiza looked around her disconsolately, in search of some means of escape, and the counsellor walked beside her, discoursing gravely. Passing by the Theatre of Donna Maria, his discourse mounted into the regions of dramatic art; he thought Ernesto’s play was perhaps a little too strong. And then, he liked only comedies; not because he could not enjoy the beauties of a Frey Luiz de Sousa, but his health did not always permit it. For instance—

An idea suddenly occurred to Luiza.

“Ah, I forgot; I must go in here to Vitry’s to get a tooth filled.”

The counsellor, thus interrupted, glanced at his companion. Luiza gave him her hand, saying hastily,—

“Good-by. Till we meet again.”

And she hurried into the house.

Gathering her skirts in her hand, she ran quickly up the first flight of stairs; here she paused, out of breath, and waited a little; then she went downstairs again slowly, and glanced at the doorway; there before her was the grave and dignified figure of the counsellor. She beckoned to a coupé, and rushing past the counsellor, entered it, giving the driver the direction of the house where Bazilio was waiting for her, and telling him to drive with all possible speed. On arriving there she found that he had gone away half an hour before.

Giving the driver her own address, she threw herself back among the cushions of the coupé, and burst into a fit of hysterical weeping. Then she drew up the curtains, pulled off her veil, and tore her glove, on the impulse of her anger. She was seized with a frantic desire to see Bazilio, and striking the carriage-window violently she called to the driver,—

“To the Central Hotel!”

She was passing through one of those crises of passion that are apt to come to weak minds, in which they are possessed by a fierce delight at the thought of tearing into pieces conventionalities and duties, and in which the soul deliberately seeks evil with thrills of sensual delight. The horses stopped at last, slipping on the stones in front of the hotel. The Senhor Bazilio de Brito was not there, but the Senhor Viscount Reynaldo was, the driver told her, after making inquiry.

“Very well; home then,” she answered.

The driver whipped his horses. Luiza, with feverish irritation, began to heap epithets of abuse upon the counsellor.

“Conceited fool! imbecile!” she cried.

She cursed the day on which she had first met him, or any other friend of her husband. She felt a longing to burst asunder the bonds that bound her, and to act entirely according to her own impulses.

On reaching home she found she had no change to pay the driver.

“Wait here, and I will send it to you,” she said, going up the steps, furious.

“What a crazy woman!” thought the driver.

Joanna, who opened the door for her, drew back in amazement on seeing her mistress so excited. Luiza went directly to her own room. The cuckoo-clock was striking three. Everything was in confusion,—the flower-pots on the floor, the toilet-table covered with an old cloth, clothing lying on the chairs. Juliana, a handkerchief tied around her head, was sweeping, and humming a tune.

“Is it possible that you have not yet arranged my room!” cried Luiza.

Juliana was taken aback by this unexpected burst of anger. “I am doing it, Senhora,” she replied.

“That you are doing it I can see,” returned Luiza; “but it is three o’clock, and the room still in this condition!”

She had thrown down her hat and parasol.

“As the senhora is in the habit of returning home later—”

“What does it matter to you at what hour I return?” she cried. “What have you to do with that? Your business is to put my room in order as soon as I am up, and if you do not like that you can take your wages and go.”

Juliana turned crimson, and fixed on Luiza her bloodshot eyes.

“Very well, Senhora, for I will bear this no longer,” she said, scattering the sweepings angrily about the floor.

“Go this instant!” cried Luiza. “Not a moment longer in my house!”

Juliana placed herself before her mistress, and striking her breast, said hoarsely,—

“I shall go if I wish. Yes, if I wish!” she repeated.

“Joanna!” cried Luiza, going to the door.

She wanted to call the cook, a policeman, any one, to her assistance; but Juliana, shaking her fist insolently at her, followed her.

“The senhora had better not provoke me,” she said; “she had better not make me angry.” And she added through her clenched teeth, “Waste-papers are not always thrown into the drain.”

“What do you mean?” cried Luiza, drawing back in terror.

“I mean that I have the letters the senhora wrote to her lover safe here in my pocket,” she cried, striking her pocket with violence.

Luiza looked wildly at her for a moment, then sank down on the floor, beside the sofa, insensible.

CHAPTER XIII.

MISTRESS AND MAID.

ON coming to herself again, Luiza’s first impression was that of two unknown faces bending over her. A moment afterwards one of them disappeared, and then the sharp sound of a glass bottle set down on the marble top of her dressing-table aroused her to fuller consciousness. She heard a voice saying softly,—

“She is better. Did it take her suddenly, Senhora Juliana?”

“Yes, suddenly; she came in very much excited.”

She was conscious of soft footsteps on the carpet, followed by the voice of Joanna saying close beside her,—

“Are you better, Senhora?”

She opened her eyes and slowly returned to a clearer perception of things; she was lying on the sofa, and they had loosened her dress; there was a strong odor of vinegar in the room. She raised herself on her elbow, and looking around her with a wandering gaze, said,—

“And the other?”

“The Senhora Juliana? She was so upset by your fainting that she was obliged to go and lie down. Do you feel better now?”

Luiza sat up; she felt a sense of weariness in every limb, and it seemed to her as if the room was rocking to and fro.

“You may go, Joanna,” she said.

“Does not the senhora want anything,—a cup of broth, perhaps?”

When Luiza found herself alone she glanced around her in terror. Everything was in order, and the blinds were closed. One of her gloves had fallen on the floor; she rose slowly, picked it up, and straightening it out mechanically, put it away in the drawer of her bureau. She then smoothed her hair at the glass. She found herself changed, with a different expression of countenance, as if she were in reality another person; and the silence of the apartment impressed her vividly. “Senhora,” said Joanna, timidly, at the door.

“What is it?”

“The coachman.”

Luiza turned towards her, without comprehending.

“What coachman?”

“A coachman who says the senhora had no change, and told him to wait.”

“Ah!”

And in an instant, as the whole interior of an apartment is disclosed at once to view by the lighting of a lamp within it, so was her misfortune, in all its completeness, revealed now to her mental vision. She trembled so violently that she could scarcely open the drawer of the bureau.

“I had forgotten him,” she murmured.

She gave the money to Joanna, and dropping on the sofa,—

“I am lost!” she cried, pressing her head between her hands.

All was discovered! She saw in imagination, standing out with the distinctness of a charcoal drawing on a white ground, the fury of Jorge, the horror of her friends, the indignation of some, the contempt of others. These thoughts burned into her soul as redhot coals burn into the flesh.

What remained? To fly with Bazilio.

This thought, the first and only one that presented itself to her mind, swallowed up every other, as water that has burst its bounds submerges the surrounding country. He had pictured to her so often the happiness they might enjoy in his apartment in the Rue St. Florentin, in Paris! Be it so, then; she would go. She would take no luggage with her. She could put some linen and her mother’s jewels into her morocco satchel. But the house and the servants? She would leave a letter for Sebastião, that he might go and shut up everything. On the journey she would wear her blue gown or her black one. She would take nothing more. Whatever else she needed she could buy in some other city, far from here.

“If the senhora would like to dine,” said Joanna, making her appearance at the door in a clean white apron. “The Senhora Juliana has gone to bed sick,” she added, “and says she cannot wait at table.”

“I will go presently,” responded Luiza.

She hardly tasted the soup. She drank a glass of water, and rising, said,—

“What is the matter with Juliana?”

“She says she has a severe pain in the heart.”

If Juliana were to die she would be saved! In that case there would be no necessity for her to fly, and she said with a gleam of wicked hope,—

“Go see how she is, Joanna.”

She had heard of so many who had died of a sudden pain! She might go afterwards to Juliana’s room, search her trunk, and regain possession of her letter. She would be afraid neither of the silence of death nor of the pallor of the corpse.

“She is easier, Senhora,” said Joanna, returning to the dining-room, “and says she will get up by-and-by. Will the senhora take nothing more?”

“No.”

And she went back again to her room, thinking,—

“Why seek to remedy matters? There is nothing left but to fly.”

She determined to write to Sebastião, but she could get no further than the words, “My Friend.”

Why write? When they saw that night came, and she had not returned, the servants—her enemy—would go tell Sebastião. He was the most intimate friend of the family. What a fright it would give him! He would think some accident had befallen her. He would run to the Encarnação, then to the police station; he would spend the night in anguish; all next day he would wait for news of her, suffering terrible disappointments, until at last he would telegraph to Jorge. And at the same hour, huddled in a corner of the car, listening to the deafening noise of the engine, she would be hurrying on to a new destiny. Yet why should she torment herself? How many there were who would envy her her misfortune! Yes, to give up a cramped existence between four walls, her only occupation to superintend the affairs of the kitchen and to crochet, in order to go with a man young and handsome, and whom she loved, to Paris—to Paris! to live surrounded by luxury, in apartments hung with silk, with a box at the Opera. She was indeed foolish to torment herself; this disaster was almost a piece of good fortune. Without it she would not have had the courage to break away from her bourgeoise existence. Yes, she would fly with Bazilio; she would put an end at once to this state of anxiety. But it was too late now to go to the hotel; she was afraid of the dark streets, of the lateness of the hour, of meeting with some drunken man.

She began to pack the satchel. She put into it some linen, a few handkerchiefs, her nail-brush, the rosary Bazilio had given her, rice-powder, and some jewels that had belonged to her mother. She wished to take with her Bazilio’s letters also. She had put them away in a little sandal-wood box in the bureau-drawer. She took them out, scattered them on her lap, and opened one, from which fell a pressed flower, and then another containing the likeness of Bazilio. It suddenly struck her that they were not all here; there should be seven of them,—two letters and five notes,—the first letter he had written to her, full of his affection for her, and the last, written one day when they had quarrelled. She counted them; there were in fact three wanting,—this first letter and two of the notes. Juliana had stolen these also! She rose, pale with anger. “Infamous creature!” she exclaimed. She felt an impulse to go up to her room and tear the letters from her by force, even if she had to strangle her in order to do so. But what did it matter? Whether Juliana had one letter or three, her misfortune was the same.

She laid out on the sofa, in a state of feverish excitement, the black dress she was to wear, the hat, a cloak. The cuckoo-clock struck ten. She went into her bedroom, and placing the candlestick on the night-table, stood gazing at the large bed with its curtains of white muslin. This was the last time she should sleep in it. The crochet counterpane she herself had made during the first year of her marriage,—there was not a single stitch in it that was not associated with some happy recollection. Jorge had watched her working at it, smiling silently or talking to her in low tones while he twisted the cotton slowly around his fingers. There she had slept every night for three years. In that bed she had gone through an attack of pneumonia. For weeks Jorge bad not taken off his clothes, nursing her, covering her when she threw off the bedclothes, giving her her medicine, making her take nourishing soups, bestowing endearing words upon her that did her so much good. He spoke to her as he would have spoken to a little child. “This will pass,” he would say; “you will soon be better now, and then we will take a little trip into the country.” But while he said it his eyes filled with tears. At other times he would exclaim, “Are you better? Tell me that you are better!” And she desired so ardently to get well that a refreshing wave seemed to sweep over her, calming the fever in her blood. In the first days of her convalescence he helped her to dress; he knelt down to put on her slippers; he assisted her to the sofa, and arranged the cushions for her to lie down upon it; he read to her; he amused her by drawing landscapes for her, by cutting paper soldiers. She depended upon him for everything; she had no one else in the world to care for her in sickness, to mourn for her if she should die. She always went to sleep with his hand between both of hers, for she still felt at night something of the terror she had experienced in the delirious visions of the fever; and poor Jorge, in order not to awaken her, would remain hour after hour with his hand held thus imprisoned. He slept, without undressing, on a mattress beside her bed. Many times she had awakened during the night and surprised him wiping away his tears,—tears of joy because she was spared to him. When the physician, the good Dr. Caminha, had said to him, “She is out of danger; now we must set about reconstructing this organism,” Jorge, poor fellow, had caught the old man’s hands in his and covered them with kisses.

And now when he should come home and learn all! She would be far away in a foreign land hearing a strange tongue; and he there alone in the house, weeping in the embrace of Sebastião. How many souvenirs of her would be there to torture him,—her gowns, her slippers, the articles on her dressing-table, everything in the house! What a sorrowful existence he would lead! He would sleep alone; there would be no one there to awaken him with a kiss, and say to him, laying a hand on his shoulder, “It is late, Jorge.” Everything would be at an end forever between them—forever.

She threw herself on the bed, and broke into bitter weeping. She heard Juliana speaking loudly in the hall to Joanna, and she rose to her feet in terror. Was the vile wretch going to enter her room? She heard the sound of retreating footsteps, and then Joanna came in with a light.

“The Senhora Juliana got up for a little while,” she said; “but she does not feel very well yet, and she has gone back to bed again. Does the senhora require anything?”

“No,” answered Luiza from the alcove.

She undressed herself, and at last fell asleep through exhaustion.

Juliana could not sleep. Tortured by pain, she struggled with the demon of sleeplessness on her straw mattress, as she had done so many times before during the past few weeks. Ever since she had taken the letter from the sarcophagus she had lived in a continual fever, so intense was the joy, so strong the hope that animated her. From the time when Bazilio had first begun to frequent the house, she had felt a conviction that her opportunity had come. What an explosion of joy when, after so much fruitless spying, she had found the letter in the sarcophagus! She had run to her room, read it eagerly, and when she realized the importance of her discovery, her eyes filled with tears of joy, she lifted up her vile soul to heaven, saying,—

“God be praised!”

What use should she make of it? This was the question that troubled her. Her first thought was to sell it for a good round sum to Luiza. But where could her mistress find the money? No, it was better to wait for Jorge’s return, and then, through the medium of some other person, concealing her own share in the transaction, extort from him a large amount by the threat of making the matter public. At times, when she was most irritated by Luiza’s excursions, by her handsome toilets, by her beauty, she felt a temptation to rush out into the street, call the neighbors around her, read the letter to them, and thus avenge herself on this wanton.

Aunt Victoria soothed and advised her. She told her that to make the plot complete it was necessary to have a letter of the lover in her possession. She was obliged to employ much ingenuity,—all the stealthy watchfulness of a cat joined to the dexterity of a pickpocket,—to try several keys (two of them made after impressions in wax). But she obtained the letter; and what a letter! She read it to Aunt Victoria, whose sides shook with laughter as she read it.

“Good!” she said to Juliana; “now you have the knife and the cheese; with this you can stand your ground and wait your chance. Amiability, a pleasant countenance, plenty of smiles, so as not to alarm her, and a watchful eye. You have the mouse safe; let her play as much as she wishes.”

From this time forth Juliana enjoyed in secret all the delight of knowing that she had Luiza, the senhora, the mistress, under her thumb. She saw her adorn herself, go to meet her lover, sing gayly and eat well, and she thought with feline pleasure,—

“Go on; amuse yourself; I will make you pay for it all by-and-by.”

This filled her with pride, and she had a vague sense of being mistress of the house. She held in her hand the happiness, the good name, of her master and mistress. What joy! Her future was secure. Her secret was money,—the bread of her old age. At last her turn had come; and she recited every day a salve of thanks to our Lady the Mother of Sinners.

But after the scene with Luiza she could no longer stand with her arms folded, with the letters in her pocket. She must go out; she must do something. She resolved to consult Aunt Victoria.

On the following morning, at about seven o’clock, without taking her coffee, or saying a word to Joanna, she went downstairs, and out of the house.

Aunt Victoria was not at home. In the little parlor were several persons awaiting her return. Senhor Gouvêa, with the tassel of his cap in a tangle, was leaning over the table, writing, and nursing his cold. Juliana said good-day to every one in general, and then sat down, very erect, in a corner of the room, holding her parasol between her knees.

About half an hour afterwards Aunt Victoria entered hurriedly, and seeing Juliana, said to her,—

“Ah, you here already? I had some business to attend to, and I have been out since six this morning. Good-day, Senhora Theodosia; good-day, Anna; hello, my handsome youth! Come in here, Juliana; I shall be back directly, chickens; it is a question of a moment.”

She led Juliana into a room that opened on the hall.

“What is there new?” she asked.

Juliana gave her a minute account of the scene of yesterday, ending in her mistress’s fainting.

“Well, my dear,” said Aunt Victoria, “what is done, is done. There is no time to be lost; you must set to work at once. Go to see Brito at his hotel, and have an understanding with him.”

Juliana shook her head; she did not dare, she said; she was afraid.

Aunt Victoria reflected for a moment, scratching her ear. She then rose and went into the parlor, held a whispered consultation with Uncle Gouvêa, and re-entered the room, closing the door behind her.

“Let us see,” she said; “you have the letters?”

Juliana took from her pocket an old red morocco pocket-book. But she hesitated a moment before opening it, at the same time giving Aunt Victoria a suspicious glance.

“You are afraid to give me the letters,” exclaimed the latter, with an offended air. “Very well; settle the affair yourself, then.”

Juliana handed her the letters, charging her to be very careful of them.

“A certain person,” said Aunt Victoria, “will go to-morrow to see Brito and ask him for a conto de reis.”[7]

Juliana was dazzled. A conto de reis! Aunt Victoria was jesting!

“Why, what are you thinking?” said the latter.

“For a letter that contained scarcely anything a gentleman who may be seen any day driving in the Chiado (I saw him myself driving there yesterday in company with a lady), paid three hundred thousand reis in good bank-notes. It was the lover who paid, of course. If it were any one but Brito I should say nothing; but he is rich, and a spendthrift.”

Juliana, pale with emotion, tremblingly caught Aunt Victoria by the arm.

“I would give you a silk gown, Aunt Victoria,” she said—

“A blue one. You see, I tell you even the color.”

“But Brito is not an easy man to deal with, Aunt Victoria; he might take the letters by force.”

“Do you think me a fool, then?” replied the other, disdainfully. “I shall not send the letters, but copies of them.”

And she added, after a momenta reflection,—

“You will return home—”

“No, I will not go back.”

“Perhaps you are right. Come and sleep here until we see how this is going to end, and dine with me to-day; we have a fine fish for dinner.”

“But will there be any danger if Brito should have recourse to the police?”

Aunt Victoria shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

“See, go away now,” she said; “for you put me out of patience. The police! These matters are not brought to the notice of the police. Leave it all to me, and come back to dinner at four.”

Juliana went away, feeling as if she floated on air. A conto de reis! It was the conto de reis she had once seen in her dreams come back to her now with the tinkle of gold and the rustle of bank-notes. Her brain was filled with images stretching out in wondrous perspective,—the counter of a millinery-shop, behind which she was to stand, waiting on her customers; a husband at her side at supper-time; innumerable pairs of boots, of the best quality and the most chic fashion. Where should she keep her money? In the bank? No, at the bottom of her trunk; there it would be safer, and more at hand.

To get through the morning, she bought a quarter of a pound of biscuits, and seated herself on a bench in the Gardens, under the shade of her parasol, indulging already in delightful anticipations of the life she would lead, fancying herself already a lady; and she even cast a speculative glance at a peaceable householder who was passing by, and who quickened his pace, scandalized, as he caught her eye.

CHAPTER XIV.

FROM DREAMS TO WAKING.

AT about this time Luiza awoke, and as she hastily sat up in bed, thought,—

“It is to-day.”

A horrible sensation of dread and anguish seized upon her heart. She began to dress herself, trembling at the thought of seeing Juliana again. She had just come to the determination to remain in her room, without going to breakfast, till eleven o’clock, and then to go see Bazilio at his hotel, when she heard the voice of Joanna, calling outside the door,—

“Senhora!”

The girl entered in a fright, saying that Juliana had left the house early in the morning, that she had not yet returned, and that her work was undone.

“Very well; get me some breakfast; I will be there directly.”

What a relief! She took it for granted that Juliana had left the house finally. With what object? To concoct some plot, doubtless. Her best course was to go at once to their place of meeting, and wait there for Bazilio. She went to the dining-room and drank a glass of water hastily, without sitting down.

“Could the Senhora Juliana have been taken sick?” Joanna came to ask her.

“We shall soon know,” responded Luiza.

At half-past one she put on her hat. Her heart beat violently; notwithstanding her dread of seeing Juliana in case she should return, she could not resolve to leave her home—forever! She sat down, with her morocco satchel in her lap.

“But why delay?” she said to herself at last, rising, as if impelled by some invisible and irresistible force. She went into her bedroom; her wrapper and slippers were lying on the rug.

“What a misfortune!” she said to herself, as she picked them up mechanically. She went to her dressing-table, opened the drawer and put away the combs; then went hastily into the parlor, took Jorge’s likeness out of the album, and put it, with a trembling hand, into the satchel. She glanced wildly around, left the room, and ran downstairs.

A coupé was driving along the Patriarchal. She stopped it, and entering, told the coachman to drive to the Central Hotel.

Senhor Brito had gone out early in the morning, the porter obsequiously informed her, when she reached the hotel. A vessel had apparently just arrived, for men were carrying into the hotel luggage, trunks covered with oil-cloth, and boxes bound with iron. Some of the passengers, not yet recovered from the effects of the sea-sickness, and a little bewildered by the novelty of their surroundings, were talking and giving directions to the servants all at once. The bustle revived Luiza’s spirits; she felt a sudden desire to travel, to witness the excitement and confusion of the railway-stations at night, by gaslight; to see gay groups seated on the deck of the steamer in the morning. She told the coachman to drive to the house where she was to meet Bazilio. As she drove on, it seemed to her as if all her past existence, Juliana and her domestic life, were fading away before her gaze from a horizon which she was to leave forever behind her. At the door of a bookseller’s shop she caught a glimpse of Julião, and she drew back hastily into a corner of the coupé; she could not see him distinctly, and she regretted it. She was going away without seeing a single friend of the house. They all, Julião, Ernesto, the counsellor, Donna Felicidade, appeared to her now adorable, possessed of noble qualities that hitherto she had not suspected in them, and suddenly endowed with peculiar charms. And poor Sebastião, who was so good! Never again should she hear him play the malaguenha!

At the end of Ouro Street the coupé was stopped by a number of vehicles blocking up the way, and Luiza saw, standing close to her, Castro,—Castro of the eye-glasses, the banker who Leopoldina had said was in love with her; a boy was trying to sell him a lottery ticket, and Castro, his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, was joking with the urchin with the disdainful familiarity of a rich man, and casting furtive glances at Luiza, at the same time, from behind his gold eye-glasses. She stole a glance at him from under her long lashes. This man admired her. How horrible! He inspired her with repugnance, with his prominent paunch and his short legs. The recollection of Bazilio’s handsome face came vividly to her mind, and she tapped at the carriage-window, impatient to see him once more.

The coupé at last drove on. The sun shone brightly as they drove through Rocio; the passengers were disembarking hurriedly from the steamboat,—some from Belem, others from Pedrouços; the hucksters were crying aloud their wares. Every one was returning to home and happiness; she only was leaving both.

At last the coupé stopped. The mistress of the house appeared at the door, saying she was very sorry, but the gentleman had the keys of the apartment, and if the senhora wished to rest a few moments in her room—At this moment another carriage drove up, and Bazilio descended from it.

“So you have come at last!” he exclaimed, as they entered the house together and went upstairs. “And why did you not come yesterday?”

“Ah, if you knew what has happened!”

He caught her by the arm and looked at her intently.

“Bazilio, I am lost!”

“What has happened?” he cried, as they entered the apartment.

Luiza, throwing her satchel on the sofa, told him in a breath of the letter Juliana had found among the waste-papers, of these she had stolen from her drawer, and of the scene of yesterday.

“There is nothing left for me but to fly,” she ended. “Here I am; take me with you. You have often urged me to fly with you,—now I am ready. I have brought this satchel with the most necessary articles,—gloves, handkerchiefs. What do you say?”

Bazilio, his hands in his pockets, jingling together his money and his keys, followed Luiza’s gestures and words with astonishment.

“This could only happen to you!” he exclaimed. “What folly!” And he added, very much excited, “And you are going to run away for this? Why speak of running away? It is a question of money, which is what she wants. Find out how much she asks, and give it to her.”

“No, no!” cried Luiza. “I cannot remain here. This woman might sell the letters, but she would keep the secret in her possession, and she might at any moment reveal it. If Jorge knows it, I am lost. I have not the courage to return home; I should never know a tranquil moment after he came back. We will go to-day,—shall we? Or if not to-day, to-morrow. If he should know it, he would kill me, Bazilio! Say that we will go to-morrow!” And she clung to him, eagerly supplicating him with her eyes to consent. Bazilio gently released himself.

“You are mad, Luiza; you are out of your mind!” he said. “How can you think of such a thing? It would be a terrible scandal, and we should be pursued by the police and by the telegraph. Impossible! This thing of running away is very well for novels. Besides, the matter is not so serious as all that; it is only a question of money.”

Luiza turned pale at his words.

“Besides,” continued Bazilio in great agitation, “it would not suit me to leave Lisbon now, nor you either. The woman who leaves her home loses even her name; she is regarded with contempt. I shall be obliged to return to Brazil, and then where would you remain? Do you want to be on the sea for a month, and then run the risk of taking the yellow fever? And what if your husband should pursue us, and we should be detained at the frontier? Do you think it would be a pleasant thing to return, escorted by the police, and to spend a year in Limoeiro? The matter is very simple; have an understanding with this woman; give her a couple of pounds, which is what she wants, and remain in your house, respected and tranquil, and be a little more prudent for the future; that is all.”

These words laid all Luiza’s hopes in the dust, as the axe lays low the tree. At times a glimpse of the truths they contained flashed across her mind like a gleam of lightning, chilling her like a cold mist. But in Bazilio’s refusal she saw only ingratitude and indifference. After seeing herself sheltered, in imagination, in a secure asylum, far away in Paris, it seemed to her intolerable to return home, hanging down her head, to endure Juliana’s exactions again, and to wait for death; the pleasures she had anticipated seemed to her now more intoxicating than before, and almost indispensable to her. And besides, of what use was it to buy back her letters with money? That woman knew her secret, and would continue to imbitter her existence, and she would have this danger forever hanging over her. She was silent, as though buried in vague meditation, and then suddenly, with flashing eyes,—

“Well, what is your answer?” she said.

“I have already told you, child.”

“You will not?”

“No,” returned Bazilio, abruptly. “If you are crazy, I am not.”

“Oh, what will become of me! what will become of me!” she exclaimed, throwing herself on the sofa and covering her face with her hands. Her bosom was convulsed by sobs that she vainly sought to repress.

Bazilio sat down beside her. These tears annoyed him and made him impatient.

“But for Heaven’s sake listen to me!” he said.

She turned her eyes, that flashed through their tears, full upon him.

“Why did you say to me that we might be so happy if I only wished?”

Bazilio rose abruptly.

“But was it your intention to travel with me in a railway-car to Paris?”

“I have left my home forever.”

“It would be better for you to return to it, then,” he exclaimed angrily. “Why do you want to run away? To avoid scandal? But in doing so we should give greater scandal, irreparable scandal. I speak to you as your best friend, Luiza.” And he added, taking her hands affectionately in his, “Do you think it would not make me happy to have you come with me to Paris? But I know the world, and I know what the consequences of such a step would be. All this scandal may be avoided with money. Do you suppose the woman has left the house for the purpose of betraying you? It is to her interest to disappear. She knows very well that She has robbed you by means of false keys. The question is, to purchase her silence.”

“And where have I the money to do so?” returned Luiza, slowly.

“I have it, of course; that is understood,” he said. “Not much,” he added, “for I am a little in arrears; but—in short—” He hesitated a moment, and then said, “If she asks two hundred thousand reis,[8] she shall have them.”

“And if she refuses?”

“Why should she refuse? If she has stolen your letters it is in order to sell them, not for the pleasure of having your autograph in her possession.”

He could scarcely refrain from speaking angrily to her, as he walked up and down the room with nervous steps. What a silly pretension to want to go to Paris with him to be in his way! And what a piece of stupidity to give a handful of money to a thief! The whole thing—the stolen letter, the servant acting as a spy on her mistress, the false key of the bureau-drawer—appeared to him supremely vulgar. He stopped, and said, to end the matter,—

“Well, then, offer her three hundred thousand reis,[9] if you like; but for Heaven’s sake be more careful in future! I cannot afford to pay three hundred thousand reis every time you choose to be careless.”

Luiza grew livid, as if Bazilio had spat in her face.

“If it is a question of money, I will provide it, Bazilio,” she said.

How she should do so she did not know. What matter? She would beg, work, pawn, but she would not accept money from him.

Bazilio shrugged his shoulders.

“And where can you find this money?” he asked.

“What does it matter to you?”

Bazilio shook his head with a gesture of despair, and taking her hands in his, said, repressing his impatience,—

“We are talking nonsense and losing our tempers, my dear; you have no money.”

“Very well,” she cried, catching him by the arm; “speak you to this woman, and settle the matter with her; I will not see her. If I were to see her it would kill me. Speak you to her.”

Bazilio drew back quickly, and stamping his foot, said, “Are you mad? If I were to speak to her she would try to fleece me. This is your affair. I will give you the money, and you can arrange the matter with her.”

“You are not willing to do even that?”

“No, a thousand devils, no!” cried Bazilio, unable to control himself longer.

“Good-by.”

“Are you mad, Luiza?”

“No,” she returned, lowering her veil with a trembling hand; “the fault is mine, and it is I who ought to bear the consequences of it.”

She opened the door. Bazilio ran after her and caught her by the arm.

“Luiza, Luiza, what are you about to do?” he cried. “We cannot part in this way. Listen!”

“Let us fly together then, and you will save me from everything,” she said, eagerly embracing him.

“Again! Have I not told you that is impossible?”

Luiza closed the door behind her, and ran downstairs. The coupé was waiting for her at the door.

“To Rocio,” she said to the driver.

And leaning back in the carriage, she burst into a convulsive fit of weeping.

CHAPTER XV.

THE TELEGRAM.

BAZILIO left the house very much agitated. Luiza’s pretensions, her bourgeois terrors, and the vulgar triviality of the whole affair irritated him to such a degree that for a moment he thought of breaking off with her, and letting things quietly take their course. But she inspired him with pity. Without being in love with her, he admired her; she was so beautiful and so tender. It was, besides, a manner of passing away the time while he remained in Lisbon. What an accursed complication!

On returning to the hotel he said to the servant, “When the Viscount Reynaldo returns, say to him that I am in my room.”

This was a room on the second story, its windows overlooking the river. Arrived there, he drank a glass of brandy and threw himself on the sofa. On the table beside him were his buvard with his monogram in silver, surmounted by a count’s coronet, some French novels, the “Manuel du Chasseur,” some numbers of “Figaro,” a likeness of Luiza, and an engraving of a horse.

Lighting a cigar, he began to reflect, with a feeling of horror, on his situation. This was all that was wanting,—that he should return to Paris with such an encumbrance! To let a woman interfere with the course of his well-ordered existence, merely because a letter had been stolen from her, and she was afraid of her husband! What a pretension! The whole adventure, from the very beginning, was a mistake. It had been the idea of an enamoured bourgeois to trouble the peace of his cousin of the Patriarchal. He should have gone to Lisbon, arranged his affairs there, remaining quietly at the Central Hotel, taken the steamer back to France, and sent his country to the devil. His affairs had been settled for some time, and he, like the idiot he was, still remained in Lisbon, spending a fortune in carriages to make visits to the street of Santa Barbara, for a woman like a thousand others. It was true that while he remained in Lisbon there was something pleasant and exciting, like a chapter from a novel, in the affair, with its mixture of illicit passion and family ties betrayed. But he was tired of the episode now; the best thing he could do was to leave Lisbon without seeing Luiza again.

He had made his fortune in a speculation in Paraguay, the success of which had led to the formation of a company of Brazilian capitalists; but Bazilio and a number of French engineers desired to buy up the Brazilian shares, which they found an obstacle in the way of their ambitious designs. In order to form another company in Paris, and give a more daring turn to the business, Bazilio had come to Lisbon to negotiate with some Brazilian shareholders there, and had dexterously managed to buy up their shares. The prolongation of this amorous episode threatened to prove a disturbing element in his practical affairs, and now that the matter began to assume an ugly aspect, it was expedient that he should put an end to it at once.

The door opened, and Reynaldo entered, wearing blue glasses and looking very tired. He was furious. He had just come from Bemfica, expiring, absolutely expiring with this heat, which was only fit for a country inhabited by negroes! He had had the stupid idea of going to see an aunt of his, who had obliged him to listen to a long sermon, as if he had been at church. A school-boy’s idea it was to go see her; for if there was anything he especially detested it was a display of family tenderness.

“What did you want to see me for?” he said in conclusion. “I am going to remain in the bath till dinner-time.”

“Do you know what has happened to me?” responded Bazilio, rising.

“What has happened?”

“Guess; the most stupid thing you can imagine.”

“The husband has found you out?”

“No, the servant.”

“Shocking!” exclaimed Reynaldo, with an air of disgust.

Bazilio gave all the details of the affair, and folding his arms, said in conclusion,—

“And now, what is to be done?”

“Slip away,” returned the other, rising.

“Where are you going?” asked Bazilio.

“To the bath.”

Bazilio requested him to wait a moment, saying he wanted to consult him.

“Impossible!” exclaimed Reynaldo, with rude egotism. “Come downstairs you. One can talk in the water as well.”

And he left the room, calling to William, his English servant, to accompany him.

When Bazilio rejoined him, Reynaldo, stretched at full length in a bath-tub full of water that diffused around a strong odor of eau-de-Lubin, said to him in tones expressive of the physical enjoyment he experienced,—

“A stolen letter, eh?”

“Tell me frankly, Reynaldo; I am really troubled about this matter. What ought I to do?”

“Pack your trunks, my boy,” answered Reynaldo; adding, “this is the result of making love to a cousin who lives in the Patriarchal.”

“Oh!” said Bazilio, impatiently.

“What!” exclaimed the other, supporting himself with both hands on the edge of the bath-tub. “Do you think a woman is to be admired who takes the cook into her confidence, who loses her love-letters, who cries, and asks you for two hundred thousand reis, and who wants to escape the consequences of her folly by running away?”

“Notwithstanding all that, she is a charming woman.”

Reynaldo shrugged his shoulders incredulously. “You are in love,” he replied, stretching himself with a yawn.

Bazilio shook his head impatiently, in denial of so grotesque a supposition.

“Come, now,” said Reynaldo. “Do you want to remain tied to her apron-strings, or do you wish to get rid of her? Tell the truth.”

“I should like,” returned Bazilio, drawing nearer to his friend, “to get rid of her decently.”

“Stupid!” responded Reynaldo. “Why, you have an excuse for doing so that if you had invented it yourself could not be better. She left you like a madwoman, as you tell me. Well, then, write to her saying that since you see she wishes to break with you, you will trouble her no more, and then leave the city. Are all your affairs settled? You need not say they are not, for Lapierre has told me they are. Very well; be a man, order your trunks to be packed, and rid yourself at once of this annoyance.”

And taking up the sponge he proceeded to let a shower of water fall over his head and shoulders, exhaling his breath with satisfaction as he did so.

“But to leave her in this difficulty with the servant!” said Bazilio. “After all, she is my cousin.”

Reynaldo stretched his arms with a shout of laughter. “This family affection is admirable,” he said. “See, go and say to her that your affairs oblige you to leave Lisbon, and put a few bank-notes into her hand.”

“That would be brutal!”

“And costly!”

“But it is a pity, after all, that the poor girl should be at the mercy of her own servant,” said Bazilio.

Reynaldo stretched himself again. “Who knows,” he exclaimed in joyful accents, “but that they are at this very moment engaged in scratching each other’s eyes out?”

He leaned back in a state of beatitude, and declared that he was supremely happy,—provided only that John had not forgotten to prepare the champagne frappé.

Bazilio twisted his mustache in silence. He saw before him in fancy Luiza’s parlor, and the horrible countenance of Juliana, with her enormous head-dress. Were they indeed quarrelling at this moment? How vulgar the whole thing was! Decidedly he ought to go away.

“But what pretext shall I make use of for leaving Lisbon?” he resumed.

“A telegram. There is nothing like a telegram! Telegraph to your agent in Paris, Lachardie, or Lachardette, or whatever his name may be, and tell him to send you the following despatch: ‘Come; business is going badly,’ etc. It is the best way.”

“I shall do so at once,” said Bazilio, rising with decision.

“And we shall set out to-morrow?” asked Reynaldo.

“Yes, to-morrow.”

“For Madrid?”

“Very well; for Madrid.”

“Delightful!” exclaimed the other, standing up in the bath-tub; and shaking the water from his person with a slight shudder, he stepped out, enveloped in his Turkish bath-robe. His servant William entered noiselessly, and kneeling down took one of the viscount’s feet in his hands, dried it with extreme care, and proceeded to draw on, with respectful tenderness, the black silk stocking with its embroidered initials.

On the following day, a little before twelve, Joanna knocked discreetly at the door of Luiza’s room, and announced in a low voice (since Luiza’s fainting-fit Joanna had always spoken to her in a low voice, as if she were a convalescent), “The cousin of the senhora is in the parlor.”

This announcement took Luiza by surprise. She was still in her dressing-gown, and her eyes were red with weeping. She powdered her face, smoothed her hair, and went into the parlor.

Bazilio, dressed in a light-gray suit, was seated in a melancholy attitude on the piano-stool. His air was grave, and without preface he proceeded to say that, notwithstanding her anger of yesterday, he took it for granted that everything was as before between them. That he had come to see her because at such a time they could not separate without coming to an understanding, and without arranging, above all, the question of the letters. And with a sorrowful gesture, like one who makes an effort to keep back his tears, he added,—

“For I find myself under the necessity of leaving Lisbon, my dear.”

Luiza smiled scornfully, without looking at him.

Bazilio continued: “Only for a short time, of course,—three weeks or a month at most. But, after all, it is a separation. If my own interests only were concerned—” and he shrugged his shoulders with a disdainful gesture. “But the interests of others are also at stake. This morning I received this.”

He handed her a telegram. She looked at it for a moment without opening it; the paper trembled in her hand.

“Read it, I beg of you.”

“What for?” she answered.

She read, however, in a low voice: “Come at once; grave complications. Presence absolutely necessary.”

She folded the paper and gave it back to him.

“According to this you are going away.”

“It is unavoidable.”

“And when?”

“To-night.”

Luiza rose abruptly, and extending her hand, said: “Very well; good-by.”

“You are cruel, Luiza,” murmured Bazilio. “No matter. But there is a question that must be settled. Have you spoken to that woman?”

“It is all arranged,” she responded, frowning. Bazilio took her hand in his and said, almost with solemnity,—

“My dear, I know that you are proud, but I ask you to tell me the truth; I do not want to leave you in difficulties. Have you spoken to her?”

Luiza drew away her hand impatiently.

“I tell you that it is all arranged,” she answered.

Bazilio seemed preoccupied; his face was paler than usual. He took a pocket-book from his breast-pocket, and said,—

“Very well; but it is possible, and ought to be taken into account, since we do not know with whom we are dealing, that there may be still further exactions.” And he opened the pocket-book, and took out of it a small and well-filled envelope.

Luiza, her face crimson, followed all his movements with her eyes.

“In order that you may be able to arrange matters with her to your satisfaction, I think it well to leave you some money,” he said.

“Are you mad?” she exclaimed.

“But—”

“You want to give me money?” said Luiza, in a trembling voice.

“But I think that—”

“Good-by!” she repeated, rising indignantly.

“Luiza, for Heaven’s sake! You do not understand me!”

Luiza paused, and said hastily, as if impatient to put an end to the interview,—

“I understand you. Thanks; it is not necessary. I do not feel well; let us not prolong this. Good-by.”

“As I have already told you, I will be back in three weeks.”

“Very well; we shall see each other then.”

He drew her towards him and kissed her on the mouth; her lips were cold and unresponsive. This indifference wounded his vanity. He pressed her to his heart, and said in low and passionate accents,—

“Will you not give me a kiss?”

A sudden gleam shot from Luiza’s eyes; she kissed him hastily, then, drawing back,—

“Good-by,” she again repeated.

Bazilio looked at her for a moment, and sighed.

“Good-by,” he responded. And turning back again at the door, he added in a melancholy voice, “At least, write to me; you know my address,—Rue St. Florentin, 22.”

When he had gone, Luiza approached the window. She saw him light his cigar in the street, speak to the driver, enter the coupé and hastily shut the door,—all without one glance towards her! The carriage rolled away. She should see him no more! Their hearts had palpitated with an equal love; they had shared the same fault. He went gayly away, carrying with him the romantic souvenirs of this episode in his life; she remained behind with the ineffaceable bitterness of her fall. Such was the world! She felt a sharp pang of anguish at the thought of her solitary and deserted condition. She was alone, and life stretched out before her like an unknown plain, wrapped in mist and peopled with dangers. She went back with languid step to her room, and threw herself on the sofa; on the floor beside her lay the satchel she had prepared the day before for her flight; she opened it, and began to take out its contents; in the folds of an embroidered wrapper she found the likeness of Jorge. She held it in her hand, contemplating his loyal glance, his honest smile. No, she was not alone in the world! She still had him! He loved her, and he would never betray her nor abandon her! And convulsively pressing her lips to the likeness, she buried her face in the cushions of the sofa, crying, as she burst into bitter tears,—

“Jorge, dearest Jorge, forgive me!”

After dinner Joanna came to her and said,—

“Does not the senhora think it would be well to make some inquiries about the Senhora Juliana?”

“How is one to inquire?”

“She goes once in a while to see a friend of hers who lives in the direction of the Carmo. Perhaps she has had an attack of some kind, not to have sent any message since yesterday morning. I might go and see.”

“Very well; go.”

This sadden disappearance disturbed Luiza also. Where was Juliana? What was she doing? It seemed to Luiza that some terrible plot was being concocted against her, that would by-and-by burst with terrible force upon her head.

Night fell, and she lighted the candles. She experienced a vague feeling of terror at finding herself alone in the house, and pacing up and down the room, her thoughts wandered to Bazilio, at this time joyfully buying his ticket in Santa Apolonia, then entering the cars and lighting his cigar, and then being carried away from her forever. For she had no faith in this absence of three weeks or a month. No; he was going away forever; he was flying from her, and although she now regarded him with hatred, she yet felt that through this desertion her heart had received a wound that was bleeding painfully.

It was almost nine o’clock when the bell rang hastily. Thinking it was Joanna who had returned, Luiza took a candlestick in her hand, and went to open the door. She drew back quickly on seeing Juliana, her countenance livid and stamped with Suffering.

“Will the senhora do me the favor to listen to a word?” she said.

She followed Luiza into her room, and burst out furiously,—

“Does the senhora think things are going to remain as they are? Does the senhora think that because her lover steals away, things are going to remain as they are?”

“But what things do you mean, woman?” said Luiza, stupefied.

“Do you think that because your lover is going away, this is going to end in nothing?”

“But for the love of Heaven!”

Luiza’s voice expressed so much anguish that Juliana was silent. Presently she continued in a lower tone,—

“The senhora knows that it was with some purpose I took the letters; I wanted to ask the help of the senhora’s cousin. I am worn out with work, and I want rest. I went to the hotel this afternoon; the cousin of the senhora was gone—to Olivares, or to the devil! The servant was to follow in the evening with the luggage. Does the senhora think I am to be balked in this way?” And she added angrily, bringing down her hand with violence upon the table, “May a thunderbolt strike me dead if I do not make a scandal in this house that will be the talk of all Portugal!”

“How much do you want for the letters, thief?” asked Luiza, standing before her.

Juliana remained silent a moment.

“Unless the senhora gives me six hundred thousand reis I shall not give up the letters,” she responded at last, with determination.

“Six hundred thousand reis![10] And where do you expect me to find that sum?”

“In hell!” shouted Juliana. “Either you give me six hundred thousand reis, or as sure as I am standing here, when your husband comes back I will read them to him.”

Luiza threw herself on a chair, completely overwhelmed.

“What have I done, my God, that this should happen to me?” she cried.

Juliana placed herself insolently in front of her mistress.

“The senhora says well,” she said. “I am a thief, it is true. I took one letter from the rubbish, and the others I took from the bureau-drawer. And I did this that I might be paid for giving them back.” And she added, frantically taking off and putting on her shawl alternately, “My turn had to come; I have had suffering enough, and I am tired of it. Find the money wherever you wish, but it shall not be five reis less than I have said. I have spent years and years in misery. While the senhora is amusing herself I am slaving myself to death from morning till night to earn fifty reals[11] a month. I rise at six o’clock in the morning, and without a moment’s delay set to work to sweep, to dust, to put in order, while the senhora is lying comfortably in bed without a care. For a month past I have been rising at daybreak to wash and iron; and the senhora never thinks of all the clothes she soils; she goes wherever she wishes to go, and here is the slave with the heart-disease, with the iron in her hand, working herself to death. For the senhora all is pleasure,—parties, carriages, silk gowns, everything she takes a fancy to; but the slave,—let her kill herself working!”

Luiza, overwhelmed, without the strength to answer, cowered under the weight of Juliana’s anger, like a bird in the fowler’s net; while the latter was stimulated to still greater violence by the angry sound of her own voice and by the recollection of the hardships she had undergone and the humiliations she had suffered, which heated her blood like the glowing breath from a furnace.

“Why, what did you think,” she continued,—“that I should go on eating the leavings, and the senhora the tidbits? Who would give me a drop of wine if I should want it, after working hard all day? I must buy it for myself. Has the senhora seen my room? There are so many insects in it that I have to sleep with my clothes on; while if the senhora should feel a single bite, she has the slave take her bed apart, and clean it for her. The servant is a beast of burden; let her work if she can, if not, to the street or to the hospital with her! But my turn has come at last!” she ended, striking her breast with revengeful fury. “It is I who am mistress now!”

Luiza sobbed in silence.

“Does the senhora weep? I, too, have wept a great deal. I wish you no ill; no, Senhora, amuse yourself, enjoy yourself, but I must have my money. I want it all, or these letters shall be heard about. May the roof fall down and crush me if I do not show the letters to your husband, to your friends, to every one in the neighborhood, till you axe ready to drag yourself on your knees through the streets for the shame of it!”

She paused, out of breath, and then continued in a fatigued voice,—

“Let the senhora give me my money, my darling money, and she shall have her letters; and may a thunderbolt strike me dead this instant if ever I open my lips after receiving it.”

And she clapped her hand to her mouth.

Luiza rose, very pale.

“Very well,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I will get you this money. Wait a few days.”

A silence ensued that, after the previous noise, appeared all the more profound. Even the furniture of the room seemed more motionless than before. The only sound to be heard was the ticking of the clock; the candles on the dressing-table burned with a reddish light.

Juliana took up her parasol, put on her shawl, and after looking for a moment at Luiza, said curtly,—

“Very well, Senhora.”

And turning on her heel she left the room.

Luiza heard the outer door close noisily behind her.

“My God! what an expiation!” she exclaimed, dropping into a chair and bursting into tears.

It was almost ten when Joanna returned.

“I have not been able to find out anything, Senhora,” she said. “No one knows anything about her.”

“Very well; bring the lamp.”

And as Joanna left the room, Luiza murmured to herself,—

“That good girl has some love-affair, and she has been enjoying herself with her sweetheart.”

CHAPTER XVI.

A REPRIEVE.

WHAT a night of anguish Luiza spent! No sooner did she fall asleep than she awoke again in terror. She opened her eyes in the half-obscurity of the room, ever conscious of the same sharp anxiety that rankled like a dagger-thrust in her soul. What was she to do? How should she find the money? Six hundred thousand reis! Her jewels, at the utmost, were worth some two hundred thousand; and besides, what would Jorge say if he found she had parted with them? She had some plate, but the same thing was true of that.

The night was warm, and she felt restless and suffocating. At times, through fatigue, she fell into a light sleep, haunted by dreams. She saw before her mountains of gold, and bundles of bank-notes flying around her in the air. She sat up in bed to seize them, and the coins rolled away from her on the floor, and the bank-notes flew away with a mocking sound of wings. Again it was a man who entered her room, and bending before her respectfully, took off his hat and drew from it pounds and pieces of five thousand reis without number, heaping them in her lap. Who it was she did not know; he wore a red cloak and had an insolent air. Could it be the Devil? And what if it were? She would have the money; she would be saved. Then she began to call to Juliana, running after her along a road without end, that grew narrower and narrower, until at last it became a cleft through which she dragged herself, out of breath, clasping to her breast the money, which struck a chill to her heart. She awoke in terror; and the contrast of her actual need with those imaginary riches augmented the bitterness of her situation. On whom could she call for help? On Sebastião. Sebastião was rich and kind-hearted. But to send for him and say to him,—she, Jorge’s wife,—“Lend me six hundred thousand reis!” “What for?” “To redeem some letters I wrote to a lover.” Was it possible to say this to him? No; she was irretrievably lost, and nothing remained for her but a convent.

She turned her pillow, contact with which burned her cheeks, from side to side; she took off her cap, and her long hair fell loose about her. She gathered it up, and fastened it with a hairpin; and lying on her side, leaning her head on her arm, she began to go over bitterly in her mind the romance of the past summer,—the arrival of Bazilio, the excursion to the country, her first secret interview with him. Where was the traitor now? Sleeping tranquilly on the cushions of the railway-car. And she here alone, a prey to anguish! She fell asleep at last just as day was beginning to dawn.

She awoke late, and with a sense of fatigue; but she saw the sun shining in unclouded splendor through the dining-room windows, and this revived her. The canaries were singing in their cages; from the forge near by came the cheerful sound of hammering, and the intense blue of the sky filled the soul with a sense of supreme content. The general cheerfulness inspired her with a sudden courage. She ought not thus to abandon herself to a hopeless despair. No; she would struggle against her fate.

Then she felt a swift influx of hope invade her breast. Sebastião was kind-hearted; Leopoldina had a remedy for everything; other means would occur to her, and perhaps she would be able in the end to get six hundred thousand reis together. She would be saved. Juliana would go away; Jorge would return; and she saw stretch out before her, with a sense of exhilaration, a vista of happy days to come.

Sebastião’s servant called at about twelve o’clock; his master had just arrived from Almada and desired to know how the senhora was. Luiza herself ran to the door; she told the man to beg his master to come and see her as soon as possible.

She would hesitate no longer; her resolution was taken. She would speak to Sebastião. After all, it was the only alternative left her,—either to tell everything to Sebastião or to let Juliana tell everything to her husband. It was impossible to hesitate. And she might gloss over the facts; she might say it was only a platonic attachment. Bazilio’s departure gave the matter the appearance of a past event. And Sebastião was so devoted to her!

At the end of an hour Sebastião arrived. Luiza, from her bedroom, heard him come in, and the very sound of his footsteps in the parlor frightened, almost terrified her. It appeared to her then very terrible and difficult to carry out her project of confessing her situation to him. She framed in her mind phrases and explanations—a vague story of a flirtation, and the interchange of a few letters—as she stood there trembling, with her hand on the knob of the door. He seemed to her taller, more dignified-looking than usual. Never had his glance been more honest nor his countenance more serious than now.

“What is the matter? Can I do anything for you?” he said, after they had exchanged a few commonplace remarks on the news and the weather.

Luiza experienced an inexplicable terror, and answered,—

“It is on Jorge’s account.”

“I wager he has not written.”

“No.”

“He had not written to me either for a long time past,” said Sebastião. “But to-day,” he added with a smile, “I received two letters from him together.”

He looked for them among several papers which he took from his breast-pocket. Luiza sat down on the sofa; she watched him with a beating heart, digging her nails into the cushion of the seat.

“Yes,” said Sebastião, turning over the papers, “I received two together, in which he says he is bored to death in Alemtejo, and speaks of coming home.” And, handing a letter to Luiza, “See—” he said.

Luiza unfolded the letter, and was about to read it, when Sebastião hastily interposed,—

“I beg your pardon; that is not the one.”

“No, but let me see it.”

“No, it is nothing—business—”

“No matter; I want to see it.”

Sebastião, seated on the edge of his chair, scratched his beard, looking at Luiza with a vexed expression.

“What is this?” she cried, frowning, with surprise depicted on her countenance. “Truly this is—”

“Follies, follies,” said Sebastião, turning crimson. Luiza proceeded to read aloud slowly:—

“Know, then, friend Sebastião, that I have made a conquest here. She is not what might be called a princess,—being neither more nor less than the wife of the village shopkeeper. She seems to be desperately in love with your humble servant. God forgive me, but I believe she asks me only a vintem for cigars that are worth a pataco, doing her worthy husband Carlos the double injury of seeking to ruin him in his happiness and in his business.”

“How witty!” she muttered, furious. She went on reading:—

“I am not altogether certain that the Biblical story of the wife of Potiphar will be repeated in my case. I assure you there is some virtue in resisting her, for, shopkeeper as she is, she is extremely pretty, and I sometimes fear that my weak virtue may suffer shipwreck in the end.”

Luiza paused, casting a terrible glance at Sebastião.

“It is only a jest,” he said.

She continued reading:—

“If Luiza were to know of it! And my adventures do not end here. The wife of the delegate throws terrible glances at me. She is from Lisbon,—one of the Camargos who live near Belem. Do you know them? They affect to be dying of weariness in this provincial solitude. She gave an entertainment in my honor, and in my honor, as I believe, she went décoletée. She has a beautiful neck—”

Luiza turned crimson. It was a diabolical jest.

“He has lost his senses!” she said.

“So here you have your friend transformed into a Don Juan, and leaving a wake of amorous flames behind him throughout the province. Pimental charges me—”

Luiza read a few lines farther, in a low voice, and then, rising abruptly, gave the letter back to Sebastião.

“He seems to be amusing himself very well,” she said, in angry accents.

“You should not take it so seriously.”

“Seriously?” she repeated. “On the contrary, I find it quite natural.”

She sat down, and began to talk volubly of other matters,—of Donna Felicidade, of Julião.

“He is working very hard now for the examination,” said Sebastião; “the person I never see is the counsellor.”

“But who are those Camargos of Belem?” asked Luiza.

Sebastião shrugged his shoulders, and said, almost reprovingly,—

“But is it possible that you take this seriously?”

Luiza interrupted him.

“Ah, by the bye, did you know that my Cousin Bazilio has left Lisbon?” she said.

“Indeed!” returned Sebastião, joyfully.

“He has gone to Paris, and I do not think he will return.” And she added, after a pause, as if she had forgotten all about Jorge and his letter, “In Paris he will be able to live more according to his tastes; he had been wanting to go for some time.” Then, lightly patting the folds of her gown, “He ought to marry—” she said.

“So that he might settle down,” said Sebastião, finishing the sentence for her.

But Luiza was afraid that a man who was so fond of travelling, of horses, and of adventures, would never make a good husband.

Sebastião was of opinion that such men often changed, and made good heads of families.

“They have more experience,” he added.

“But a bad foundation to begin upon,” she observed.

Then they were silent, both somewhat embarrassed.

“To speak frankly,” said Luiza at last, “I am very glad of his departure—on account of that nonsense of the neighbors. Lately I scarcely saw anything of him. He surprised me by a visit yesterday,—to say good-by.”

She felt that she was making her story of a platonic affection and an interchange of letters impossible; but a sentiment stronger than herself impelled her to make her relations with Bazilio appear as slight as possible; and she added,—

“We are friends, it is true, but our natures are very different; Bazilio is cold and selfish. Besides, our friendship was never a very intimate one.”

She paused abruptly; she felt that she was getting beyond her depth.

Sebastião remembered having heard her say that they were brought up together; but, after all, the way in which she spoke now of her cousin was the best possible proof that there had never been anything between them. He almost reproached himself for the unjust doubts he had entertained.

“And he is not coming back, you say?”

“He did not say so, but I do not think he is. When he finds himself in Paris—”

And suddenly remembering the letter she had just read, “So you are Jorge’s confidant,” she said.

“Senhora, can you believe—” began Sebastião, smiling.

“Because he always writes to me,” she interrupted, “that he is bored to death, that he is lonely, and that he cannot bear Alemtejo.” Then, seeing Sebastião look at his watch, “What!” she cried, “are you going already? You have been here only a few moments.”

He was obliged to be down town at three, he answered.

Luiza wanted to detain him, without knowing why. She felt her resolution failing her. She began to speak of the work at Almada.

Sebastião had begun the work, thinking that two or three hundred thousand reis would suffice for the alterations he contemplated making. But one thing led to another, and it was a bottomless gulf, he declared, that swallowed up his money.

“When one is rich—” responded Luiza, with a forced laugh.

“It seems as if it were nothing,” continued Sebastião; “but the painting of a door, a new window, the papering of a room, a brick pavement,—what with one thing and another, eight hundred thousand reis have gone.”

He rose to take his leave, saying,—

“I think that chatterbox will soon return to us now.”

“If the shopkeeper’s wife will let him,” said Luiza.

When Sebastião was gone, she began to walk up and down the room, preoccupied by this idea. To allow himself to be made love to by the shopkeeper’s wife, the wife of the delegate, and who could tell how many others! She had confidence in him, of course, but after all, he was a man. And suddenly she pictured him to herself in the embrace of the shopkeeper’s wife, or imprinting a kiss on the neck of the wife of the delegate; and imaginary instances of Jorge’s faithlessness thronged tumultuously to her mind. It was two months since he had left home; he was weary of his loneliness, he met a pretty woman, and he flirted with her as an innocent and agreeable pastime. Traitor! She resolved to write to him a severe and dignified letter,—“he must return at once, or she would go join him.” She went to her room in a state of great excitement. The likeness of Jorge, that she had taken the day before from the satchel, was on her dressing-table. She took it up and looked at it. She was not surprised that they should fall in love with him. He was amiable and handsome. She felt a wave of jealousy sweep over her that darkened her vision; if he should deceive her,—if she discovered the slightest proof of his faithlessness, she would leave him, she would retire to a convent, she would die, she would kill him!

“Here is a letter, Senhora,” said Joanna from the doorway; “the person who brought it is waiting for an answer.”

What a fright! It was from Juliana. It was written on ruled paper, in a large hand, and was full of orthographical errors. It ran as follows:—

SENHORA,—I know very well that I was too hasty, but the senhora must attribute my conduct to my poor health and my misfortunes, for these sometimes make one ill-tempered. If the senhora wishes me to return, and resume my former position (to which I do not think she will object), I shall be very glad to make myself agreeable to her, and I am confident nothing unpleasant will ever occur, always provided that the senhora fulfils her promise. I, on my side, will promise to perform my duties faithfully, and I hope the senhora will accept, for the good of every one concerned. What I said was on the spur of the moment, for every one has occasional fits of ill-temper; and, without troubling her further, I remain the senhora’s humble servant,

JULIANA CONCEIRO TAVIRA.

Luiza stood for a moment with the letter in her hand, unable to decide upon an answer. Her first impulse was to say no. To take her back that she might see her again continually before her, with her hideous countenance, to know that she had her letters in her pocket, and to call her to render her services, to be waited upon by her! No! But she reflected that if she refused and the other were to get angry, Heaven only knew what she might do. Her fate was in her own hands; she must endure everything; this was her punishment. She hesitated a moment longer, and then said to Joanna,—

“Say yes; that she may come back!”

Juliana, in effect, returned to the house at eight o’clock that evening. She went up to the top story, pausing on each step, put on her working-dress and her slippers, and then went to the laundry, where Joanna was sewing by the light of a candle.

Joanna, full of curiosity, immediately began to overwhelm her with questions. Where had she been? What had happened to her? Why had she sent no word of herself?

Juliana answered that she had gone to see a friend who lived in the Avenue Marquez d’Abrantes, and that while there she was seized with a sudden attack of flatulency and pain. She had not sent word, because she expected soon to be well enough to return; but she had spent half a day in bed.

She wanted to know, in her turn, what the senhora had been doing, if she had gone out, if any one had called.

“The senhora has not been very well,” answered Joanna.

“The weather,” returned Juliana, taking up her work.

They spent the rest of the evening in silence.

At ten o’clock Luiza heard a light knock at her door. It was she, without doubt.

“Come in,” she answered.

“The tea is on the table,” said Juliana, in her usual tone of voice.

Luiza waited awhile after Juliana had gone, hesitating to go into the parlor, through fear of encountering her. Then she rose, took a few steps, stopped, and at last entered the room, trembling.

Juliana was in the dining-room. She drew back against the wall, and said in a respectful tone,—

“Do you want me to bring the lamp, Senhora?”

Luiza nodded affirmatively, without looking at her. When she returned to her room, Juliana was filling the water-pitcher on the wash-stand. After arranging the bed and closing the doors, she said quietly,—

“Does the senhora wish anything else?”

“No.”

“Good-night, Senhora.”

And no further word was exchanged between them.

“It seems a dream!” said Luiza to herself, as she undressed sorrowfully. “That woman here in my house, with my letters in her possession, to torture me and rob me!”

What had brought about this state of affairs? She did not know, events had followed each other so rapidly, with the furious haste of a tempest. She had no time to think and to defend herself; she was carried along, and she found herself in her own house in the power of her servant. Ah, if she had only spoken to Sebastião! He, no doubt, had money. With what eagerness she would take it, pay Juliana’s demand, and send her away, and her trunks with her, her rags, everything! She determined to go speak to Sebastião and tell him everything, there in his own house, in order to make the stronger impression upon him. After a while, worn out by the agitations of the day, she fell asleep, and dreamed that she saw a large black bird, with the wings of a bat, flying through her room, creating a current of air as it passed; it was Juliana. She ran in terror into the study, calling on Jorge; but she saw there neither books, nor bookcase, nor table,—nothing but a pyramid of bundles of cigars, and in the balcony Jorge caressing a woman magnificently formed, who was seated on his knee, and who said to him, with languid voice and eyes full of passion, “Brejeiros or Xabregas cigars?” Then she thought she fled from her house, and after a series of confused events found herself beside Bazilio, in a street without end, in which the façades of the palaces had a cathedral-like aspect, and through which carriages rolled on majestically. She told Bazilio, with tears in her eyes, of Jorge’s treachery; and her cousin hovered around her, making love to her while he sang, accompanying himself on the violin,—

“I sent a letter to Cupid

To ask if the duty laid

By the Court of Love be binding

On a heart that has been betrayed.”

Then suddenly everything grew dark, while Juliana continued her flight around and around the room with her bat’s wings.

CHAPTER XVII.

JORGE’S RETURN.

IN returning to Luiza’s house Juliana had followed the advice of Aunt Victoria.

“The bird has flown, my dear,” the latter had said to her. “It is a pity, for you might have made a good sum out of the affair; but who could have guessed that the lover would go away? You can do nothing now but mourn your loss, for you won’t be able to get so much as that”—indicating the point of her nail—“out of her.”

“But I can show the letters to her husband, Aunt Victoria.”

The old woman shrugged her shoulders.

“You will gain nothing by that. Suppose they separate; suppose he ill treats her or puts her in a convent; what do you gain by that? And if they make up you are left in the lurch, and you get nothing from either side. And this supposing things to turn out well; for it is not at all impossible that you should find yourself the richer by a good beating.” And she added, seeing the look of dismay on Juliana’s countenance, “It would not be the first time such a thing has happened, my dear. A great many things take place in Lisbon that never find their way into the papers.”

What she ought by all means to do, according to Aunt Victoria, was to return to the house. For what was there now left of the whole matter? Nothing but the fears of Donna Luiza; and of these it was that she must now avail herself.

“You return to the house,” she continued, “and wait there the fulfilment of her promise to you. If she gives you the money, well and good; if she does not, you are there on the spot, and you can go picking up whatever Providence may chance to throw in your way.”

Juliana hesitated. It would be hard to live under the same roof with her mistress without having continual disputes with her.

“I shall say no more,” returned the old woman; “you will find out that I am right in the end.”

“But I am afraid—”

“Of what?” exclaimed Aunt Victoria. “She is not going to poison you. ‘Nothing venture, nothing have.’ Follow my advice if you like,” she ended; “if not, settle the matter in your own way. What the deuce does it matter? You will see that I am right; and if you find it does not suit you to stay there, why, you can leave the house at any time.”

Juliana made up her mind that she would go and see. By-and-by she discovered that Aunt Victoria sometimes had right on her side.

Luiza appeared resigned to circumstances. Sebastião had gone again to Almada, but she was determined that as soon as he returned she would go to his house some morning, throw herself at his feet, and confess to him everything,—everything. She bore with Juliana, thinking it a question of a few days at the utmost, and never opened her lips to her. The proper course with Juliana was to pay her her wages and put her in the street. Until she could do this, there was nothing for it but to bear with her in silence. When Sebastião returned—

Meantime she avoided seeing her. She never called her. She never left her room in the morning without being certain that her bath was filled, and everything in readiness for her toilet. During the daytime she remained in her bedroom, reading, sewing, thinking of Jorge, and sometimes—with hatred—of Bazilio, desiring Sebastião’s return, and preparing her confession beforehand.

Juliana came face to face with her one day in the hall, carrying a jug of water to her room.

“But, Senhora, why did you not call me?” she exclaimed, apparently shocked.

“I had nothing else to do,” returned Luiza.

Juliana followed her to her bedroom, and closing the door behind her said,—

“Senhora, things cannot go on in this way. It seems as if you were afraid to look me in the face. I have come back to perform my duties as formerly. Of course, I expect the senhora to fulfil her promise, for I will not give up the letters without securing bread for my old age. What I said was on the spur of the moment, and I have asked pardon for it. I want to perform my duties while I am here. If the senhora is not willing,” she ended curtly, “I will leave the house, and it may be the worse for every one.”

“But—” began Luiza, in confusion.

“No, Senhora,” Juliana interrupted severely; “I am the servant.”

And she left the room, tossing her head.

Luiza was terrified by so much audacity. This thief, it appeared, was capable of anything. In order to avoid irritating her, she called her, from this forth, whenever she had occasion for her services. “Bring this,” “Bring that,” she would say, without looking at her. But Juliana was so obliging and so discreet, that Luiza, following the impulse of her fickle nature, and tired of letting things take their course, began to lose her first vivid sense of her misfortune, and at the end of three weeks things had again fallen into their natural order, as Juliana said. Luiza now called her to her room, and sent her on errands when she had occasion to do so. They went so far as to exchange a few words together. “How warm it is!” “The laundress is late in coming.” One day Juliana ventured on the following words, in a confidential tone,—

“I met the servant of the Senhora Leopoldina to-day.”

“Is her mistress still in Oporto?” asked Luiza.

“She will remain there a month longer, at least, Senhora.”

Altogether the house wore an aspect of tranquillity; and Luiza, after so many agitations, surrendered herself to the enjoyment of this repose. She went occasionally to see Donna Felicidade in the Encarnação, and continued to wait for Sebastião’s return, but without impatience, almost happy in the thought that the time was yet distant when she should say to him, “Sebastião, I have written a letter to a lover.”

Thus the days wore on until the end of September. One afternoon Luiza was seated at the window in the dining-room. She had been reading, but the book had fallen from her hand, and she was now gazing with a smile at a flock of pigeons that had flown from some neighboring villa and lighted on the wall of the yard. Then her thoughts reverted to Bazilio. At this moment Juliana appeared in the doorway.

“What is it?” asked Luiza.

The woman shut the door behind her, and stood close beside her mistress. “The senhora has not yet come to any conclusion?” she inquired.

“I have not yet been able to do anything,” responded Luiza, slowly.

Juliana looked at the floor in silence. “Very well,” she muttered at last, and left the room. When she reached the head of the stairs these words fell on Luiza’s ears: “When the master returns, we shall settle accounts.”

When the master returned! Her soul was suddenly shaken by the terrors and the anguish awakened in it by this menace, as the trees of the forest are shaken by a sudden gale. She must do something before his return. Jorge had just written to her that he would be in Lisbon soon, and that he would send her a telegram to let her know by what train to expect him. She wished that the Ministry might send him on some distant journey,—to Spain or Africa,—or that some unforeseen event, without causing him any injury, might keep him away for months. What would he do if he were to discover everything? Would he kill her? She recalled to mind his uncompromising words on the night on which Ernesto had read them the last act of his play. Would he put her in a convent? Already she saw in fancy the heavy door close on its hinges behind her with funereal sound, while the lugubrious eyes of the nuns examined her with curiosity. Her unreasoning terror caused her even to lose the clear idea of her husband; another Jorge, sanguinary and vindictive, presented himself to her imagination, forgetful of his amiable nature, so little disposed to the melodramatic. One day she went into his study, took his case of pistols, put it away in a trunk, and hid the key.

One idea alone sustained her; it was that as soon as Sebastião returned from Almada she would be saved; yet, notwithstanding the unceasing anguish she suffered, she almost dreaded to know that he had returned, so much greater did the anguish appear to her of confessing to him the truth. Then another idea occurred to her,—to write to Bazilio. Her ever-present fears had broken down her pride, as the constant filtration of water saps the foundation of a wall. Every day she found new excuses for asking help from “that traitor.” He had been her lover, he knew about the letters, he was her only relative. In this way she would not be obliged to tell Sebastião. She now regarded her refusal to accept money from Bazilio as a piece of stupid bravado. She ended by writing a long letter to him, somewhat confused, in which she asked him to send her six hundred thousand reis. She herself posted it, covering the envelope with stamps. That same afternoon Sebastião, who had returned from Almada, came to see her. She received him joyfully, happy at not being obliged to make her confession to him. She spoke to him of Jorge’s return, and she even made some allusion to her Cousin Bazilio, and the shameless behavior of the neighbors.

“It is the first thing I shall tell Jorge,” she ended. She now thought herself saved. Every day she followed with her thoughts her letter on its way to France, as if her very life had gone enclosed in that envelope, intrusted to the chances of the railway-trains and the confusion of travel. She saw it reach first Madrid, then Bayonne, and at last Paris. A postman hurried to deliver it in the Rue St. Florentin; Bazilio opened it with trembling hand, he filled an envelope with bank-notes, covered it with kisses, and then the missive that carried her salvation and her peace of mind began its journey towards her. The day on which the answer ought to arrive she rose early, and greatly agitated, and straining her ear to catch every sound, began to await the arrival of the postman. She already saw herself dismissing Juliana, and shedding tears of joy when she had gone. But at half-past ten she began to grow nervous, and at eleven she called to Joanna to ask if the postman had already passed.

“Yes, Senhora; he has already passed.”

“Despicable creature!” she muttered, thinking of Bazilio.

But perhaps he had delayed answering her letter for a day or two. She waited disconsolately and without hope. Nothing! neither now nor on the days that followed. “Traitor!” she repeated to herself. The thought of the lottery occurred to her, for she lived only in the one hope. She bought some tickets, and although she was neither superstitious nor a devotee, she placed them under a pedestal of a Saint Vincent de Paul that stood on the bureau in her bedroom. She neglected nothing; she looked at them every day, added the units together to see whether they amounted to nine, a zero at the end, or an even number, which is of good omen. This daily contact with the image of the saint turned her thoughts to a source of help till now unthought of,—Heaven; and she made a vow that she would cause fifty masses to be said if the tickets drew prizes. But they drew blanks; and then she lost hope altogether. She surrendered herself, almost with pleasure, to inaction, passing entire days without taking the slightest interest in anything, without caring to dress herself, wishing to die, devouring the accounts of suicides, of accidents, of deaths, in the papers, consoling herself for her own unhappiness by the thought that all around her the city was full of sorrow and suffering. At times she was seized by sudden fits of terror. Then she resolved to confide in Sebastião. Again she reflected that it would be better to write to him, but she could not find words in which to do so; she was unable to frame any reasonable story; she lost her courage, and fell back into her former state of inertness, always thinking, “To-morrow, to-morrow.”

Sometimes, when in her room alone, she would look out of the window thinking of what the neighbors would say when they should know all. Would they condemn her? Would they pity her? Would they cry, “What a shameless creature!” or “What an unfortunate woman!” Behind her window-blinds she followed with her glance the promenades of Senhor Paula on the pavement below, the heavy immobility of the coal-vender at her door, and the movements of the three Azevedos behind their window-curtains. They would all exclaim, “Did we not say so?” How horrible! At other times she suddenly fancied she saw Jorge standing before her, terrible in his anger, with her letters in his hand, and she drew back as if she felt the physical pain of his blows. But what most troubled her was the tranquillity of Juliana, as the latter went about her work singing, or waited on her at table in her white apron. What were her secret intentions? What was she plotting? At times an access of rage seized her. If she were strong and brave she would throw herself upon this woman, take her by the throat, and tear her letters from her. But unfortunately she had no more strength than a child.

One morning as she was indulging in thoughts like these Juliana came into the room, with a black silk dress of her mistress’s hanging over her arm. She laid it on the sofa and showed Luiza, close by the lowest flounce, a rent that looked as if it had been cut with a knife; she had come to ask, she said, if the senhora wanted to send it to the dressmaker’s.

Luiza remembered that she had torn it one morning on her way to meet Bazilio.

“That is easily mended,” said Juliana, passing her hand caressingly over the silk.

Luiza hesitated. “It is scarcely worth while,” she answered at last; “it is no longer new. You may keep it for yourself.”

Juliana trembled and flushed with pleasure.

“Oh, Senhora!” she exclaimed. “I am very much obliged to you. It is a handsome present. I am very much obliged to you, Senhora; really—”

Her emotion rendered her unable to proceed. She took up the gown and carried it to the kitchen. Luiza followed her stealthily, and heard her say, very much excited, to Joanna,—

“See what a present! Nothing could be finer! It is almost new, and of very good silk.”

She trailed the skirt along the floor, listening to the delightful frou-frou it made. She had always wished for, and now she possessed, a silk gown of her own.

“The senhora is very good, Joanna,” she said; “she is an angel!”

Luiza returned to her room full of joy. She felt like one who has lost his way at night in the open country, and suddenly sees a light shining in a window in the distance. She was saved! She had only to give Juliana presents,—to satiate her with them. She began to think of other things she might give her, one by one,—her garnet gown, under-clothing, a bracelet—

Two days afterwards—it was on a Sunday—she received a telegram from Jorge. “I leave Carregado to-morrow. Will arrive by the train from Oporto at six A. M.” What a fright! At last he was coming home!

She was young and she loved Jorge, and every other feeling was soon swallowed up in the thought of her happiness at seeing him again, and of his first kiss. She looked at herself in the glass; she had grown thinner, and her face had a tired expression. Jorge’s image presented itself to her mind in clearly-defined outlines,—his complexion slightly bronzed by the sun, his curling locks, and his black eyes. How strange! Never before had she so longed to see him. She at once began to busy herself in making preparations for his arrival. Was the study in order? Perhaps he would wish to take a bath; the large bath-tub must be filled. She went about the house singing, with a feverish light in her eyes. The voice of Juliana in the hall made her shudder. What would she do? If she would at least leave her to enjoy in peace the first few days after Jorge’s return. She felt a momentary courage, and called to her.

“Did you wish anything, Senhora?”

“The master is coming home to-morrow,” said Luiza.

She paused, with her heart beating violently.

“Ah!” responded Juliana; “very well, Senhora;” and she was about to go.

“Juliana,” said Luiza, in uncertain accents.

The other turned around in surprise; and Luiza, clasping her hands with a supplicating gesture, cried,—

“For these first few days—I shall get that for you; don’t be afraid.”

Juliana interrupted her.

“Ah, Senhora! there shall be no trouble as far as I am concerned; all I want is a crust of bread for my old age. I will keep my mouth shut. The only thing is, if the senhora could help me a little from time to time.”

“Of course! as much as you like—”

“Well, you may rest assured that from my lips—” and she placed her finger on her lips, shutting them tightly.

What joy for Luiza! She would have a few days, a few weeks, perhaps, free from torture, with her Jorge. She surrendered herself to her delightful impatience to see him once again. It was strange, but she thought she loved him now more than she had ever done. By-and-by she would consider what course she should pursue; she would give other presents to Juliana; she might prepare Sebastião little by little for her request. She almost felt happy!

In the afternoon Juliana entered her room with a smile on her face, and said,—

“Joanna has gone out; it was her turn; but I wanted to go out too, if the senhora does not mind remaining alone.”

“No, I do not mind; you may go.”

Shortly afterwards she heard the noise of Juliana’s high-heeled boots in the hall, and then the sound of the outer door closing. Then a thought presented itself to her mind that dazzled her as a flash of lightning might have done,—to go to Juliana’s room, search her trunk, and rob her of the letters in her turn. She watched her turn the corner, and then went upstairs slowly, and with her heart beating, listening for every sound. The door of Juliana’s room was open; there came from it an odor of unaired garments that sickened her; a melancholy light entered through the window, and on the floor, placed close to the wall, she saw the trunk. It was locked. She went back to her own room quickly for her bunch of keys. She felt a sense of shame; but what of that if she found the letters! She began to try the keys, one by one, with trembling hand; the lock yielded suddenly, with a creaking sound. She raised the lid; perhaps she should find them here. She proceeded to take out the contents carefully, placing them on the bed,—Juliana’s merino gown, a gilded fan wrapped in tissue-paper; some red and blue ribbons; a rose-colored satin scapulary; some unopened bottles of perfume, with bouquets of roses, cut out of paper, pasted on the glass; three pairs of boots wrapped in newspapers; white garments that diffused a mixed odor of wood and leaves of Indian corn. Placed between two of these latter was a package of letters tied with a thread; but neither hers nor Bazilio’s were among them! They were in a scrawling handwriting, yellow and illegible. What a disappointment! She remained standing by the empty trunk, her arms hanging helplessly by her sides.

A shadow darkened the window for a moment. She trembled. It was a cat walking stealthily on the edge of the roof. She replaced the things in the trunk exactly as she had found them, locked it, and was about to leave the room, when it occurred to her to search in the drawer of the table and under the pillow. Nothing! She grew angry; she would not go away until she had lost all hope; she shook out the bed-clothing, the straw mattress; she looked in every corner of the room; still nothing!

The bell rang suddenly, and she ran downstairs quickly. What a surprise! It was Donna Felicidade!

“Is it you? How are you? Come in!” exclaimed Luiza.

She was better, as she told Luiza in the hall. She had left the Encarnação the day before. Her foot still pained her, but, thank Heaven! she had been able to leave. Her first visit was for Luiza. It was growing dark. They entered the bedroom, and Luiza lighted the candles.

“How do you think I look?” asked Donna Felicidade, standing in front of Luiza.

“A little paler.”

Ah, she had suffered a great deal, she said. She raised the skirt of her gown and showed Luiza her foot, encased in a shoe much too large for her, which she obliged her to touch with her hand. She had one consolation, however,—that half Lisbon had gone to see her, thank God! Yes, all Lisbon,—the better part of Lisbon. “And you did not make your appearance there the whole of last week,” she ended.

“I was not able to go, my dear. Jorge is coming home to-morrow.”

“Ah, you little rogue! That is well. That little heart—” And she whispered in Luiza’s ear.

They both laughed.

“I have taken it on myself,” continued Donna Felicidade, seating herself, “to make up your company this evening. This morning I met the counsellor, and he promised me he would come. I met him in the Martyrs. Think what a piece of good fortune,—the first day I was able to go out. A little farther on I stumbled upon Julião, and he too promised to come.” And she added in a fainting voice, “Do you know that I should not mind taking a little refreshment?”

Luiza it was who opened the door in the evening for the counsellor and Julião, who met on the doorstep, saying to them with a laugh,—

“I am the porter for to-night.”

When they entered the parlor, Donna Felicidade, making an effort to conceal the disturbance produced in her mind by the sight of her beloved Accacio, began to scold Luiza for allowing the two servants to go out on the same day.

“What if you had been taken ill?” she said.

Luiza smiled. She was not given to fainting, she answered. They found her looking a little pale, and the counsellor asked her with interest,—

“Do you still suffer from your teeth, Donna Luiza?”

“From her teeth!” exclaimed Donna Felicidade. “This is the first time I have heard of her having the toothache.”

Julião declared that he had never seen so perfect a set of teeth.

The counsellor hastened to quote,—

“Pearls by lips of coral hid;”

adding, “The last time I had the honor of seeing Donna Luiza, one of her teeth began to trouble her so suddenly that she was obliged to go with all haste into Vitry’s to have it filled.”

Luiza turned crimson. Fortunately at this moment the bell rang. It must be Joanna, she said, as she went to open the door.

“We had been taking a delightful promenade,” continued the counsellor, “when Donna Luiza all at once was seized with a toothache. So intense was the pain that she hurried up the dentist’s staircase as if she were crazy.”

Apropos of pain, Donna Felicidade, who was anxious to awaken the counsellor’s compassion, began to relate the story of her foot; it was a miracle she had not died. And then she spoke of the numerous visits of countesses and viscountesses she had received; the anxiety of every one at the Encarnação on her account; the solicitous attentions of the good Dr. Caminha.

“Ah, I suffered a great deal!” she sighed, her eyes fixed on the counsellor, eager to draw from him some word of sympathy.

Accacio said, with an air of authority, “It is always dangerous to go downstairs without first seeking the support of the banisters.”

“Why, I might have died, might I not?” she said, turning to Julião.

“In this world one may die of anything,” responded Julião, leaning back comfortably in his easy-chair, and smoking his cigarette with an air of enjoyment. He himself, he continued, had been almost run over by a carriage that very afternoon; Sundays he dedicated to amusement, and he generally took a long walk in the suburbs. “I have been living shut up in my den for more than a month past, like a Benedictine monk in the library of his convent,” he ended, laughing, and shaking the ashes from his cigarette on the carpet.

The counsellor desired to know the subject of his discourse; it would undoubtedly be very powerful. When Julião told him that its subject was physiology, Accacio observed in sonorous accents,—

“Ah, physiology! That is an important subject, and one that admits of an elegant style.” And he began to complain of being himself overwhelmed by his literary labors. “Let us hope, Senhor Zuzarte,” he ended, “that our vigils may not prove unfruitful.”

“Yours, Counsellor, yours,” exclaimed Julião. And he added, with an appearance of interest, “When are we to have your new work? It is awaited with a great deal of curiosity.”

“So I understand,” returned the counsellor, with an air of gravity. “Some days since, the Minister of Justice, that illustrious scholar, said to me,—he did me the honor to say to me,—‘Give us your book soon, Accacio; we need light on that subject greatly.’ Those were his words. Of course I bowed and responded: ‘Senhor Minister, I shall not be the one to refuse to my country what my country demands of me.’”

“Very good, Counsellor; very good!”

“I may tell you here in confidence,” he added, “that the minister gave me reason to anticipate the decoration of the order of Santiago in the near future.”

“They should have given it to you before this, Counsellor,” exclaimed Julião, with secret amusement; “but in this country of knaves—yes, you should be wearing it on your breast now!”

“That is true!” exclaimed Donna Felicidade quickly.

“Thanks, thanks!” stammered the counsellor, blushing, and in the expansion of his gratitude offering Julião his snuff-box.

“I will take a pinch to make me sneeze,” said the latter.

Julião was this evening in an agreeable frame of mind; his occupations and the hopes he founded on them had dissipated his bitterness of spirit. He even seemed to have forgotten the humiliation he had endured on the occasion of his meeting with Bazilio in this very parlor; for no sooner did Luiza return than he asked for him.

“He left for Paris some time ago,” she answered.

Donna Felicidade and the counsellor both launched forth in praise of Bazilio. He had left cards on them; an attention that had delighted Donna Felicidade, and filled the counsellor with pride.

“He was a true gentleman!” she said; and Accacio confirmed the assertion with an air of authority.

“And he has a baritone worthy of the S. Carlos,” he declared in conclusion.

“And he is very distinguished-looking,” affirmed Donna Felicidade.

“A gentleman,” repeated the counsellor.

Julião rocked his leg in silence. Listening to these eulogistic expressions, his pique began to revive. He recalled the sarcastic coldness of Luiza on that morning, and the affectation of Bazilio, and he could not help saying,—

“He wears too much jewelry, and his embroidered stockings are not in very good taste; but I believe that is the fashion in Brazil.”

Luiza turned scarlet, and darted at him a glance full of animosity. There still remained in her mind a vague and melancholy recollection of Bazilio.

Donna Felicidade asked if any one had seen Sebastião lately. It was an age since she had seen him, she said, and she regretted it, for he was a person whom it always gave her pleasure to meet.

“He is a great soul,” declared the counsellor, with emphasis. He censured him somewhat, he continued, for not making himself useful to his country. “For after all,” he ended, “to play the piano is a very pretty accomplishment, but it does not give one a position in society.” And he adduced, as an example worthy to be followed, Ernesto, who, although dedicating himself to the dramatic art, was—here his voice took on a graver accent—is, an excellent employee in the custom-house.

They inquired what Ernesto was doing.

Julião had met him a short time since. He had told him then that “Love and Honor” would be brought out within a fortnight, and in the Rua dos Condes they already called him the Portuguese Dumas fils.

“I am not acquainted with that author,” said the counsellor, gravely; “but from his name he would appear to be the son of the famous writer, the author of the ‘Three Guardsmen,’ and other works of the imagination. Be that as it may, however, our Ledesma is a skilful exponent of the art of Corneille. Am I not right, Donna Luiza?”

“Yes,” she answered, smiling vaguely.

She seemed preoccupied. Twice she went to see what time it was by the clock in her bedroom. Almost ten, and Juliana had not yet returned! Who was to serve the tea? She herself went to the closet for the cups and saucers; when she returned to the parlor, observing that her guests were dull and silent,—

“Shall I play something?” she said.

Donna Felicidade, who, seated beside Julião, was examining the engravings of a “Dante” illustrated by Doré, the leaves of which she was turning over as it rested on her lap, said to her suddenly,—

“Have you seen this, Luiza? How pretty!”

Luiza drew near, and looked at the engraving.

“It is a case of unhappy love, Donna Felicidade,” said Julião. “It is the sorrowful history of Paolo and Francesca da Rimini. The lady sitting there is Francesca; and this young man with the flowing locks, kneeling at her feet and embracing her, is her brother-in-law, and—I regret to say it—her lover. And the man with the beard, who is lifting up the tapestry in the background with the one hand, while with the other he draws his dagger, is the husband, who surprises them, and—zas!” he ended, making a gesture as if giving a dagger-thrust.

“Ugh!” cried Donna Felicidade, horrified. “And what is that book lying on the floor? Were they reading?”

Julião replied discreetly,—

“Yes, they were reading, but presently,—

‘Quel giorno più non vi leggiemi avante;’

or, which is the same thing: ‘We read no more during all that day.’”

“Perhaps they were tired,” said Donna Felicidade, smiling.

“Worse than that, Senhora; for, according to the confession of Francesca, this youth with the flowing locks, and her own brother-in-law,—

‘La bocca me bacciò tutto tremante;’

which signifies: ‘He kissed me, tremulous, upon the lips.’”

“Ah,” said Luiza, stealing a rapid glance at Donna Felicidade, “it is a novel?”

“It is Dante,” said Accacio, severely,—“an epic poet, and considered among the best; inferior, perhaps, to our own Camoens, but the rival of the celebrated Milton.”

“But in those foreign stories the husbands always kill their wives,” exclaimed Donna Felicidade. “Is it not so?” she added, appealing to the counsellor.

“Yes, Donna Felicidade, in those countries domestic tragedies such as this are frequently enacted; the violence of the passions is greater there. But among us—and I say it with pride—the sanctity of the domestic hearth is respected. I, for instance, among my numerous acquaintances know only model husbands and wives.” And he added, turning to Luiza with a courteous smile, “Among the latter of whom the mistress of this house is queen.”

Donna Felicidade glanced up at Luiza, who was leaning over her chair, and touching her on the arm, said,—

“She is a jewel!”

“Our dear Jorge deserves her,” continued the counsellor. “For, as the poet says,

‘His noble heart, his haughty brow.

His brave and generous nature show.’”

This conversation irritated Luiza. She was about to seat herself at the piano, when Donna Felicidade exclaimed,—

“But tell me, is there to be no tea here to-night?”

Luiza went to the kitchen and told Joanna to bring in the tea. Shortly afterwards Joanna entered, in a white apron, with the tray in her hands, and looking very red and confused.

“And Juliana?” asked Donna Felicidade.

“She has gone out,” returned Luiza; “she is not in good health.”

“And she is in the streets at this hour! That discredits a house.”

The counsellor also thought it not very proper, he said; adding,—

“For, after all, the temptations of a large city are very great.”

“No!” exclaimed Julião, laughing. “If they seek to tempt her, I renounce my fellow-citizens forever.”

“Oh, Senhor Zuzarte!” returned Accacio, almost with severity, “I alluded to another class of temptations, such as that of entering a tavern, of going to the circus and neglecting her duties.”

Donna Felicidade declared that she could not endure Juliana; she thought she had the face of a Judas, and that she was capable of anything.

Luiza took her part. She was very obliging, an excellent laundress, very honest—

“And she is walking the streets at eleven o’clock at night!” interrupted her friend. “If she were in my house—”

“I understood,” interposed the counsellor, “that she was afflicted with a fatal malady; is that the case, Senhor Zuzarte?”

“Yes, an aneurism,” replied Julião, without raising his eyes from the volume he was looking over.

“Another thing in favor of what I say,” exclaimed Donna Felicidade. “You ought to dismiss her at once. A servant with a thing like that, which may burst when she is bringing you a glass of water. God forbid!”

The counsellor coincided with her in this opinion, adding,—

“And such an event might even bring one into trouble with the authorities.”

Julião closed his copy of Dante and said,—

“I forgot to warn Jorge about it; but the day least expected that woman will drop dead before your eyes upon the floor.”

Luiza was disturbed; it seemed to her as if some new misfortune was threatening her. She said aloud, that it was so difficult to find servants.

In this they were all of one mind. They began to talk about the exactions of servants, who, they said, grew more audacious every day,—as soon as they became a little familiar with one. And what morals!

“The mistresses themselves are very often to blame for that,” said Donna Felicidade. “They make confidants of their servants, and these, once they get possession of a secret, make themselves mistresses of the house.”

Luiza’s hands trembled so that she almost spilled her tea, as she said with a forced smile to the counsellor,—

“And how are you off in regard to servants?”

“Very well,” he returned, coughing. “I have a very respectable person, who has a gift for cooking, who is scrupulously exact in her accounts—”

“And not altogether ugly,” interrupted Julião; “or at least so it seemed to me one day I dropped in at Ferregial Street.”

A crimson hue diffused itself over the bald cranium of the counsellor. Donna Felicidade glanced at him uneasily, with shining eyes. Accacio said severely,—

“I am not in the habit of remarking upon the personal attractions of my inferiors, Senhor Zuzarte.”

Julião stood up, putting his hands into his trousers-pockets with an air of amusement.

“It was a great mistake,” he said, “to have abolished slavery.”

“And the principle of liberty?” burst out the counsellor. “And the principle of liberty? I concede that the negroes were skilful cooks; but liberty is a greater good.”

He expatiated on the subject, denouncing the traffic in slaves; he insinuated doubts regarding the philanthropy of the English; he was very severe with the planters of New Orleans, and related the case of Charles et Georges. He addressed himself exclusively to Julião, who continued to smoke, with his eyes bent on the floor.

Donna Felicidade sat down beside Luiza, and whispered with anxiety,—

“Have you ever seen the counsellor’s servant?”

“No.”

“Do you suppose she is pretty?”

Luiza shrugged her shoulders.

“I begin to fear I know not what, Luiza. I am suffocating.”

And while Accacio discoursed, standing before Julião, she continued to whisper her amatory complaints in Luiza’s ear.

What a relief it was to Luiza when they went away! What had she not suffered in secret during the evening! How tiresome, how stupid they were! And that woman, who had not yet returned! What a life was hers!

She went upstairs to the kitchen, and said to Joanna,—

“Wait up for Juliana. Have patience; she cannot remain long now; perhaps she has been taken sick.”

It was past twelve o’clock, and Luiza had already retired, when the door-bell rang, at first faintly, then more loudly, and at last impatiently.

“The girl must be asleep,” said Luiza to herself.

She jumped out of bed and went in her bare feet up to the kitchen. Joanna was snoring loudly, her head resting on her folded arms upon the table beside the smoking lamp. Luiza wakened her, saw her on her feet, and then went back to bed. Shortly afterwards she heard Juliana saying in satisfied tones,—

“Everything is done, eh? Well, I have been to the theatre. What a beautiful play! It couldn’t be better, Joanna; it couldn’t be better!”

It was late when Luiza fell asleep, and all night long she was troubled by unquiet dreams. She thought she was in an immense theatre covered with gilding. It was an evening in the season; jewels glittered on ivory bosoms, and decorations shone on court dresses. In his box a king, young and of melancholy aspect, sat, rigid and immovable, supporting in his right hand an armillary sphere; his mantle of dark velvet, sown with precious stones, fell around him in artistic folds to the floor, causing the multitude of courtiers to stumble as they approached him.

She was on the stage; she was an actress. She was making her début in Ernesto’s drama, and, trembling with nervousness, she saw, in the vast pit before her, rows of intensely black eyes all gazing at her pitilessly. In the midst of them, towering above the others, rose the bald cranium of the counsellor, like a large white flower surrounded by a swarm of bees. On the stage, the scenery, representing a wood, was oscillating back and forth; on the left stood a pine-tree, majestic and ancient, whose summit resolved itself into the traits of a countenance resembling Sebastião’s. The director of the orchestra clapped his hands. In appearance he was like Don Quixote; he wore round eye-glasses framed in tin, and brandished in his hand a roll of the “Jornal do Commercio.” He cried out,—

“Pass on to the love-scene! pass on to that miracle of art!”

Then the orchestra, the eyes of the musicians glittering, their bushy hair standing on end, played with melancholy slowness the fado of Leopoldina, and a shrill and uneven voice sang in falsetto,—

“I see the clouds, when night is falling,

Float above the boundless sea;

But still I feel thou art beside me,

However distant thou mayst be!”

Luiza now found herself in Bazilio’s arms, which enfolded her, setting her blood on fire by their contact. She felt herself sinking languidly in an element warm as sunshine and sweet as honey. She felt her being thrill with happiness; but, while she sighed with pleasure, she felt herself covered with shame, for Bazilio repeated before the audience the kisses and caresses of their secret meetings. How could she ever have allowed them?

And the audience with one voice shouted, “Brava!” “Encore!”

A thousand handkerchiefs were waved; the women threw bunches of violets at her feet; the king rose from his seat like a spectre and cast the armillary sphere on the stage before her; and the counsellor, in order to follow the example of his Majesty, tore off his bald cranium and threw it to her also, with a cry of mingled pain and triumph. The director shouted,—

“Hail, hail!”

She bowed profoundly; her hair, falling loose around her like that of a Magdalen, swept the stage; at her side Bazilio followed with gleaming eyes the cigars that were thrown to him, catching them with the grace of a torero and the dexterity of a clown. Suddenly the audience gave a cry of terror. There was a moment of tragic and anxious silence. Thousands of eyes were fixed in amazement on the background of the stage, where was seen a garden full of white roses. She, too, followed with her eyes, as if under magnetic influence, the eyes of the others, and saw Jorge,—Jorge, who came forward dressed in black, with black kid gloves on his hands, holding in his grasp a dagger the blade of which glittered less brightly than his eyes. He approached the footlights, and said, bowing gracefully to the audience,—

“Your Majesty, Senhor Infante, Senhor Governor, gentlemen and ladies, it is my turn now. Observe how I shall acquit myself.”

He went towards her slowly, with a step that made the boards tremble, caught her by the hair as if she were a weed he was about to uproot from the ground, and held back her head. He raised his dagger with a tragic gesture, pointed it at her heart, and bending forward plunged it in her breast.

“Excellent!” cried a voice; “a charming piece of acting!”

It was the voice of Bazilio, who was gracefully driving his phaeton into the pit. Erect in the drivers seat, his hat on one side and a rose in his buttonhole, he managed his English horses with admirable skill. Beside him, clad in his sacerdotal vestments, was the Patriarch of Jerusalem. Jorge now drew out his crimsoned dagger; the drops of blood ran along the blade towards the point, fell on the floor with a crystalline sound, and rolled along the boards like red glass beads. She fell, expiring, against the pine-tree whose summit wore the likeness of Sebastião. The tree interposed its spreading roots, soft as a cushion of down, between her body and the hard ground, and protected her from the sun with its foliage, like a tent, letting drip from its leaves upon her parched lips drops of wine. Terrified, she beheld the blood gushing from the wound in her breast, making little pools here and winding rivulets there; and she heard the cry from the pit,—

“The author! the author!”

At this, Ernesto, his hair carefully curled, and with a placid expression on his countenance, made his appearance. He bowed to the audience with a sigh of pleasure, and each time he made his bow he jumped to one side and another, that he might not stain his patent-leather slippers with Cousin Luiza’s blood. She felt herself expiring, when suddenly she heard confusedly a voice saying,—

“Hello! How is every one here?”

It sounded like Jorge’s voice. Whence did it come? From the sky? From the pit? From the hall? She heard a noise as of luggage being thrown on the floor, and she sat up in bed.

“Very well, leave it there,” she heard Jorge’s voice saying.

She jumped out of bed and threw on her wrapper. He entered the room, and they remained clasped in each other’s arms in a long and close embrace, while their lips met in a silent kiss.

The clock in the bedroom struck seven.

CHAPTER XVIII.

BIDING HER TIME.

AT noon on the same day Jorge and Luiza were conversing together after breakfast in the dining-room, as on the eve of the departure of the former for Alemtejo. But they were not now, as then, oppressed by the torrid heat of summer; the blinds were thrown open to the October sunshine, and from time to time an autumnal breeze stirred the air. The light was paler, and on the trees the leaves were beginning to turn yellow.

“How pleasant it is to be at home again!” said Jorge, settling himself comfortably in his easy-chair.

He described his journey to Luiza. He had worked like a slave, he said, and made a good deal of money. He had brought with him notes for an interesting memoir, and had made many friends among the good people of Alemtejo. He had done with the sunburnt plains, the journeys on horseback through the mountains, the inns, and he was at home at last in his own little house. As on the eve of his journey, he was smoking his cigarette and caressing his mustache, for he had shaved off his beard. This was what had most struck Luiza in his appearance when she first saw him that morning. He had told her in regretful accents that the heat had made it necessary.

“But how becoming it is to you!” she had answered.

Jorge had brought her as a present half a dozen rare old china plates with humpbacked mandarins on them, suspended majestically in the blue atmosphere,—a treasure that he had discovered in the house of some old ladies in Mertola. Luiza was now arranging them on the shelves of the sideboard, and standing thus on tiptoe, the train of her morning-gown trailing behind her, her luxuriant chestnut hair reflecting golden lights where it caught the sunshine, she appeared to Jorge more graceful, more irresistibly charming than ever.

“The last time we breakfasted here together was on a Sunday,” he said. “Do you remember?”

“I remember,” answered Luiza, without turning round, bestowing her whole attention, apparently, on the plate she was arranging on the shelf.

“And, by the bye,” said Jorge, suddenly, “did you see your cousin? Did he pay you a visit?”

The plate slipped from her hand, making a clatter among the glasses.

“Yes,” she answered, after a pause; “he came to see me occasionally; but he stayed only a short time in Lisbon.” She opened the drawer of the sideboard and began to count the silver spoons and forks. She turned round at last, very red, and shaking the dust from her fingers said, “They are all complete.” And she went and sat down on Jorge’s knee.

“How becoming it is to you!” she repeated, twisting his mustache.

She gazed at him ardently. When she had thrown herself into his arms that morning, she felt her heart open to him, and a sudden influx of affection thrill it with delight. She felt a desire to worship him unceasingly, to throw her arms about him and clasp him tightly to her heart, to anticipate his lightest wishes; it was a complex sensation of infinite sweetness that penetrated to the very depths of her being. She passed her arm around his neck, and murmured in his ear in caressing tones,—

“Are you happy? Do you feel comfortable? Tell me.”

Never had he appeared to her so handsome or so worthy to be loved as now.

“The Senhor Dom Sebastião is here,” said Juliana at the door, addressing Jorge.

Jorge gave a cry of joy, released himself hastily from Luiza’s arms, and went out into the hall, exclaiming,—

“Come to my arms, you rascal!”

One morning, a few days afterwards, when Jorge had gone to the Department, Juliana entered Luiza’s bedroom, and slowly closing the door behind her, said in a pleasant voice,—

“I should like to say something to the senhora.”

And she went on to say that her room was worse than a pigsty, and that she could not remain in it any longer; the heat, the insects, the want of air, and in winter the dampness, were killing her; in short, she wanted to change her room for the one downstairs in which the trunks were kept.

This room had a window looking out on the street; it was high and spacious. In it were kept Jorge’s drawings, his portmanteaus, his old coats, and the venerable trunks, red, with a yellow border, of his grandfather’s time.

“I should be in heaven then, Senhora,” she ended.

But where were the trunks to be put? Luiza asked.

“Upstairs in my room;” and she added with a little smile, “Trunks are not people; they cannot feel.”

Luiza answered, a little confused,—

“Very well, I will see; I will speak to your master about it.”

“I rely upon the senhora.”

But when Luiza told Jorge that afternoon of “that poor creature’s ambition,” he gave a jump.

“What! to move the trunks? Is she crazy?” he said.

Luiza insisted, however. It had been the “poor creature’s” dream ever since she had been in the house. No one could have an idea of what the poor woman’s room was like! The odor was sickening; the rats ran over her as she lay in bed at night, and the rain came in; she had not slept in it very long, and her health had already begun to suffer.

“Good heavens! That is like what my grandmother used to relate of the dungeons of Almeida,” he exclaimed. “Change her room, change her room at once, child, and send my fine trunks up to the garret.”

When Juliana learned that the favor she asked had been granted, she said,—

“Ah, Senhora, you give me new life! God will reward you; for my health is not in a fit condition to sleep in a garret like that.”

At this time she complained frequently of her health. Her complexion was livid, with a red spot on either cheek; she had days of profound sadness and nervous excitability; her feet gave her no rest. Ah! she needed to take a great deal of care of her health, a great deal of care indeed! Following up her advantage, she requested Luiza two days afterwards to come and look at the trunk room; and showing her the floor, in which many of the bricks were wanting,—

“This cannot remain as it is, Senhora,” she said. “I must have a matting, or it is not worth while to make the change. If I had money, I would not trouble the senhora; but—”

“Very well, very well; I will see to it,” returned Luiza, resignedly. And she bought the matting without saying anything to Jorge. But when it was brought home he asked Luiza what was the meaning of the rolls of matting in the hall.

She laughed, and placing her hands on his shoulders, “The meaning of it is that Juliana begged me for a matting,” she said, “because the floor of her room is almost without bricks. She wanted to pay for it, and let me deduct it from her wages, which would have been an absurdity.” And she added, with a compassionate gesture, “After all, they are God’s creatures, as we are, and not slaves.”

“Bravo! See that the bronzes and mirrors are taken to the senhora’s room without delay. But what is the meaning of this change? Once you could not bear to look at her.”

“Poor thing!” said Luiza; “I always knew she was a good woman, and while I was alone I learned to appreciate her better. I had no one to talk to, and she was company for me; and when I was sick—”

“What! you were sick?”

“Only for a few days—a cold. As I was saying, she did not leave me night or day.”

Luiza was afraid that Jorge would speak of her illness to Juliana, and that the latter, taken unaware, would say she had not been sick. She therefore called her, towards evening, into her room.

“I have told your master,” she said, reddening as she spoke, “that you were very attentive to me during an illness I had while he was away.”

Juliana smiled to find herself thus made her mistress’s accomplice,—a thing which coincided so well with her own designs.

“I understand, Senhora; you may make yourself easy,” she returned.

The following day after breakfast Jorge said graciously to Juliana,—

“I understand you took good care of your mistress while she was ill.”

“I only did my duty,” she answered, bowing, and laying her hand on her heart.

“Very well, very well,” replied Jorge, putting a half-pound into her hand as he left the room.

“Things are going on well,” said Juliana to herself. That very week she complained to Luiza that the clothing put away in her trunk was being attacked by moths. Everything was getting spoiled. If she had money herself she would not trouble the mistress. Finally she declared one morning that she needed a bureau.

Luiza grew hot with anger, and lifting her eyes from her work,—

“You mean a low bureau?” she said.

“If it is all the same to the senhora, I should like one full size,” returned Juliana.

“But you have very little clothing,” said Luiza, who was beginning to grow weary of her humiliating position, and was determined to resist these increasing exactions.

“That is true, Senhora,” replied Juliana; “but I intend to supply the deficiency now.”

The bureau was bought in secret, and introduced into the house surreptitiously. What a happy day for Juliana! She was never tired of inhaling the aroma of the new wood as she passed her trembling hand caressingly over the varnish. She lined the drawers with tissue-paper, and set herself to work at once to supply the deficiencies in her wardrobe. The weeks that followed were bitter ones for Luiza. Juliana entered her room every morning, full of compliments, and began to set things in order. Suddenly she would say in a complaining voice,—

“I am so badly off for under-clothing! If the senhora could help me a little.”

Luiza opened her overflowing drawers, and proceeded to set aside the oldest articles they contained. She had a great affection for her under-garments; she had them by the dozen, beautifully marked, with little perfume-bags lying among them. It grieved her to give any of them away. Juliana came at last to demand them as her right. She would simply say of some article, “How pretty! The senhora does not want this, does she?”

“Take it,” Luiza would say, smiling through pride, that it might not seem as if she were acting under compulsion.

Every evening Juliana shut herself up in her room, and, seated on her matting, the candle on a chair beside her, set herself to remove the marks from the linen, replacing them, while her bosom swelled with pride, with her own initials, “J. C. T.,”—Juliana Conceiro Tavira. There was an end to this at last, for, as she said, she had more than enough under-dosing now.

“If the senhora would help me now with something for the street,” she next began.

Luiza proceeded to dress her. She gave her a gown of garnet silk, and a jacket of black cashmere embroidered with soutache braid. Fearful lest Jorge should recognize them, she effected a transformation in their appearance; she had the gown dyed a chestnut brown, and with her own hands she trimmed the jacket with black velvet. She now worked for that woman! Good Heavens! how was all this to end? she thought.

One day Jorge said with a laugh at the dinner-table, “Juliana looks as fine as a peacock now. Any one can see that things are prospering with her.”

Donna Felicidade noticed the same thing in the evening.

“How chic!” she exclaimed. “Not even a palace servant is as fine!”

“Poor creature!” responded Luiza; “those are old things she has made over for herself.”

Things were in fact prospering with Juliana. She used on her bed only linen sheets. She asked for a new mattress, and a rug for the foot of her bed. The little bags that Luiza had used to perfume her clothes were now used to perfume hers. She had muslin curtains, tied back with blue silk ribbons, at her window, and on her bureau were two gilded vases of Vista Alegra. Finally she went out one feast-day with a neatly arranged chignon instead of her silk net.

Joanna was amazed at all this luxury. She attributed it to the mistress’s generosity, and she complained that she was forgotten. One day, when Juliana used for the first time a new parasol, she said with an air of pique in Luiza’s presence,—

“All for some people; for others nothing.”

“What nonsense!” Luiza said quickly, with a smile; “I am the same towards every one.”

This gave her food for thought, however. It might be that Joanna suspected something, that she had heard something from Juliana. On the following day, to keep her in good-humor, she gave her two silk handkerchiefs, and afterwards, two thousand reis, to buy a dress with. From this time forth she never refused her permission to go of an evening to visit her aunt.

Joanna declared on all occasions that the mistress was an angel. In the neighborhood they began to remark Juliana’s finery. They had heard of her new gown, and they whispered to one another that Juliana had money laid by. Senhor Paula said with indignation that there was some mystery there. Juliana, in order to silence suspicion, thought fit to give some explanation to Paula and the tobacconist.

“They say I have this, that, and the other,” she said; “it is no such thing. I have, it is true, some comforts; but remember how I took care of the aunt, day and night, without a moment’s rest. No matter how much they may do for me, they can never repay me for that, for I lost my health on account of it.”

Thus was Juliana’s prosperity explained. The family were grateful to her, the neighbors said, and treated her as if she were a relative. As a consequence of this the house of the engineer came to be regarded by the servants of the neighborhood as a sort of paradise. It was asserted that the wages were high, with wine at discretion; that the servants received presents every week, and that they had chicken-broth daily. They all desired these good things for themselves. The inculcadeira contributed to extend the fame of the house, which became at last the subject of a sort of fairy-tale. Jorge, to his astonishment, received every day letters from people offering themselves to him as servants,—butlers, cooks, grooms, housekeepers, coachmen, porters, scullions. They mentioned the wealthy houses in which they had been employed, and offered to send references.

“Strange!” said Jorge to himself, walking up and down the room. “They dispute with one another the honor of serving me. One would suppose I had drawn the grand prize in the lottery.”

But he attached no great importance to the matter. He was very much occupied in the writing of his memoir, and he left the house every day at twelve, to return at six laden with rolls of paper and maps, tired, hungry, and joyous. He related to his guests, one Sunday evening, laughing, what had taken place.

The counsellor thought it very simple.

“Donna Luiza’s good temper, Jorge,” he said, “her excellent disposition; a salubrious neighborhood; a peaceful household, without family disputes. It is natural that servants less favored by fortune should aspire to so agreeable a position.”

“That is my opinion also,” said Jorge, patting Luiza gayly on the shoulder.

The house, in effect, began to assume a more cheerful aspect. Juliana exacted a more abundant table, so that she might have her portion without scrimping; and, as she was a good cook, she watched the fire, tasting the various dishes, and teaching Joanna how to make new and choice ones.

“This Joanna is a prodigy,” said Jorge; “she improves every day.”

Juliana, well lodged, well fed, with fine white under-clothing without stint, began to find some savor in life; her nature expanded in the midst of this abundance; and then, judiciously advised by Aunt Victoria, she performed her duties with zeal and skill. She took care of Luiza’s gowns as if they were relics; never had Jorge’s collars been so lustrous. The October sun shone cheerfully into the house, clean and orderly as a convent. Even the cat grew fatter.

In the midst of all this well-being Luiza suffered in secret. How far would Juliana’s tyranny extend? How she hated her! She followed her at times with a glance so vindictive that she almost expected her to turn around suddenly, as if she had received a stab in the back. And she saw her, meantime, contented, singing the “Carta Adorada,” sleeping in a bed as good as hers, strutting about in her clothes, ruling in her house. Good Heavens! was this just? she asked.

At other times she gave way to her anger, she cursed her fate, she writhed in her anguish as in the meshes of a net; but, finding no solution to the problem that tormented her, she fell into a morose melancholy in which her nature became perverted. She followed with joy the growing pallor of Juliana’s countenance, and fixed all her hopes on the aneurism. After all, might it not burst any day? And Jorge, meanwhile, was never tired of praising this woman!

Life weighed heavy upon her. No sooner did Jorge close the street-door behind him in the morning than a feeling of melancholy, blended with an indefinable fear, descended upon her soul like a funereal pall; she did not dress till four or five o’clock in the afternoon. Clad in a loose wrapper, her feet thrust into slippers, her hair in disorder, she wandered listlessly about her room. At times an impulse would suddenly assail her, to fly secretly from home and hide herself in a convent. Her nervous excitement would have impelled her to some melodramatic act, were it not that her love for Jorge retained her with irresistible power at his side. For she loved him now with ardor. She loved him as she had never done before with the irresistible impulses of passion. She was jealous of everything, even of the Department and of the memoir; she interrupted him continually at his work; she would catch his hand eagerly in hers, jealous of every glance, of every word; and his footsteps in the hall made her heart beat, as if they were those of a lover.

At first the remembrance of Bazilio troubled her enjoyment of this affection, imbittering every kiss. But little by little this remembrance faded away, until at last scarcely a trace of it remained. How happy she might be,—if it were not for that traitress!

Yes, she it was, that traitress Juliana, who was happy! At times she would glance around her room smiling, as a miser glances at his treasures; she would unfold and shake out her silk gowns; arrange her wrappers in a row, contemplating them ecstatically; and, opening her bureau-drawers, count and recount her under-garments, with the caressing glance of one well pleased with her possessions. “How many things the senhora has!” she would murmur, suffocating with joy.

“Ah, now, indeed, I am well off,” she said one day to Aunt Victoria.

“I believe it,” responded the latter. “Though you have not succeeded in obtaining a conto de reis, remember you are indebted to my advice for some handsome presents. You should make some return for them besides gratitude,—a fine piece of linen, some handsome jewelry, some money. Make the most of your opportunities, my dear; make the most of your opportunities!”

And this was what Juliana resolved to do. Little by little she began to think she ought now to enjoy life. Since she had so good a bed, why should she rise so early? With such fine dresses, why should she not take a walk occasionally? She must make the most of her opportunities. One very cold morning she remained in bed till nine o’clock, with the shutters open, and the sunshine falling across the matted floor. She explained the occurrence coolly to Luiza by saying that she had overslept herself. Two days afterwards Joanna came to her mistress at ten o’clock, saying,—

“The Senhora Juliana is still in bed, and everything is yet to be done.”

Luiza was terrified. What! must she endure her neglect of her duties as she had endured her exactions?

She went to Juliana’s room.

“You are still in bed,” she said.

“I am obeying the doctor’s orders,” replied Juliana, insolently.

And from this day forth she hardly ever rose before it was time to serve the breakfast. Luiza asked Joanna to take her place; it would be only for a short time, the poor woman suffered so much! And in order to make her contented she gave her money to help her to buy a gown.

Juliana then began to go out without asking permission, and when she came home late for dinner she did not take the trouble to make any excuse. One day Luiza, seeing her putting on her black gloves in the hall, could no longer restrain herself.

“Are you going out?” she said.

“Yes, I am going out. Everything is in order,—everything that it is my duty to see to.”

And she walked away, her heels clicking noisily on the floor.

Juliana was determined to do in future only what her mistress refused to do.

Joanna began to complain. “The Senhora Juliana all day in the streets,” she would say, “and I may get along the best way I can.”

“If you were sick you would do as she does,” Luiza said to her the first time she heard her grumbling. And she gave her a glass of sweet wine.

Luiza was very much troubled. How was all this going to end? Juliana neglected her duties more and more every day. In order to go out earlier, she neglected everything but the most important of her obligations. Luiza now always put away the china, very often removed the things from the table, and even went up to the roof at times to hang the clothes out to dry. One day Jorge came home at about four o’clock in the afternoon and saw the bed still unmade. Luiza hastened to say to him that she had sent Juliana to the dressmaker’s. Two days later it was already past six o’clock when Juliana came home to serve the dinner.

“She is at the dressmaker’s,” Luiza said this time also.

“Well, if Juliana is here only to go on errands to the dressmaker’s, we must have another servant to attend to the duties of the house,” answered Jorge.

These words, coldly uttered, brought tears to Luiza’s eyes, and sent the color from her face.

Jorge was astonished. What was it? he asked her. What was the matter?

Luiza, instead of answering, burst into a hysterical fit of weeping.

“But what is this? What is the matter, child? Are you angry with me?”

Luiza, choking with sobs, made no reply.

Jorge kissed her again and again, and made her inhale smelling-salts. Only after some time was she able to say with choking voice,—

“You spoke so harshly to me, and I feel so nervous.”

He laughed, he called her a foolish child, he wiped away her tears; but he remained thoughtful. He had already noticed in her a certain inexplicable sadness and dejection, alternating with a sort of nervous irritability. What did it mean?

In order that Jorge might not observe Juliana’s neglect of her duties in the future, Luiza began to do herself what Juliana left undone. Juliana perceived this, and very quietly adopted the plan of leaving her more and more each day in which to amuse herself. She began by leaving off dusting, then sweeping, and finally she no longer made the beds. Donna Felicidade came in one day unexpectedly, and saw Luiza sweeping the parlor.

“It is all very well for one who has no servant to do that,” she said; “but for you—”

Juliana had such a quantity of clothes to starch, Luiza replied.

“You should not excuse her from any of her duties; far from thanking you, she will laugh at you. You are giving her bad habits. She must learn to put up with her lot.”

Luiza smiled, and said,—

“It is only for this once.”

Her sadness went on increasing. She took refuge in Jorge’s affection as her sole consolation. At night she could breathe; Juliana was asleep; she did not see her sour countenance, she was not obliged to praise her, she was not doing her work for her. Then she was herself,—the Luiza of former times. She was safe in her own room, her husband beside her, free! She could live, laugh, talk; she even had an appetite. And in fact she sometimes took bread and preserves to her room to eat before going to bed.

All this aroused Jorge’s wonder. “You are another person in the evening,” he would say to her; and he called her a “night-bird.”

But what an awakening in the morning! Existence then weighed heavy upon her. She dressed herself with repugnance, entering upon the new day as on a state of bondage. She lost the hope of recovering her liberty. At times the thought of confessing everything to Sebastião passed through her mind like a flash of lightning. But when she saw him, with his honest glance, embracing Jorge, and going off with him to his study to smoke, it seemed to her easier to go out into the street and ask money from the first passer-by than to go to Sebastião and say to him, “I wrote a man a letter which the servant stole from me.” No! Rather die with this daily agony, rather scrub the steps, than this. At times she thought, “But what am I hoping for?” She did not know,—some unforeseen occurrence, or the death of Juliana. And she went on living, enjoying as a favor each new day’s exemption from disgrace, and beholding vaguely in the distance a dark and fathomless abyss into which she would end by sinking.

At this time Jorge began to complain that his shirts were badly ironed. Juliana was positively getting spoiled. One day he grew angry, and crumpling up his shirt, called her, and threw it on the floor at her feet.

“This sort of thing cannot continue,” he said; “it is disgraceful.”

Juliana grew livid, and fixed on Luiza a glance that burned into her soul; but she began to make excuses with trembling lips. The starch was vile, and it must be changed.

No sooner had Jorge gone away than Juliana swept into Luiza’s room like a whirlwind, closed the door behind her, and began to cry out that the mistress soiled a heap of clothes, the master a heap of shirts, and that without assistance she could not do so much work. “Whoever wants slaves must go to Brazil for them,” she ended. “And I am in no humor to put up with the ill-temper of your husband, do you understand, Senhora? If there is so much put upon me to do I must have help.”

Luiza answered simply, “I will help you.”

She attained at last to a state of resignation sombre and silent. She accepted everything. At the end of the week there was an accumulation of soiled clothes, and Juliana said that if the mistress would iron she would starch, otherwise she would not. The day was a fine one, and Luiza had intended to go out. She laid aside her gown, and without a word went and took up the iron.

Joanna looked on in amazement.

“Is the senhora going to iron?” she said.

“There is a heap of clothes, and Juliana alone cannot finish them,” returned her mistress.

She installed herself in the laundry, and was engaged in ironing some article belonging to Jorge, when Juliana made her appearance, with her hat on.

“Are you going out?” exclaimed Luiza.

“I came to tell the mistress; it is unavoidable.”

And she began to button her black gloves.

“But who is going to starch the shirts?”

“I am going out,” replied the other, curtly.

“But for Heaven’s sake who is going to starch the shirts?”

“Let the senhora starch them.”

“Infamous wretch!” cried Luiza, throwing the iron on the floor and rushing out of the room.

Juliana could hear her sobbing in the hall. Terrified, she took off her hat and gloves. A short time afterwards she heard the street door close violently. She went to Luiza’s room, and saw the wardrobe in confusion and the hat-box lying on the floor. Where had she gone? To lay a complaint before the police? To look for her husband? “A thousand devils!” thought Juliana. “That is not a temper to be trifled with.” She hurried back to the laundry, and began to starch the clothes, repenting of her imprudence, and resolved to be more cautious in future. If Luiza were driven to commit some folly, she, after all, would be the loser. She would be obliged to leave the house, to give up her room, her comforts, her easy situation. The deuce!

Luiza left the house like a madwoman. In the Rua da Escola an empty coupé was passing; she called it, and giving the driver Leopoldina’s address, entered it. She must have returned by this time from Oporto, she thought; she wanted to see her, she did not clearly know why,—do unbosom herself to her, to ask for some suggestion, some means of revenging herself. For the desire of shaking off this tyranny was now less strong than that of avenging so many humiliations. What if she were to poison her tormentor? It seemed to her that she would feel an intense delight in witnessing her writhings, her throes of agony, and at last her death-struggle. She ascended the steps of Leopoldina’s house, and with feverish hand violently pulled the bell. No sooner had Justina caught sight of her than she began to call out to her mistress from the hall,—

“The Senhora Donna Luiza! the Senhora Donna Luiza! Donna Luiza!”

Leopoldina, in a crimson morning-gown with a long train, and her hair in disorder, hurried to meet her, with open arms.

“Is it you?” she cried. “What miracle has brought you here? I have only just now got up. Come in, come in. Everything is in confusion, but no matter.”

She opened the shutters. There was a strong odor of toilet vinegar perceptible. Justina hastened to empty a jug of dirty water, and to put out of sight some soiled towels. Some false curls were lying on a jardinière, and on the floor some burnt ends of cigarettes. Leopoldina raised the blind, saying,—

“God be praised, my dear, that you honor this house at last with your presence!”

But when she saw Luiza’s altered countenance and tearful eyes, “What is this? What is the matter? What has happened?” she exclaimed.

“Something horrible, Leopoldina,” returned Luiza, clasping her hands together.

The other-closed the door quickly.

“What is it?” she said.

But Luiza continued to cry without answering her. Leopoldina gazed at her in astonishment.

“Juliana stole some letters from me,” she said at last, between her sobs. “She demands six hundred thousand reis for them. I am lost! My life is a martyrdom. I want you to help me,—to try if you can think of anything. I am almost crazy. It is I who do all the work of the house; I can bear it no longer.” And her tears flowed afresh.

“And your jewels?”

“They might be worth two hundred thousand reis. And what should I say to Jorge?”

Leopoldina was silent for a moment; then, glancing around the apartment, and opening wide her arms, she said,—

“All I possess, my dear, is not worth twenty pounds!”

Luiza, drying her eyes, murmured,—

“What an expiation is mine! My God! What an expiation!”

“What is there in those letters?”

“Horrible things! I was crazy. There is one of mine, and two of his.”

“Of your cousin’s?”

Luiza slowly nodded her head affirmatively.

“And he?”

“I don’t know. He is in France, and he has not answered my letter.”

Luiza then rapidly related the story of the sarcophagus and the box.

“But what an idea of yours! To put a letter like that in such a place! It was a piece of folly, child!” And Leopoldina paced rapidly up and down the room. Her eyes, large, black, and full of excitement, seemed searching space for some remedy, some means of escape out of this difficulty.

“This is a question of money,” she said at last. Luiza, seated on the sofa, repeated dejectedly, “Yes, a question of money.”

Leopoldina stopped suddenly before her.

“I know who would give you this money,” she said.

“Who?”

“A man I know.”

Luiza rose, frightened.

“Who is it?”

“Castro.”

“Of the eye-glasses?”

“Of the eye-glasses.”

Luiza turned crimson.

“Oh Leopoldina!” she murmured.

After a pause she added,—

“I know it; he told Mendonça he would. You know they are inseparable. He said he would give you anything you asked of him. He said so more than once.”

“How horrible!” exclaimed Luiza, with sudden indignation. “And you propose such a thing to me?” And she looked at Leopoldina with frowning brow and flashing eyes. To receive money from a man! She took off her hat hastily, and with trembling hand threw it on the jardinière, and began to walk with agitated steps up and down the room.

“I would rather run away, hide myself in a convent, be a servant and sweep the streets!”

“Don’t get excited, child. What are you thinking? Perhaps he would lend you the money without interest.”

“Do you think so?”

Leopoldina did not answer, but with bent head began to turn the rings on her fingers round and round.

“It would be a conto de reis,—two; you would be saved, and you might then be happy.”

Luiza gave a shudder of indignation at these words, perhaps at her own thoughts!

“It is base and horrible!” she said.

They were both silent.

“Ah, if I were in your place!” said Leopoldina.

“What would you do?”

“Write to Castro, asking him for the money.”

“That is you!” exclaimed Luiza, unable to restrain herself.

Leopoldina blushed through her powder.

Luiza flung her arms around her neck.

“Forgive me; I am beside myself; I don’t know what I am saying!” she murmured.

They both began to cry hysterically.

“You have wounded me!” said Leopoldina, sobbing. “I said it for your good, because I thought it the best thing you could do. If I had the money I would give it to you,—believe me.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Who is there?” asked Leopoldina.

“I,” answered a hoarse voice.

“It is my husband. That animal has not left the house to-day. I cannot open now,” she said at the door. “Come back by-and-by.”

Luiza dried her eyes and took up her hat.

“When will you come again?” Leopoldina asked her.

“As soon as I can; if I cannot come I will write.”

“Very well. Meanwhile I will think what can be done.”

Luiza caught her by the arm.

“Of this—not a word!”

Luiza left the house, and walked slowly towards S. Roque. The door of the Church of the Misericordia was open, the embroidered banner fluttering in the doorway, gently stirred by the breeze. She felt impelled to enter, she knew not why; but it seemed to her that the coolness of the church would calm her agitated spirit. She felt so unhappy that she remembered God. She felt the need of something strong and powerful in which to take refuge; she knelt down at the foot of the altar, crossed herself, and recited a Pater Noster and an Ave Maria. But those prayers of her childhood afforded her no consolation; they were like soulless sounds that mounted no nearer to Heaven than did the agitated breath that framed them; she did not clearly understand their meaning; they had no application to her case. God could never guess by them what she asked of him, prostrate here in her anguish. She wanted to speak to God, to open her whole heart to him, but in what language? With words such as she used in speaking to Leopoldina? Would her prayers ascend so high that they would reach him? Was he so near that he could hear her? She remained kneeling, her arms powerless, her hands clasped, gazing, by the light of the yellow wax candles, at the tarnished embroideries, and the round and rosy face of an Infant Jesus.

Slowly, like rings of smoke floating upward in the atmosphere, her thoughts began to revolve around the time, now so far away, in which, through a feeling of sadness or of sentimentality, she used to visit the churches with frequency. Her mother was still living, and she, her heart heavy within her—when Bazilio had written to her, breaking the tie that bound them—sought to transmute her sadness into the ecstasy of devotion. A friend of hers, Joanna Silveira, had gone about this time to France, to take the veil; at times she longed to do so too, to become a sister of charity, to raise up the wounded on the field of battle, or to pass her life in the mystical and untroubled peace of a convent cell. What a difference between that life and her present one, so troubled by anger, so weighed down by sin!

A sacristan, passing by, coughed harshly, and as the young birds in the nest cease their chirping at a sudden noise, so were these voices from the past now silent within her. She sighed, rose slowly to her feet, and went sorrowfully homeward.

Juliana, who opened the door, said to her in the hall, in a supplicating voice,—

“Forgive me, Senhora; I was crazy; my head was light from not having slept during the whole night. I am very sorry.”

Luiza went directly to the parlor, without answering. Sebastião, who was to dine with them, was playing the serenade of “Don Giovanni.” When he saw her he exclaimed,—

“What makes you so pale?”

“I am only a little tired, Sebastião,” she answered. “I have just come home from church.”

Jorge was at that moment coming out of his study with some papers in his hand.

“From church!” he repeated. “What folly!”

CHAPTER XIX.

A DINNER AT THE COUNSELLOR’S.

AT about this time a paragraph appeared one Saturday in the “Diario do Governo,” announcing that the order of Santiago had been conferred upon the Counsellor Accacio in recognition of his great literary abilities, and the works of acknowledged merit which he had produced.

When he entered Jorge’s parlor on the following evening, he was made the subject of a general ovation. After embracing the company one by one, he sank on the sofa, overcome by his emotion, saying,—

“I did not expect so much as this from the royal favor,—I did not expect so much as this.” And laying his hand upon his heart he added, “I may say, in the words of the philosopher, ‘The day on which I received this honor was the happiest day of my life.’” He then proceeded to invite Jorge, Sebastião, and Julião to partake with him, on Thursday next, of a modest bachelor’s dinner in his humble abode, in honor of the royal favor.

On Thursday the three invited guests met accordingly at the counsellor’s, and were shown into the parlor by a slatternly-looking little girl. Another guest was already there,—Senhor Alves Coutinho. Shortly afterwards the well-known figure of Savedra, the editor of the “Seculo,” entered the room.

“We are all here now!” exclaimed the counsellor, who received his guests in the habit of Santiago, which he wore over his black coat. “Welcome, my friends!” he continued, bowing. “Perhaps we should be more at ease in my study; this way,—there is a step; take care. This is my sancta sanctorum.”

The counsellor’s study was a small apartment, very neatly arranged, with heavy curtains draping the windows.

Julião began at once to examine the bookcase.

“I take pride in possessing the most illustrious authors, friend Zuzarte,” said the counsellor, with a self-complacent air.

He pointed out to Julião the “History of the Consulate and Empire,” the works of Delille, the “Dictionary of Conversation,” the pocket edition of the “Encyclopædia Roret,” and the “Lusitanian Parnassus.” He alluded to his own works, and said he would like to read, before persons so well-informed as his guests, the proofs which he had been just correcting of his new book, “A Description of the Principal Cities of the Kingdom, and their Institutions,” in order to hear their severe and impartial judgment of it.

“With pleasure.”

“Certainly, Counsellor, with pleasure.”

He chose, as best calculated to give an idea of the importance of the work, the passage relating to Coimbra. He rose, and standing in the middle of the apartment, holding the proof-sheets in his hand, he read, with sonorous voice and measured gesture:—

“Reclining peacefully on her verdurous hills, like an odalisque on her couch, is the learned Coimbra, the Portuguese Athens. The softly-flowing Mondego kisses her as he whispers to her tender secrets. In her groves the nightingale and other amorous birds warble their melancholy strains. As you approach the city by the road from Lisbon, with which it was formerly connected by a well-organized coach-mail, replaced to-day by the smoky locomotive, you can see it gleaming whitely, crowned by the imposing bulk of the University, that stronghold of wisdom.”

“Dinner is on the table,” said a robust girl in a white apron, from the door.

“Bravo! Counsellor, bravo!” exclaimed Savedra, of the “Seculo,” rising. “Admirable!”

“What is your opinion, my friend?” said the counsellor, in a low voice to Julião, laying his hand upon his shoulder. “Your impartial opinion, friend Zuzarte?”

“Senhor Counsellor,” said Julião, gravely, “I envy you—”

While he spoke his gaze was fixed intently, and with evident curiosity, on a corner of the room which was occupied by what seemed to be a large pile of books, judging from so much of it as was visible beneath the edges of the gray cloth that covered it. What could it be?

“Do not expect a Lucullian banquet,” the counsellor said gayly, as he conducted his guests to the dining-room. “It will be nothing more than the modest repast of a humble philosopher.”

Alves Coutinho, however, went into ecstasies over the abundance of the sweetmeats; there was cream, lightly browned; a plate of egg-paste, and a rice pudding ornamented with the initials of the counsellor in powdered cinnamon.

“I don’t know if the soup pleases you,” the counsellor said, as they took their seats. “For my part, I adore macaroni.”

“You like macaroni?” said Alves.

“Very much, dear Alves; it reminds me of Italy,—a country I have always desired to see,” he added. “I have been told its ruins are remarkable, and that its constitution is a very liberal one.”

“Liberal!” repeated Julião. In his opinion, if Italy were liberal, she would have long ago kicked out the Pope, the Sacred College, and the Jesuits.

The counsellor, with a benevolent air, asked his friend Zuzarte’s indulgence for the “Head of the Church.”

“Not that I uphold the Syllabus,” he said, “not that I desire to see the Jesuits enthroned in the bosom of the family. But the venerable prisoner of the Vatican,” he added gravely, “the Vicar of Jesus Christ—Help yourself to rice, my dear Sebastião!”

The Senhora Philomena here placed before the host a dish containing a leg of roast veal. Animated by a sense of his duty, he grasped the carving knife and fork with solemnity, and proceeded, with contracted brow, as if he were engaged in the most important operation in the universe, to carve thin slices from the joint. Meantime Julião, resting his elbows on the table, asked,—

“Is the ministry going to fall, or not?”

Sebastião had heard that afternoon, he said, on the boat from Almada, that the present situation of things was assured.

“Whether they fall or not,” continued Julião, “whether these go out or others come in—thanks, Counsellor,” he interrupted himself to say, as the counsellor handed him his plate of roast veal—“is a matter of complete indifference to me. They are all a pack of knaves!”

He was disgusted with the country; from the highest to the lowest they were a worthless lot, and he anticipated shortly, by the logic of events, a revolution that would clear away all this rubbish.

“A revolution!” exclaimed Alves Coutinho, looking around him with an uneasy glance.

The counsellor resumed his seat, and said,—

“I have no desire to enter into a political discussion; political discussions serve only to create dissension among friends; but I will recall to the mind of Senhor Zuzarte the excesses of the Commune.”

Julião threw himself back in his chair, and answered tranquilly,—

“The mistake is, Senhor Counsellor, not to kill a few bankers, rich land-owners, and anæmic marquises. That would be the right sort of a clearance to make!” And he made a movement with his knife as if to sharpen it.

The counsellor smiled urbanely, looking on this sanguinary outbreak as a jest.

“The truth is this,” he said; “the country is sincerely attached to the royal family. Am I not right, my dear Sebastião?” he said, directing himself to him as a proprietor and land-owner.

Sebastião declared that he did not understand politics, but he saw things that distressed him. The cigar-makers, for instance, earned barely nine or ten reals a day; and this state of things, with a family to provide for, was pitiable.

“It is infamous!” interrupted Julião, shrugging his shoulders.

“There are not enough schools,” resumed Sebastião, timidly.

“A piece of stupidity on the part of the government,” said Julião.

Savedra, occupied in eating, was silent; he had unbuttoned his shirt-collar; his countenance wore the red hue of satiety, and he smiled vaguely.

“And the lunatics of S. Bento!” exclaimed Julião.

But the counsellor interposed,—

“Let us speak of something else, my friends. It would be more becoming to us as Portuguese gentlemen and loyal subjects.” And turning to Jorge he asked him how the interesting Donna Luiza was.

She had been rather indisposed for some days past, Jorge said; but it was nothing of consequence,—the change of seasons, a little debility—

Savedra put down his glass, and said,—

“I had the pleasure of seeing her pass my house almost every day last summer, on the road to the Arroios, sometimes on foot and sometimes driving.”

Jorge manifested some surprise as he heard these words. The counsellor, however, began to express his regret at not seeing her here a guest at their modest banquet; but as he was a bachelor and had no wife to do the honors—

The Senhora Philomena, entering the room with an air of solemnity, here placed a bottle of champagne on the table before him.

Savedra asked the counsellor to hand it to him to open, as he knew how to do it with chic. As soon as the cork had been drawn and the glasses filled, in the midst of the silence that followed the operation, Savedra, who remained standing, thus began,—

“Counsellor—”

Accacio, pale with emotion, bowed.

“Counsellor! it is with the sincerest pleasure that we all drink to the health of a man who,”—here he gave an eloquent pull to the cuff of his shirt,—“on account of his personal qualities, his exalted position, and his vast information, is one of the notabilities of our country. Your health, Counsellor!”

Cries of “The Counsellor!” “The Counsellor!” “Our friend the counsellor,” followed these words.

The toast was drunk enthusiastically. Accacio wiped his lips, passed his trembling hand over his bald head, rose, and began:—

“My good friends, I did not anticipate this honor; if I had expected it, I would have prepared some remarks beforehand. I am not gifted with the eloquence of a Rodrigo or a Garrett, and my emotions overpower me.” He went on to speak of himself with modesty; he acknowledged, he said, that with orators or illustrious statisticians so accomplished as there were in the city, he was a zero on the wrong side. And raising his right hand he described with his thumb and forefinger a O in the air. He proclaimed aloud his love for his country, declaring that if its institutions or the royal family should one day need his support, he would willingly place his person, his pen, and his modest fortune at their disposal. He would gladly shed his blood for the throne. He quoted extensively from the “Eurico,” the Belgian Institutes, Bocage, and his own introductions. He was proud to belong to the society of the 1st of December—

“On that memorable day,” he said, “I myself illuminate my windows, if not with the magnificence that characterizes the edifices of the Chiado, at least with sincere good-will.” And he ended by saying, “Let us not omit, my dear friends, to drink to the health of the enlightened monarch, to whom, in my mature years, I owe the privilege of displaying, before I descend to the tomb, the honorable decoration of Santiago. My friends, to the health of the Royal Family!”—here he raised his glass—“the model family, that, seated in the most exalted position of the State, directs, surrounded by the lights of the political firmament, directs—”

He paused in vain for the word he wanted; there was an anxious silence.

“Directs—”

Through his eye-glasses his eyes could be seen fixed on the jamb of the door, seeking inspiration.

“Directs—”

He scratched his bald crown in consternation; but at last a smile irradiated his countenance. He had found the word he sought, and extending his arm,—

“Directs the ship of State in such a manner as to excite the envy of surrounding nations! To the health of the Royal Family!”

“To the health of the Royal Family!” responded the others with respect.

Coffee was served in the parlor; a pair of candles illuminated the cold apartment with a dismal light. The counsellor wound up the music-box, and, to the sound of the nuptial chorus of “Lucia,” handed cigars around.

“The Senhora Adelaide may bring the liquors,” he said to Philomena.

A handsome woman, about thirty years of age, with a fair complexion and black eyes, her splendid proportions showing to advantage, in a blue merino gown, now entered, carrying a silver tray, on which were placed glasses, a bottle of cognac, and another of Curaçao.

“A handsome woman!” murmured Alves, with a flushed countenance.

Julião placed his finger on his lips, and said in an undertone, glancing at the counsellor,—

“Darest thou, madman, raise thine eyes

To Cæsar’s wife!”

While they were sipping the Curaçao, Julião went softly into the study, and raised the cloth that concealed the object of his curiosity. Under it were rows of bound books tied together with twine,—the works of the counsellor intact!

CHAPTER XX.

THE DREGS IN THE CUP.

WHEN Jorge reached home at eleven o’clock he found Luiza up, waiting for him, with a book in her hand.

She asked him how the counsellor’s dinner had passed off.

“Excellently,” replied Jorge. “A great deal of wine was drunk, toasts were proposed—” And suddenly interrupting himself, “By the bye, what took you every day to the Arroios?” he said.

Luiza passed her hands over her face to conceal her confusion, and then repeated, her voice trembling slightly,—

“To the Arroios?”

“Yes; Savedra, one of the counsellor’s guests this evening, told me he saw you going there every day, on foot or driving.”

“Ah,” said Luiza, with a little cough, “I went to see the wife of Guedes, a girl who used to go to school with me, and who had recently arrived from Oporto,—Silva Guedes.”

“Silva Guedes,” repeated Jorge, thoughtfully; “I thought Guedes was at Cape Verde, as secretary-general.”

“I don’t know. They came here for a month last summer and stopped at the Arroios; she was sick, poor thing; I went to see her occasionally. Take that light away; it hurts my eyes.”

She complained of having felt unwell all the afternoon. She felt weak and feverish.

On the succeeding days she was no better. She complained vaguely of a heavy feeling in her head, of malaise. One day she was unable to rise, and Jorge, filled with uneasiness, stayed with her, proposing to send at once for Julião; but Luiza insisted that it was nothing,—a little debility, at the most.

This was the opinion Juliana expressed to Joanna in the kitchen,—

“The senhora has grown thin; there is some chest-trouble there,” she said, with an important air.

Joanna, bending over the fire, replied,—

“As for the mistress, she is a saint!”

Juliana cast a spiteful glance at her, and said with a little smile,—

“The Senhora Joanna says that as if other people were nothing but the dirt under one’s feet.”

“What other people?”

“I, and you, and every one.”

Joanna answered without looking around, while she went on moving the pots on the fire,—

“You will not find another like her, Senhora Juliana,—a lady who lets you do whatever you wish, and does your work herself! The other day she threw out the dirty water. She is a saint!”

The hostile tone of Joanna exasperated Juliana, but she controlled herself; notwithstanding her position in the house, she depended on the cook for her broths, her beefsteaks, and her dainties; she regarded her with the cowardly respect of weak constitutions for strong ones, and she responded with ambiguous accent,—

“It is her temper; she likes to scold, but it must be said of her that she is very orderly and fond of work. If she sees a speck of dust, she takes up the dust-brush. It is her disposition; I have known others like her;” and she pursed up her lips as she said it.

“As for her, she is a saint!” repeated Joanna.

“The trouble with her is her temper,” repeated Juliana. “She is always boiling over. I never go out without leaving everything in order; but she is never satisfied. The other day she began to iron. Very well; I took off my hat and would not let her. Do you know what ails her? Want of something to do, not having children; for she has no wish unsatisfied—”

She paused, glanced at her foot, and added, with an air of satisfaction,—

“Nor I either;” and she leaned back in her chair.

Joanna began to sing. She did not want disputes, but she found in all this something out of the way,—Juliana, always in the street or in her own room, working for herself, without caring a straw for anything, leaving things to go as they would, and the poor mistress ironing, sweeping. No; there must be some mystery here. But her Pedro, whom she consulted on the matter, said to her good-humoredly, twisting his little mustache,—“Let them settle it between themselves. Try to amuse yourself, and don’t mix yourself up in other people’s affairs. The place is a good one; try to profit by your opportunities.”

But Joanna secretly felt her dislike for the Senhora Juliana increase. She was enraged at her assumption of importance, at the luxury of her room, at her continual running out, at her giving herself the airs of a fine lady; she did not refuse to perform her obligations for her, because this brought her presents from the senhora; but what an antipathy she had to her! It was some consolation, however, to have a handsome young fellow to restore her to good-humor, and the place, too, possessed many advantages. Pedro was right.

Juliana was now more cautious. The scene in the laundry had frightened her; for, after all, a scandal might make her lose her place. She refrained from going out for some days, and was very industrious in the house; but when she saw Luiza resign herself to her fate, she surrendered herself almost feverishly to the pleasures of self-indulgence and the delights of vengeance. She began once more to go out, to shut herself up in her room, to sew, leaving the mistress to put up with it. In Jorge’s presence she placed some restraint upon herself; she was afraid of him; but no sooner did she hear the door close behind him in the morning than she left her sweeping, or whatever else she might be doing, and devoted herself to her own affairs. Luiza was there to finish her work!

Luiza’s health, meantime, went from bad to worse; suddenly, and without any cause, she began to suffer from ephemeral fevers; she grew thin, and her fits of sadness began to cause Jorge some anxiety. She laid the blame of it all on her nerves. “What can this be, Sebastião?” was the constant question of Jorge, who remembered with terror that Luiza’s mother had died of an affection of the heart.

The neighbors had learned from Joanna that the wife of the engineer was in ill health. Senhor Paula accounted for it in the following manner.

“The whole trouble is the mind,” he said, nodding his head with a profound air. “Do you know what is the matter with her, Senhora Helena? Too many novels on the brain. I see her from early morning with a novel in her hand. She sits all day reading novels; and there is the result. Cracked!”

One day Luiza fainted away suddenly, without any apparent cause, and when she returned to consciousness she was very weak, with a high pulse and sunken eyes. Jorge went at once for Julião; he found him greatly excited, for the examinations were to take place on the following day, and he began to feel nervous. On the way he spoke, without pausing, of his thesis, of the shamelessness of giving appointments through favor, of the scandal he would make if they treated him unjustly, and of his regret at not having inserted more wedges.

He examined Luiza, and said to Jorge in a vexed tone,—

“There is nothing the matter with her; and you call me for this? She has anæmia; we all have it. Let her go out; let her amuse herself,—amusement and iron; a great deal of iron. Ah, and cold water on the spinal column.”

As it was already five o’clock, he invited himself to dine, abusing the country for the rest of the evening, cursing the science of medicine, insulting his opponent, and smoking Jorge’s cigars with desperation.

Luiza took the iron, but she refused to amuse herself; it tired her to dress, and she hated to go to the theatre. Then, when she saw that Jorge was really uneasy about her condition, she tried to affect energy, gayety, good-humor; but the effort depressed her profoundly.

“Shall we go to the country?” said Jorge to her in despair, seeing that she was growing worse.

Fearing possible complications, she refused. She said she did not feel strong enough. Where could she be better than in her own house? And then the expense—the trouble.

One morning when Jorge returned home unexpectedly he found her in a wrapper, a handkerchief tied around her head, and sweeping, with a dejected countenance.

He stood still at the door in amazement.

“What are you doing?” he said. “Are you sweeping?”

She flushed crimson, threw down the broom, and went to embrace him.

“I had nothing to do; I took a fancy to sweep,” she responded. “I was tired of doing nothing; besides, that is good for me; it is a healthy exercise.”

Jorge told Sebastião that evening of Luiza’s stupid notion of setting to work to sweep.

“A person as weak as you are, Senhora!” said Sebastião, reproachfully.

But no, she returned; she was not ill now,—at least, she was a great deal better.

She asked Sebastião to play Mozart’s “Requiem;” it was so beautiful. When she died she would like to have that sung in the church.

Jorge grew angry. “What a fancy for talking nonsense!” he cried.

“But is it not possible for me to die?”

“Very well, then; die, and leave us in peace,” he answered furiously.

“What an amiable husband!” she said, glancing with a smile at Sebastião.

She let her knitting drop on the table, and asked him to play her a certain passage of the “Africaine.” She listened, with her head resting in her hand; the music penetrated her soul with the sweetness of mystic voices calling to her; it seemed to her as if, borne along by them, she was leaving behind her everything terrestrial, every agitation, and as if she were transported to a distant shore, before her the melancholy sea, when, a spirit freed from the miseries of the flesh, she floated on the air, bathed in light, passing over the waves like a breeze.

Her melancholy attitude irritated Jorge.

“Sebastião, will you do me the favor to play a fandango,—‘Blue-Beard,’ ‘Pirolite,’ or the devil. Else, if you insist on having sadness, I will give you the thing in earnest.” And he began to sing the Dies Irœ.

Luiza laughed.

“What folly! Cannot one be sad?” she said.

“One can,” returned Jorge; “but if one is sad, one should be so consistently.” And he sang in lugubrious accents the Bemdito.

“The neighbors will say we are crazy, Jorge,” she said.

“And so we are,” he answered, going into his study and shutting the door behind him.

Sebastião played a few bars, and turning to Luiza, said in a low voice,—

“But what notions are these? Why this sadness?”

Luiza lifted her eyes to his; she saw his open and friendly countenance, full of sympathy; perhaps, in a burst of sorrow, she would have told him everything, but Jorge came out of the study, she smiled, shrugged her shoulders, and slowly took up her knitting again.

On the following Sunday evening there was the usual causerie in Jorge’s parlor. Julião gave an account of his examination. Not to enlarge upon the subject, he had pronounced a lucid and concise discourse, lasting two hours. Dr. Figueiredo had told him that he ought to have made his style a little more florid. “What would you have?” said Julião, shrugging his shoulders with contempt. “Those literary men cannot speak for five minutes about the thigh-bone, without bringing in ‘spring flowers’ or the ‘progress of civilization’!”

“The Portuguese have a mania for rhetoric,” said Jorge.

Juliana entered with a letter. It was from the counsellor. There was a moment’s uneasiness. It was only an excuse from Accacio, however, for not being able to go, as he had promised, to enjoy a chat in the house of the excellent Donna Luiza. Some urgent work kept him at the post of duty. He sent remembrances to Sebastião and Julião, and affectionate regards to the interesting Donna Felicidade.

A wave of carmine inundated the face of the excellent lady. She coughed, very much agitated, changed her seat twice, played the “Pearl of Ophir” with one finger on the piano, and at last, unable to control herself longer, asked Luiza, in a low voice, to go with her to her room, for she had a secret to tell her.

“What do you say of his letter?” she cried, when they entered.

“That I congratulate you,” responded Luiza, laughing.

“The charm!” said Donna Felicidade. “The charm is beginning to work.” And she added in a lower tone, “I went to the house of the man I told you of,—the Gallician.”

Luiza did not comprehend.

“The man of Tuy. I took him my likeness and Accacio’s, and he left the city a week ago. The woman has begun already to stick the needles in the heart.”

“What needles?”

Donna Felicidade, standing close beside Luiza, near the dressing-table, continued with a mysterious air, “The woman makes a waxen heart; she fastens it on the likeness of the counsellor, and for a week sticks into it every night at midnight a needle anointed with a preparation she has, and at the same time recites a prayer.”

“And you gave her money?”

“Eight dollars.”

“Donna Felicidade!”

“Don’t say anything; you see what a change there is already! In a few days more he will declare himself. Ah, may our Lady of Joy grant it! That man turns me crazy. I dream of him every night.” She looked at herself in the glass; she wanted to convince herself that the beauties of her person would lend their aid to the needles of the sorceress, and she smoothed her hair over her forehead. “Don’t you think me thinner?” she said.

“No.”

“Well, I am then, child,” she answered; “I am.” And she drew Luiza’s attention to her waist.

She began to make plans. They would go to spend the honeymoon in Cintra. Her eyes shone with anticipated happiness. “May our Lady of Joy grant it!” she repeated. “I have two candles burning in her honor day and night.”

Suddenly a cry of terror from Joanna resounded through the house.

“Senhora, Senhora! Quick!” she said.

Luiza ran upstairs, followed by Jorge. Juliana was lying on the kitchen floor in a faint.

“It came all of a sudden,” said Joanna, pale and trembling. “She fell suddenly—on her side.”

Julião, who had followed, tranquillized them. It was a simple fainting-fit. They carried her to her room and laid her on the bed. Julião ordered friction to the extremities with a hot flannel. Before Joanna could collect her senses sufficiently to fasten up her hair and go to the apothecary’s for an antispasmodic, Juliana regained consciousness. She was still very weak, however. When they descended to the parlor, Julião, rolling a cigarette, said,—

“This in itself is of no consequence. These fainting-fits are very common in diseases of the heart. But sometimes they assume an apoplectic character, and end in paralysis,—of short duration, for the effusion of blood on the brain is slight; but they are always disagreeable.” And lighting his cigarette he added, “That woman will die in your house the day least expected.”

Jorge, preoccupied, walked up and down the floor with his hands in his pockets.

“I have always said so,” rejoined Donna Felicidade, who was very much frightened, lowering her voice. “I have always said so. You will be obliged to get rid of her.”

“The treatment is incompatible with living at service,” continued Julião. “Even at the wash-tub one might take digitalis or quinine; but the only efficacious treatment is repose,—an absolute avoidance of fatigue. Let her have an annoyance some day, or a morning’s hard work, and she may go off.”

“And is the disease far advanced?” asked Jorge.

“According to what she says, she already feels difficulty in breathing, oppression, sharp pains in the cardiac region, flatulency, moistness of the extremities. All these are the worst possible symptoms.”

“What an annoyance!” muttered Jorge, looking out into the street.

“Dismiss her,” repeated Donna Felicidade.

When their guests had gone, Jorge said to Luiza,—

“What do you think of this? We must get rid of her. I don’t wish her to die in the house.”

Luiza, standing at the dressing-table, unfastening her hair, said, without looking at him, that they could not turn the poor woman out to die in the streets. She alluded to what she had done for Aunt Virginia. She let her words fall tentatively, like one walking on unstable ground. They might give her some money to go and live elsewhere.

Jorge, after a moment’s silence, said,—

“I have no objection to giving her ten or twelve pounds and letting her go. Let her arrange things to suit herself.”

“Ten or twelve pounds!” thought Luiza, in despair. And standing before her dressing-table she looked at herself in the glass with a vague wistfulness, as if she sought there her image as it must shortly be, stricken by grief, her eyes weary with weeping. For the crisis had at last come. If Jorge insisted on discharging this woman, she could not, without provoking a terrible explanation, say to him, “I do not wish her to go; I wish her to die here.” And Juliana, finding herself dismissed, desperate, sick, and seeing that Luiza did not interpose in her behalf, would take her revenge. What was to be done?

She arose in great agitation on the following day. Juliana had a great deal of oppression, and remained in bed. While Joanna set the table, Luiza, seated in an easy-chair at the dining-room window, was mechanically reading the “Diario de Noticias,” hardly comprehending what she read, when a notice at the head of the column gave her a slight shock:—

“To-morrow our friend the well-known banker, Senhor Castro, a partner in the house of Castro, Miranda, and Company, leaves Portugal for France. He retires from business in Lisbon to establish himself permanently in France, where he possesses a fine property in the neighborhood of Bordeaux.”

Castro! The man who would give her as much money as she asked him for. He was going away! And although she had rejected from the first this infamous means of obtaining money, it troubled her, against her will, to know that he was going away. An idea suddenly occurred to her that made her tremble, and rise with pallid countenance to her feet. Good God! What if on the eve of his departure, the very eve, she should ask him for it. No, it was too horrible! No, no; she must not think of it. But her mind continued to dwell upon this thought, and her resolution began to fail, vanquished by the persuasive accents of the tempter in her soul. She would be saved! She would give the six hundred thousand reis to Juliana, and that fiend might go and die far away from her, wherever she wished. And he, this man,—he would take the steamer to-morrow. She would not have to blush before him; her secret would be buried in a foreign land, safe as in a tomb. Besides, if Castro really felt an affection for her, he might lend her the money without putting conditions. Good God! To-morrow she might have in her drawer the bank-notes, the gold. Why not? She felt an intense desire to throw off her chains, to live happy, freed from this anguish, this continued martyrdom.

Returning to her room, she set herself to arrange the dressing-table, stealing a look at Jorge, who was dressing. In his presence she felt a pang of remorse. To go to ask money from a man,—to endure his disrespectful glances, his ambiguous words. How horrible! Then she sought to justify her intentions by sophistical arguments. It was for Jorge’s sake; it was to save him the pain of knowing; to be able to love him freely all her life, without secret fears, without reserve.

During breakfast she did not speak a single word. Jorge’s frank and good-humored countenance was as attractive to her now as that of the other was repellent; she hated him now.

When Jorge left the house she was trembling with nervousness. She went out into the balcony. The sun shone brightly; the street looked inviting. Why should she not go out? The harsh voice of Juliana resounded on the stairs leading to the kitchen, and that hated sound decided her. She dressed herself with care; she was a woman, and she desired to look her best. She reached Leopoldina’s house out of breath just as it was striking twelve in S. Roque.

She found her friend dressed, and about to sit down to breakfast. She took off her hat, and seating herself on the sofa, explained clearly to Leopoldina what she had resolved upon. She wanted the money from Castro,—given or lent; she must have it. She had absolute need of it, and she must avail herself of any means of obtaining it. Jorge wanted to dismiss that woman, and she feared her vengeance. She wanted the money, and she was there to get it.

“But, my dear, so suddenly!” said Leopoldina, wondering at her resolution.

“Castro is going to-morrow to Bordeaux. Something must be done, and soon.”

Leopoldina proposed to write to him.

“Whatever you wish; I am here now.”

Leopoldina seated herself at the table, took a sheet of paper and began to write, her head on one side and her little finger in the air.

Luiza walked up and down the room nervously. Her resolution was now fixed, and the sight of Leopoldina strengthened it. The latter amused herself, danced, went to the country, lived, enjoyed herself, without having, like her, a secret torment that sapped and imbittered her existence. No; she would not return home without carrying in her pocket, in ready money, her ransom, her salvation. She was weary of humiliations, of frights, of nights haunted by bad dreams! she wanted to enjoy her life, her affection for Jorge, her meat and drink, without cares, and with a cheerful heart.

“Listen,” said Leopoldina, reading aloud:—

MY DEAR FRIEND,—I wish absolutely to speak to you on an urgent matter. Come as soon as you can, and you may have cause to thank me. I will expect you, at the latest, by three o’clock. Always your friend,

LEOPOLDINA.

“How does it sound to you?”

“Horrible! But no; it is very well. Cross out that ‘you may have cause to thank me;’ it is better.”

Leopoldina copied the letter, and sent Justina with it in a carriage.

The dining-room opened into a small reception-room. The walls were covered with ugly pictures, in which large green blots represented hills, and blue lines lakes. A corner cupboard served as a china closet; the straw chairs were covered with a cheap red stuff, and the table-cloth showed the stains of yesterday’s coffee.

“You may be sure of one thing,” said Leopoldina, drinking her tea in large swallows, “and that is, that Castro is a man capable of keeping a secret. If he gives you the money—and he will give it to you—no word of it will pass his lips.”

They remained silent for some time. Luiza was the first to speak.

“And your husband?” she asked.

He had gone to Oporto, Leopoldina said. They would be alone for the rest of the day, and might do as they liked.

There was another silence of a minute or two.

“But what shall I say to this man?” Luiza asked suddenly.

Leopoldina answered lazily,—

“Why, that you need a conto de reis or six hundred thousand reis. What else should you say to him? And that you will repay him.”

“How?”

“In smiles.”

“Oh, this is horrible!” exclaimed Luiza, exasperated. “You see me desperate and half mad; you call yourself my friend; and yet you laugh and jest about my situation.” Her voice trembled; she could scarcely restrain her tears.

“It is that you ask so silly a question. How are you going to pay him? You yourself must know.”

They looked at each other a moment in silence.

“No! I am going away this very instant,” exclaimed Luiza.

“Don’t be silly!”

They heard a carriage stop at the door, and a moment later Justina made her appearance. She had not found Senhor Castro in his house; he was at the office. She had gone there, and he had told her he would follow on the instant.

But Luiza, who was very pale, still kept her hat in her hand.

“No, no;” said Leopoldina, almost angry. “You are not going to leave me alone with him now. What should I say to him?”

“This is horrible!” murmured Luiza, with a tear resting on her lashes, as she let her arms drop helplessly by her side, urged on the one hand by her interest, on the other by shame.

“It is as if you were going to take a dose of castor-oil,” said Leopoldina. Then, seeing Luiza’s terror, “The deuce! since when is it dishonorable to ask a loan of money? Everybody does that.”

Suddenly they heard a carriage draw up hastily at the door.

“Go into the parlor,—speak to him first,” said Luiza, raising her clasped hands with a supplicating gesture.

The bell rang. Luiza, trembling and very pale, looked around her on all sides with wide-open eyes, as if in search of an idea, a resolution, a corner in which to hide herself. They could hear Castro’s step on the matting in the parlor close beside them. Leopoldina said to her friend in a low voice, and very slowly, as if she wished to engrave her words one by one upon her mind,—

“Remember that within an hour you may be safe, free, and happy, with your letters in your pocket.”

Luiza stood up with quick decision; she went to the dressing-table to powder her face and smooth her hair, and then followed Leopoldina into the parlor.

On seeing Luiza, Castro looked surprised. Standing with his small feet close together, he bent his round head, on which the hair was beginning to turn gray. On his rounded paunch, which his short legs made appear still more prominent, a locket, depending from his watch-chain, rested conspicuously. He carried in his hand a little cane with a silver knob representing a Venus wreathing her arms. His complexion was of a uniform red; his heavy mustache terminated in points sharpened by pomade, à la Napoleon; his gold eye-glasses gave him an air of importance, in keeping with his character as a banker and a friend of order, and he seemed as satisfied with life as a contented sparrow.

So it was necessary to send for him in order to catch a glimpse of him, began Leopoldina. Then she presented Luiza as her intimate friend, the companion of her school-days, and said,—

“But why have you not been to see me?”

Castro leaned back in a rocking-chair, and tapping his boot with his cane, gave as an excuse the preparations for his journey.

“Then it is true that you are going to leave us?” Castro bowed. “To-morrow, in the ‘Orinoco,’” he answered.

“This time, then, the newspapers have not lied. And how long will you be away?”

“Per omnia saccula sacculorum.”

Leopoldina expressed her astonishment. A man who had so many friends, and who could lead so agreeable a life, to leave Lisbon! “Am I not right?” she said, turning to Luiza in order to draw her out of her embarrassed silence.

“Yes, indeed,” murmured Luiza.

She was seated on the edge of a chair, filled with terror, and longing to fly. The persistent gaze of Castro from behind his eye-glasses annoyed her.

Leopoldina leaned back on the sofa, and with an accusing gesture of the finger,—

“Ah, there are petticoats at the bottom of this journey to France,” she said.

He denied it faintly and with a fatuous smile. Leopoldina, to flatter him, called him a rake. Pleased and smiling, he answered, stroking his mustache, “Calumnies, calumnies.”

Leopoldina, turning to Luiza, said,—

“He has bought a splendid villa in Bordeaux,—a palace.” “A hut, a hut.”

“And he is going to give magnificent entertainments.”

“Modest teas, modest teas,” he answered, delighted. And both women laughed with simulated gayety. Castro bent towards Luiza, saying,—

“I had the pleasure of seeing you some time since in the Rua do Ouro.”

“Yes, I think I remember,” she answered.

There was a moment’s silence. Leopoldina coughed, seated herself nearer the edge of the sofa, and said, smiling,—

“Well—I sent for you because we have something to say to you.”

Castro bowed. He did not take his eyes off Luiza.

“The question is this,—I will proceed to the matter at once and without preface,—my friend is in a serious difficulty and has need of a conto de reis.”

Luiza interrupted her, saying in a voice that was almost inaudible,—

“Six hundred thousand reis.”

“It is all the same,” interrupted Leopoldina, with magnificent indifference; “we are talking to a millionaire. The question is this: Can you do her the favor of lending it to her?”

Castro straightened himself slowly, and said in doubtful accents,—

“Certainly, certainly.”

Leopoldina rose.

“Very well; I am going. The seamstress is waiting for me in my room. I shall leave you to talk it over.”

At the door she turned to Castro, shaking her finger gayly at him,—

“Don’t let the interest be too high a one,” she said.

And she went away laughing.

Castro bent towards Luiza and said,—

“Well, Senhora, I—”

“Leopoldina has spoken the truth,” she interrupted; “I am in a serious pecuniary difficulty. I have addressed myself to you. I will try to repay you as soon as possible.”

“Oh, Senhora,” answered Castro, with a gesture expressive of a generous indifference. He went on to say that he comprehended perfectly, that every one had difficulties occasionally. He regretted not to have made her acquaintance before, he added, for she had always impressed him agreeably, very agreeably!

Luiza was silent, her gaze fixed on the floor. He stood up, went and placed his cane beside the jardinière, and then returned to his seat beside her. Seeing her confusion he begged her not to distress herself. It was not worth while where only money was concerned. It gave him the greatest pleasure to be able to be of use to so charming a woman. She had done right in addressing herself to him. He knew of ladies who, in similar cases, had applied to money-brokers, who got all they could out of them, and were besides indiscreet.

And thus speaking, he caught her hand in his. Seeing that Luiza did not withdraw it, he went on, in an agitated voice, to promise her whatever she wanted.

“Six hundred thousand reis—what you wish.”

“And when?” asked Luiza, in confusion.

“Now!” he exclaimed, passing his arm around her waist, and pressing his lips to hers.

Luiza sprang from her chair at a bound.

“I will give you whatever you wish; but sit down,” he said. “Listen to me—”

Luiza shrank back from him in terror.

“Leave me! leave me!” she cried, in a voice of anguish.

With set teeth and wide-open eyes he approached her again, as if to embrace her. Luiza, indignant, mechanically caught the cane which he had placed beside the jardinière, and struck him violently on the hand.

“A thousand devils!” he cried, grinding his teeth together, furious with rage and pain. He would have seized her hand; but Luiza, raising her arm, and animated by frantic rage, rained rapid blows upon his head and shoulders. A sombre expression rested on her livid countenance, and her eyes glittered with a cruel light.

Castro, astonished, drew back, covering his face with his hands, without seeking to defend himself. Suddenly he stumbled against the jardinière; the porcelain lamp fell to the floor with a loud noise, and the oil ran over the matting.

“Well, have you had enough?” said Luiza, tightening her grasp convulsively upon the cane.

Leopoldina hurried into the parlor at the noise made by the falling lamp.

“What has happened?” she said.

“Nothing! we were only amusing ourselves,” returned Luiza, throwing the cane on the floor and leaving the room.

Castro, livid with rage, caught up his hat, and with a terrible glance at Leopoldina said,—

“I am deeply indebted to you. You may count on me for another time.”

“But what has happened?” asked Leopoldina again.

“I have the honor to bid you good-day,” roared Castro.

He took up his cane, and shaking it menacingly in the direction Luiza had taken,—

“Hypocrite!” he muttered in revengeful accents.

And he went out, slamming the doors behind him.

Leopoldina, astounded, went into her room, where she found Luiza putting on her hat, her hands still trembling, but with eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“Some unaccountable fancy took possession of me,” she said, “and I beat him on the face with his cane.”

Leopoldina gazed at her in amazement.

“You beat him?” she cried, bursting into a fit of laughter. “Castro, Castro of the eye-glasses covered with blows! Castro to endure a beating!” She threw herself on the sofa, choking with laughter. “Castro to come to the house of a friend, to bring with him six hundred thousand reis, and to go away with a cudgelling,—and with his own cane! It is enough to make one die laughing.”

“The worst of it is the lamp,” said Luiza.

Leopoldina rose to her feet suddenly.

“The oil! what an omen!” she exclaimed.

She ran into the parlor, where Luiza found her a moment afterwards, standing with folded arms before the dark stain, as if she had caught a glimpse of some near catastrophe.

“Good God! what an omen!” she repeated.

“Throw some salt on it at once.”

“Is that good?”

“It breaks the spell.”

Leopoldina hurried away, brought back some salt, and kneeling down, scattered it over the stain, exclaiming,—

“Ah, may Our Lady grant that nothing bad may come of it! But what an occurrence! My God, what an occurrence! And now, child?”

Luiza shrugged her shoulders.

“Now—I am aware of it—there is nothing left for me but—to endure!”

CHAPTER XXI.

THE SHADOW OF A SIN.

ONE morning, some days afterwards, Jorge, who had forgotten that it was a feast-day, found the office closed, on going to the Department, and returned home. Joanna was standing at the door, talking to an old woman who was selling eggs. The hall door was open, and entering without ringing, he surprised Juliana comfortably seated on the sofa, reading the newspaper.

On seeing him she turned crimson, and rising to her feet stammered,—

“I am not to blame, Senhor; I have just had a violent palpitation,—”

“So violent that you sat down to read the newspaper,” returned Jorge, mechanically grasping his cane. “Where is the senhora?”

“She must be in the dining-room,” answered Juliana, taking up the broom and hastily beginning to sweep.

Luiza was not in the dining-room. Jorge found her in the laundry, in a morning wrapper, her hair in disorder, very busy ironing, and with an expression of dejection on her countenance.

“Can it be possible that you are ironing?” he exclaimed.

Luiza colored, and laid down the iron. As Juliana was sick, she said, and the clothes had accumulated—

“Let us settle this matter at once,” returned Jorge. “Who is mistress here, I should like to know, and who is servant?”

The sternness with which he spoke sent the color from Luiza’s cheek. “What do you mean?” she stammered.

“I mean to say that I find you here ironing, while she is downstairs, sitting at her ease on the sofa, reading.”

Luiza, bending over the clothes-basket in confusion, began to shake out the clothes and fold them with a trembling hand.

“You cannot imagine how much there is to be done,” she said. “The cleaning, the ironing, the waiting at table. And that poor sick creature—”

“If she is sick, let her go to the hospital!”

“No, you ought not to say that.”

This insistence in defending Juliana, who was taking her ease downstairs, exasperated him.

“But what does this mean? Are you depending upon her? Any one would think you were afraid of her!”

“Ah, if you have come home in that humor,” answered Luiza, with trembling lips, and ready to cry.

Jorge continued, with increasing vexation,—

“This indulgence must have an end! That this good-for-nothing should take her ease in my house, enjoying every comfort, stretching herself in my chairs, going out to amuse herself, and that you should take her part and do her work for her—no! an end must be put to this. Always excuses, and more excuses! Let her go to the hospital—or to the devil!”

Luiza burst into a fit of hysterical weeping.

“There it is! Now you begin to cry! What is the matter? Why do you cry?”

She continued weeping, without answering.

“But, child, what is the meaning of these tears?” he asked, in tones of mingled tenderness and impatience, approaching her.

“Why do you speak to me in that way?” she said, with a fresh sob, wiping her eyes. “You know I am ill and nervous, and you treat me as you do. You have only disagreeable things to say to me.”

“Disagreeable things! But, child, I have said nothing disagreeable to you,” he answered, embracing her, much moved.

But Luiza drew herself away from him, and in a broken voice said,—

“Is it a crime to iron? You are angry because I work, and attend to the affairs of the house. Would you prefer me to neglect things? This woman is sick, and if I do not help her, the work is left undone. And you are always saying disagreeable things to me.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. Come, reflect a moment and you will see it is only that I don’t want you to fatigue yourself.”

“Why do you tell me, then, that I am afraid of her?” she said, her tears beginning to flow afresh. “Afraid! And of what? What an absurdity!”

“Very well; I will not say it. Come, let us speak no more of the matter. But don’t cry. There! It is all over now.” He kissed her, and putting his arm around her waist, drew her gently away. “There, leave the ironing now. Come. What a child you are!”

Through good-nature and consideration for Luiza’s nerves Jorge did not speak again for some days about the “poor woman.” But he thought about her. And to think of that sickly creature, with one foot in the grave, in his house, irritated him. Since the night she had fainted, when he had seen with astonishment the comforts she enjoyed in her room, owing to the ridiculous indulgence of Luiza, he had found something mysterious and annoying in all this. As he was out during the day, and in his presence Juliana had only smiles and manifestations of affection for Luiza, he thought she had succeeded in insinuating herself into his wife’s confidence, and making herself, in the intimacy existing between mistress and servant, necessary and dear to her. This augmented his antipathy towards her,—an antipathy which he did not take the trouble to disguise. Luiza trembled at times, when she saw him follow Juliana with his angry glance. But what made her suffer most was the manner Jorge had adopted of speaking of the woman in terms of ironical respect; he called her “the illustrious Donna Juliana, my lady and mistress.” If a goblet or a wine-glass were wanting on the table he pretended to be astonished. “What!” he would exclaim, “Donna Juliana, that paragon, to forget anything!” He made use of jests that froze Luiza’s blood with terror.

“How did the philter that she gave you, taste?” he once said. “Was it pleasant?”

Since then she had not ventured, in his presence, to speak with naturalness to Juliana; she dreaded his ambiguous smiles, his asides,—“Go, give her a kiss; I can see in your face that you are dying to do so.” Fearing to awaken his suspicions, and anxious to show her independence, she began to speak to Juliana, when he was by, with abrupt and affected coldness. Juliana, who was very sagacious, and understood the motive of this conduct, bore with it in silence. She felt very ill, and feared being sent to the hospital. All day long she sipped broths or nibbled croquettes or sweet-potato pudding. She kept jelly and Port wine in her room, and she even asked occasionally for chicken broth in the evening.

“I pay for it with the sweat of my brow,” she would say to Joanna. “Since I work like a slave, I may as well have something for it.”

One day, however, when Jorge was more irritated than usual by the sallow countenance of Juliana, and his nerves vibrating from having found neither water nor towel in the bedroom, he lost control over himself, and cried angrily,—

“I am in no humor to put up with this carelessness any longer.”

Luiza hastily began to make excuses for Juliana.

He bit his lip, bowed profoundly, and in a voice trembling with anger said,—

“I beg your pardon; I had forgotten that Juliana’s person is sacred. I will go for the water myself.”

Luiza grew angry in her turn. If they were to come into constant collision on account of her, it was better to dismiss the woman, she said. Did he think, by chance, that she had any love for Juliana? If she kept her, it was because she was an excellent servant. But if they were going to have disputes on her account it was better that she should go. These continual sarcasms were a martyrdom to her.

Jorge did not answer.

Luiza was unable to sleep that night, tormented by the thought that this state of things could not last. She was weary of it now. To put up with Juliana herself, and to listen to hints and innuendoes at every moment on her account from Jorge,—no, this was too much! She began to fear that the bomb was at last about burst. She herself, then, it should be, she determined, who would set fire to the match. She would dismiss Juliana, and let her show Jorge the letters! If she retired to a convent, at least she would be freed from her; she would suffer, she would die; but anything was better than this slow martyrdom, these secret pin-pricks!

“What is the matter?” asked Jorge sleepily, feeling her restless.

“I cannot sleep.”

“Poor child! count a hundred and fifty backwards.”

And he turned over, wrapping the blankets comfortably about him.

On the following morning Jorge rose early. He had an engagement to dine at the Hotel Gibraltar with Alonso the Spaniard, with whom he had business connected with the mines. At ten he went into the dining-room to breakfast. He returned to the bedroom, to tell Luiza with a profound bow, and dwelling on each word, that the table was not yet set, that the teacups that had been used the evening before were still there unwashed, and that the Senhora Donna Juliana, the illustrious Senhora Donna Juliana, had gone to take a little walk!

“I told her last night to go to the shoemaker’s,” began Luiza, who was putting on her wrapper.

“Ah, I beg your pardon,” Jorge interrupted her, very ceremoniously. “I had forgotten that Juliana, your lady and mistress, was in question. I beg your pardon!”

“Yes, you are right,” answered Luiza. “You shall see. It is necessary to put an end to this.”

She hurried upstairs to the kitchen.

“Joanna, why did you not set the table when Juliana was not here to do it?” she cried.

The girl said she had not heard the Senhora Juliana going out. She thought she was downstairs in the parlor, as Juliana wanted to do everything herself now!

When Joanna placed the breakfast on the table a short time afterwards, Jorge sat down, nervously twisting his mustache. Twice he rose, smiling silently, first to get a spoon, and then the sugar-bowl. Luiza noted the contraction of his countenance, and tried in vain to eat; she felt as if every mouthful would choke her; the teaspoon trembled in her hand. She stole a glance from time to time at Jorge, whose silence made her suffer keenly.

“You said yesterday you were going to dine out to-day?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered shortly; adding, “Thank Heaven!”

“You are in a good humor!” murmured Luiza.

“As you see!”

Luiza turned pale, and took up the newspaper to hide a tear that trembled on her lashes; but the letters danced before her eyes, and she felt her heart oppressed with anguish. Suddenly there was a ring at the bell. It was Juliana, without doubt.

Jorge rose.

“It must be that lady; I have a few words to say to her.”

And he remained standing by the table, sharpening a toothpick with deliberation.

Luiza rose, trembling.

Jorge caught her quietly by the arm.

“No, allow me,” he said; “let me have that pleasure!”

Luiza dropped into a chair, very pale. The noise of Juliana’s high heels could be heard in the hall. Jorge continued tranquilly sharpening his toothpick.

Luiza turned towards him, and clasping her hands, said in a supplicating voice,—

“Don’t say anything to her!”

He looked at her in astonishment.

“Why?” he asked.

Juliana opened the door.

“What do you mean by going out and leaving your work undone?” said Luiza, rising.

Juliana, who arrived smiling, stood still at the door, as if petrified; notwithstanding her naturally livid color, a sudden flush overspread her cheeks.

“Let this not happen again! Do you hear?” continued Luiza. “Your obligation is to remain in the house in the morning.”

She stopped, transfixed by a terrible glance from Juliana. Then, taking up the pitcher with trembling hand,—

“Take this and bring some water—quick!” she said.

Juliana did not move.

“Did you hear?” shouted Jorge, impatiently, giving the table a blow with his hand that made the plates rattle.

“Jorge!” exclaimed Luiza, seizing him by the arm.

“Leave the house!” continued Jorge. “Pay her her wages and let her go! I am tired of it now, and I shall bear it no longer. If I see her here when I come back, I will tear her to pieces! I have been silent long enough! It is my turn now!”

He took up his overcoat, trembling with excitement, and as he was about to go out, turned round to say,—

“Let her go this very instant, do you hear? She shall not stay here an hour longer. She has been sticking in my throat for a fortnight past. Put her in the street!”

Luiza went to her room, scarcely able to support herself. She was lost! A thousand wild and insensate ideas whirled around in her brain, like dead leaves in a storm. She thought of leaving the house, and under cover of the darkness that night throwing herself into the river. She regretted not having accepted the money from Castro. All at once she saw Jorge in imagination opening the letters given to him by Juliana, and reading, “My adored Bazilio.” A panic terror paralyzed her soul. She ran to Juliana’s room to beg her pardon, to ask her to remain in the house, and not to inflict martyrdom upon her. And Jorge? She would tell him that Juliana had wept, that she had knelt to her. She would lie to him; she would cover him with kisses; he loved her, and she would be able to pacify him.

Juliana was not in her room. Luiza went upstairs to the kitchen. She was there, sitting in a chair, her eyes flaming, her arms folded tightly, an expression of mute rage upon her countenance. When she saw Luiza she started from her chair at a bound, and shaking her fist in her mistress’s face, cried in a shrill voice,—

“The next time you speak to me as you have done to-day there is an end to everything!”

“Silence, wretch!” cried Luiza.

“You tell me to be silent? You—” said Juliana, with mingled scorn and rage.

Joanna ran up to her, and gave her a slap with her hand full on the face that took her off her feet.

“No, Joanna!” cried Luiza, catching her by the arms.

Juliana fled from the room in terror.

“Oh, Joanna, what a disgrace and what a scandal!” said Luiza, pressing her head between her hands.

“I will tear her limb from limb!” cried the girl, clenching her teeth and waving her arms. “I will tear her limb from limb!”

Luiza walked around the kitchen table mechanically, trembling from head to foot, and white as chalk.

“What have you done, girl! what have you done!” she cried.

Joanna, still boiling over with rage, her face flushed, moved the tripod furiously on the fire, saying,—

“If that shameless creature speaks a single word to me I will put an end to her.”

Luiza went downstairs to her room. Juliana came out to the hall to meet her, with her face very red, and a handkerchief tied around it.

“If that shameless hussy is not sent out of the house,” she cried, “I will stand in the doorway, and when the master comes home I will tell him everything!”

“Very well, then, tell him. Do what you like,” returned Luiza, passing her without a glance.

“Let there be an end to this anguish and this hatred,” she thought. “Better the end should come at once!”

She felt something like a sense of painful relief at seeing the end of her long martyrdom approach. It had lasted for months; and reflecting on all she had done and suffered, the infamy in which she had been steeped, and the humiliations which she had endured, she felt a loathing for herself and a profound disgust towards life. It seemed to her that she was no longer the same; that she had neither legitimate pride nor a single pure feeling; that her whole being, body and soul, had been trampled in the dust like a rag trodden underfoot by the multitude. It was not worth while to make any struggle for a life so vile. To enter a convent would be to expiate her crime and to die,—above all to expiate her crime. And where was he,—the man who was the cause of all her misfortunes? In Paris, twirling his mustache, jesting, driving his horses, making love to other women, while she was here, stupidly suffering! And when she had written to him, asking him to save her, not even a word in answer, as if he thought her not worth the expense of a postage-stamp. And he had told her that he would dedicate his life to her, that he would live in the shadow of her presence. Traitor! So long as she was free from care and happy, all went well; but when trouble came, when she suffered and wept—ah, no; not that. You are a beautiful animal on whom I depend for pleasure and enjoyment—very well; everything you wish! But you have become an afflicted creature, who has need of consolation and some hundreds of thousands of reis, then good-by; I am going to the steamer that is waiting for me! Ah, what a stupid thing life was! How gladly would she have done with it!

She leaned against the window and looked out; the day was cloudless and mild. The sun shed a reddish light on the walls of the houses and on the pavement. There was a serene softness in the air. Senhor Paula in his carpet slippers was standing at the door of the tobacco-shop. Lulled by the soft winter air, she felt moved to tears. Every one was happy on this beautiful morning,—every one but her, miserable creature that she was; she alone suffered! She remained sunk in melancholy reflections; a tear trembled on her lashes. Suddenly she saw Juliana cross the street, turn the corner, and after a while come back, accompanied by a stout Gallician, carrying a bag on his shoulder.

“She is going!” thought Luiza. “She is about to take away her trunk!” And afterwards? Would she send the letters to Jorge, or would she give them to him at the door, as she had threatened? Good God! She fancied she saw Jorge entering the room, with a pallid countenance, and the letters in his hand. She was seized with a fit of terror. She did not wish to lose her husband, her Jorge, his love, her house, everything! A feeling of rebellion against this state of widowhood took possession of her. To enter a convent at twenty-five! No, impossible! She went to Juliana’s room; her clothing was lying scattered on the bed; boots wrapped in old newspapers were lying on the floor.

“Have you come to see if I am taking anything away with me?” cried Juliana, angrily. “I am leaving a few things here still; see, there is the bundle. And I want my wages.”

“Listen, Juliana,” said Luiza. “Don’t go.” And her voice died away in her throat as she spoke, while the tears sprang to her eyes.

Juliana looked at her, haughty and triumphant, with a boot in either hand.

“If you turn that shameless creature into the street,” she said in her shrill voice, “I will be satisfied.” And she added, shaking the dust from her boots, “Everything shall go on as before, in peace and quietness.” An expression of intense joy lighted up her glance. She had avenged herself; she had made her mistress shed tears, she had turned the other out of the house, and she had lost none of her comforts! “Send that impudent creature away! send her away!” she repeated.

Luiza, with a gesture of despair, went slowly upstairs to the kitchen. The steps seemed to her unending. She dropped on a stool in the kitchen, and wiping her eyes, said,—

“Listen, Joanna; you cannot remain in the house.”

The girl looked at her with an expression of terror.

“What Juliana said to me was on the spur of the moment,” she continued. “She is sorry for it; she has been crying. She has been longest in the house, and the master is very much attached to her.”

“Then—the senhora is sending me away; you are sending me away?”

“It was on the spur of the moment,” repeated Luiza, in a low voice, blushing with shame. “She has asked my pardon.”

“And all for taking the part of the mistress!” exclaimed the girl, in accents of distress, looking at Luiza in astonishment.

Luiza understood the implied indignity, but, impatient to end the matter at once, she said,—

“Well, Joanna, let us speak no more about it; I am the mistress. I am going to pay you your wages.”

“A pretty return to make me!” exclaimed Joanna in desperation. And she added, stamping her foot with an air of determination on the floor, “But I will tell the master; yes, I will tell him; I will tell him all that has taken place. The senhora is not doing right.”

Luiza looked at her in silence. So the disaster was to come at last from her, the docile one. It was too much! She felt seized by a strange terror, a fear of her own conscience; and pressing her temples between her hands, she exclaimed, “What a punishment! My God! what a punishment!”

Suddenly she seized Joanna by the arms in her frenzy, and whispered in her ear,—

“Go, for the love of God, Joanna! Say nothing, but go!”

And losing all sense of self-respect she fell on her knees before the girl, sobbing,—

“For Christ’s sake, Joanna, go! Go at once, dear Joanna!”

The girl, terrified, began to cry.

“I am going; yes, dear mistress, I will go!”

“Yes, Joanna, yes. I will give you something. You shall see. But don’t cry. Wait.”

She ran downstairs to her room, took from a drawer two pounds of her savings, ran quickly upstairs again, and putting the money into her hand, said in a low voice,—

“Take this to make a jacket for yourself, and to-morrow I will send your trunk.”

“Yes, Senhora, yes,” responded the other, sobbing. “Yes, dear Senhora!”

Luiza went to her room, and throwing herself on the sofa, buried her face among the cushions, sobbing, wishing for death, asking God in her terror to take pity upon her.

Suddenly she heard the harsh voice of Juliana in the doorway.

“Well, what have you decided upon?” she asked.

“Joanna is going. What more do you want?”

“Let her go at once,” returned the other, imperiously. “I will get the dinner—for to-day, of course.”

Luiza’s tears were dried by the heat of her anger.

“And now,” continued Juliana, “let the senhora listen to me.”

Juliana’s tone was so insulting that Luiza rose as if cut by the stroke of a whip.

“The senhora must act squarely with me; otherwise I shall speak out,” she ended haughtily, and with a menacing gesture of the finger. And turning on her heel she went away with noisy steps.

Luiza glanced up, dazed, as if a flash of lightning had suddenly passed through the room. But everything was motionless; not a fold of the curtains moved; the two little porcelain shepherds smiled pretentiously as before upon the dressing-table. She took off her wrapper quickly, put on a gown, without waiting to lace herself, then a winter wrap, then her hat, without smoothing her hair, left the house, hurried down the steps, and almost ran through the street, entangling her feet in the folds of her gown.

Senhor Paula walked out to the edge of the sidewalk to follow her with his eyes, saw her enter Sebastião’s house, and then went to say to the tobacconist, “There is something new at the engineer’s.”

And he remained standing at the door, his eyes fixed on the windows in which the folds of the green rep curtains hung down motionless.

“Senhor Sebastião?” Luiza asked the girl who opened the door for her, as she followed her into the hall.

“He is in the parlor,” returned the girl.

Luiza went upstairs; she could hear him playing the piano. She opened the door quickly, and running to him clasped her hands across her breast, and said in a choking voice, with an expression of anguish on her face,—

“I wrote a letter to a man, and Juliana stole it from me! I am lost!”

Sebastião, pale with astonishment, rose to his feet. Seeing her face bathed in tears, her hat half fallen off, and her agonized glance,—

“What is the matter? What has happened?” he asked.

“I wrote to my cousin,” she returned, her eyes fixed anxiously upon him, “and that woman stole the letter from me! I am lost!”

A deathlike pallor overspread her countenance; her eyes closed.

Sebastião caught her in his arms, and laid her, half-fainting, on the yellow damask sofa; and then, paler than Luiza, remained standing beside her, his hands in the pockets of his blue sack-coat, motionless and stupefied. Suddenly he left the room, came back with a glass of water, and sprinkled some on her face. Luiza opened her eyes, put her hands out blindly before her, gave him a glance of terror, and leaning on the arm of the sofa, her face buried in her hands, burst into a passion of tears. Her hat fell upon the ground. Sebastião took it up, shook out the flowers gently, placed it carefully on the jardinière, and returned to her side with noiseless steps.

“Come, come!” he murmured, touching her lightly on the arm with his hand, which trembled like a leaf. He offered her some water, but she put it away with her hand. She slowly raised herself to a sitting posture, wiping her eyes, and drawing long breaths between her sobs.

“Have patience with me, Sebastião,” she said.

She drank a little water, and then let her hands drop powerless on her lap, while her tears continued to flow. Sebastião closed the door, and returning to her, said gently,—

“But let us see; what is it?”

Luiza raised her agitated countenance, in which her eyes burned feverishly, looked at him a moment, and then said, bowing her head in humiliation,—

“A misfortune, Sebastião! A disgrace!”

“Come, come; don’t distress yourself in this way!” He took a seat near her, and said to her in low and earnest accents, “I am at your disposal for whatever service you may require of me and I can perform.”

“Sebastião,” she exclaimed, her heart overflowing with gratitude, “believe me, I have been well punished. I have suffered a great deal, Sebastião.”

She remained silent a moment, her eyes fixed on the floor; then, catching him abruptly by the arm, she burst into a torrent of words that followed each other incoherently, like water escaping from a narrow-necked vessel.

“She stole the letters from me,—in what way I know not,—and she asked at first six hundred thousand reis for them; then she began to torture me; and I was obliged to give her gowns—everything she demanded. She changed her room, and she took for her own use my finest sheets; she was the mistress, I the servant. Every day she threatens me; she is a monster. All was in vain,—soft words, entreaties. Where could I find the money,—is it not so? She knew it well What have I not suffered! They say I have grown thin; you yourself have noticed it. My life is a hell. If Jorge were to know! That vile wretch threatened to tell him everything to-day. I work like a slave. In the morning I sweep and put things in order; often I wash the breakfast things. Have pity on me, Sebastião, if it were only for his sake! Unhappy creature that I am, I have no one in the world to turn to.” And burying her face in her hands, she burst into a fresh fit of weeping.

Sebastião bit his trembling lip in silence; two tears rolled down his cheeks, and rising slowly,—

“But why did you not tell me this before?” he said.

“I could not, Sebastião. I was on the point of telling you once, but I could not.”

“You were wrong.”

“This morning Jorge wanted to dismiss her. He has observed her neglect of her duties, and he is displeased with her, but he suspects nothing,” she added, flushing, and turning away her eyes. “He has often scolded me for taking her part, but to-day he grew angry, and told her to leave the house. No sooner was he gone than she came to me like a fury, and began to insult me.”

“Good God!” murmured Sebastião, in amazement, pressing his head between his hands.

“Perhaps you will not believe, Sebastião, that it is I who throw out the sweepings.”

“But that vile creature deserves death!” he exclaimed, stamping his foot on the floor. He took a few turns up and down the room with his hands in his pockets, his head sunk between his broad shoulders; then he returned to his seat beside her, and touching her timidly on the arm, said in a low voice, “Those letters must be got from her.”

“But how?”

Sebastião scratched his beard and then his head.

“They must be got from her, and they shall be got from her,” he said at last.

“If you could only do it, Sebastião,” said Luiza, catching his hand in hers.

“I will get them from her.”

He reflected a moment, and then said, with his habitual air of gravity,—

“I will arrange the matter with her. It would be well for her to be alone in the house. You might go to the theatre to-night. He rose, took the ‘Jornal do Commercio’ from the table, and glanced over the advertisements. You could go to the S. Carlos, that is out later than the others. They represent Faust to-night. Go to see Faust.”

“Very well,” answered Luiza with a sigh of relief.

Seated on the edge of the sofa, she listened anxiously to Sebastião while in a low voice he explained to her his plan.

She must write to Donna Felicidade, begging her to accompany her to the theatre, and send a message to Jorge to tell him they would call for him at the Hotel Gibraltar on their way. “And what about Joanna?” he ended.

Joanna had already left the house, she replied, and Juliana would therefore be alone in the house at nine o’clock.

“Do you see how easily everything can be managed?” he said, smiling.

“Yes,” she said; “but will that woman give up the letters?”

Sebastião scratched his beard again.

“She will have to give them up,” he answered. Luiza looked at him, deeply moved; his countenance appeared to her graced with the perfection of moral beauty, and standing before him,—

“You are going to do this for me, Sebastião,” she said, in melancholy accents,—“for me, who have been so wicked?”

Sebastião colored, and answered, shrugging his shoulders, “There are no wicked women, Senhora; it is the men who are wicked.” And he added presently, “I shall go for the tickets now, so as to get good seats, eh,—seats in the front row?” He smiled in order to tranquillize her.

She put on her hat and lowered her veil, all the while giving utterance to choking sobs that resounded through the parlor. In the hall they found Aunt Joanna waiting with open arms to greet Luiza, whom she kissed repeatedly. What a miracle it was that Luiza had made them a visit, she said; and how well she looked! She was the flower of the bairro.

“Enough, enough, Aunt Joanna,” said Sebastião, gently putting her aside.

How selfish he was! Aunt Joanna returned. He had had her to himself for more than half an hour, and now she wanted her a little while too. He ought to have a wife like that, a modest girl, a lily—

Luiza blushed painfully, unable to utter a word.

And the Senhor Jorge, what had become of him? No one saw anything of him now. And Donna Felicidade?

“Enough, enough, Aunt Joanna!” repeated Sebastião, growing impatient.

“Good gracious! no one is going to eat the child!” responded Aunt Joanna.

Luiza forced a smile. Suddenly she remembered that she had no one to send with the message to Donna Felicidade, of to Jorge at the hotel.

Sebastião took her to his study to write her notes, saying he would send them. He chose the paper for her, and dipped the pen in the ink, more solicitous for her now, and more attentive to her, than before he had known of her misfortune. Luiza wrote the note to Jorge; and as, notwithstanding her anxieties, she recalled to mind a certain low-necked gown of Donna Felicidade, she added in a postscript to her note to that lady: “It is best to dress in black, and not to wear too conspicuous a toilet. No low necks or light-colored gowns.”

As she approached her own house she saw a young man coming out of it, carrying Joanna’s bundle. She heard the husky voice of the latter, saying in menacing accents,—

“Touch it with but a finger and you shall not escape out of my hands alive, you hog!”

“Get out of the house! get out of the house!” retorted Juliana, at the head of the stairs. “It would be better for you to go and throw yourself into the river than lay a hand on me!”

Luiza listened, biting her lips in silence. Her house converted into a tavern!

“Let me ever catch you!” growled Joanna, going down the steps.

“Leave the house, you hog!” replied Juliana.

Luiza called the cook to her in a low voice.

“Joanna,” she said, “don’t look for a situation, and come here the day after to-morrow.”

Upstairs, Juliana was singing the “Carta adorada” with shrill gayety.

A short time afterwards she came down to announce stiffly that dinner was on the table.

Luiza did not answer her. She waited until Juliana had gone upstairs again to the kitchen, and then hurried to the dining-room, took some bread, a plate of the dessert, and a knife, went to her own room, shut herself in, and ate her dinner off the jardinière. At six a carriage stopped at the door. It must be Sebastião. She went herself on tiptoe to open the door. It was he, looking animated and fresh-colored, with his hat in his hand He had brought the key of box No. 18.

“And this?” said Luiza, as he put a bouquet into her hand. It was a bunch of red camellias, surrounded by double violets.

“Oh, Sebastião!” she cried, deeply moved.

“Have you a carriage?” he asked.

“No.”

“I will send one. At eight, eh?”

He went down the steps, happy to serve her in anything, and she followed him with a humid glance. “Ah, what a man!” she said to herself; and she inhaled the perfume of the violets, turning the bouquet around in her hands, feeling a tender joy in being the object of his protection and his care.

She heard a knock at the door.

“Does not the senhora wish to dine?” said the impatient voice of Juliana outside.

“No.”

“There will be so much the more for me, then.”

Donna Felicidade arrived before eight o’clock. Luiza was reassured by seeing her appear in a black gown with a high neck, and her emerald ornaments.

“What is this? What piece of folly is this, I want to know?” the excellent lady said gayly, as she entered the room.

“A caprice,” answered Luiza. Jorge was dining out and she felt lonely. She took a notion, which she could not resist, to go to the theatre. They had to stop at the Hotel Gibraltar on their way, for Jorge.

“I had just finished dining when I received your note. I was on the point of not coming. To lace one’s self after dinner! Fortunately I had eaten scarcely anything.”

She asked what they were going to perform that evening. Faust. Good. On which side of the house was the box? No. 18. What a pity! They lost the view of the Royal Family. And then that theatre was so far away! She rose, and standing before the dressing-table, looked at herself sidewise in the glass, smoothing down the bands of her hair, and then arranged her bracelets, her eyes shining joyously.

A carriage stopped at the door.

“The coach!” she said smilingly.

Luiza put on her gloves and her wrap, and glanced around. Her heart beat violently, and there was a feverish light in her eyes.

“Are you forgetting anything?” asked Donna Felicidade. “The key of the box? Your handkerchief?”

“Ah, my bouquet!” said Luiza.

Juliana was struck with amazement when she saw her mistress dressed for the theatre; she lighted her out in silence, and slammed the door insolently after her.

“What a barefaced creature!” she muttered.

Just as the carriage started, Donna Felicidade cried out, knocking at the window,—

“Wait! Stop! I have forgotten my fan! I cannot go without my fan! Stop, driver!”

“We shall be late, my dear. Take mine,” said Luiza, impatiently.

Donna Felicidade complained that these mental agitations disturbed her digestion. The drive down the Chiado restored her good-humor, however. Dark groups, gesticulating violently, stood out in bold relief against the brightly illuminated doorways of the Havaneira. In front of the Riding Academy carriages passed rapidly, the white capes of the drivers lighted up by the shifting gleams of the lamps. Donna Felicidade, a smile on her countenance, enjoyed the exhilaration produced by the winter air, and the brightness of the numerous gas-lights, and it was with a sense of satisfaction, when the carriage stopped, that she saw the porter of the Hotel Gibraltar open the door and stand waiting their orders, cap in hand.

Luiza gave him a message for Jorge.

They gazed in silence at the staircase of the hotel, on which the shaded lamps diffused a soft light. Donna Felicidade, curious to know something of hotel life, observed attentively the laundress, who was just then entering with a basket of clothes; then a lady who descended the staircase in evening dress, her feet encased in white satin slippers; and she smiled as she saw the passers-by cast curious glances at them through the open window of the carriage.

“They are dying to know who we are,” she said.

Luiza pressed her bouquet between her hands in silence. Jorge at last made his appearance at the head of the stairs, speaking with great energy to a very lean individual with his hat on one side of his head, his hands in the pockets of his narrow trousers, and an enormous cigar in his mouth. They stopped, gesticulated, whispered. Finally the lean individual pressed Jorge’s hand, whispered something in his ear, laughed under his breath, and turning back, clapped him on the shoulder, and obliged him to take another cigar. Then he pulled his hat still more to one side and went to speak to the porter.

Jorge ran out, smiling, to the carriage-door.

“What follies are these?” he said. “Theatres! Suppers! I shall apply for a divorce!”

He seemed to be in a very good humor. All he regretted, he said, was that he was not in evening dress, but he would remain in the background, in the box. And in order not to crush their gowns he took a seat outside.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE FATE OF THE SCORPION.

AT nine o’clock Sebastião left his house, and braving the sharp northeast wind that made the gas-jets flicker inside the globes, went slowly to the house of Vicente Azurara, a cousin of his, who was a commissary of police. An elderly female servant in shabby attire took him to the bachelor’s den where the Senhor Commissary was sweating away a severe cold. He found him enveloped in a great-coat, his feet and legs wrapped in a blanket, sipping hot grog, and reading “O Homem dos tres calções.” When Sebastião entered he took his eye-glass off his nose and raising his watery eyes, exclaimed,—

“I am tormented with a cold that I have had for the last three days.”

He grumbled a little, passing his thin and dirty hand over his face, which was dark and full of lines, and to which a heavy mustache gave a certain air of fierceness.

Sebastião said he was very sorry, but it was not strange with this weather! He advised him to take sulphur-water with boiled milk.

“No; if it does not go away,” said the commissary, in a hoarse voice, “I will attack it to-morrow with half a bottle of gin; and then, if it does not go of its own accord, it will have to go by force. And what is the news?”

Sebastião coughed, complained of feeling somewhat indisposed himself, and taking a chair and seating himself near his cousin, said, placing his hand upon the knee of the latter,—

“Vicente, if I were to ask you to let a policeman accompany me on a little matter of business—merely to show himself—so that a certain person might make restitution of something that has been stolen, you would give me the order, eh?”

“Order, for what?” asked the commissary slowly, fixing his small eyes on Sebastião.

“The order for him to accompany me,—only to show himself. It is a delicate affair. To give a fright—nothing more. It is to make some one restore something that has been stolen, without causing scandal.”

“Effects, or money?” said the commissary, slowly twisting his mustache with his long tapering fingers that bore the stains of the cigarette.

Sebastião hesitated.

“Well, effects—so as not to cause scandal, you understand. You can already imagine that.”

“A policeman in order to give some one a fright,” murmured Vicente. He blew his nose noisily, and with a sudden change of countenance said, “It is nothing relating to politics?”

“No!” returned Sebastião, with emphasis.

The commissary wrapped the blanket more closely about his feet, and raised his eyes with a suspicious glance.

“It does not concern any person of respectability?”

“Nonsense, man!” returned Sebastião.

“A policeman, in order to give some one a fright,” ruminated Vicente. “You are a man of honor; hand me the portfolio that is on the chest of drawers there.”

He took from it a sheet of ruled paper, and reflected a moment, with his hand to his head.

“Mendez—would Mendez do?” he asked. Sebastião, who did not know who Mendez was, responded,—

“Yes, any one you choose. It is only that he may be seen.”

“Mendez, then; he is a respectable man; he belongs to the Guard.”

He asked Sebastião to hand him the inkstand, wrote an order, read it over twice, put strokes to the dried it at the flame of the lamp, and folding it with solemnity, said,—

“Second division.”

“Thanks, Vicente. It is a great service. I am much obliged to you. Wrap yourself up well and do not forget the sulphur-water; it is to be had at the pharmacy of Azevedo, Rua de S. Roque—with half a litre of boiled milk. Thanks. Have you any commands?”

“No; give something to Mendez. He is a person of respectability; he belongs to the Guard.” And putting on his eye-glasses he again became absorbed in the “Homem dos tres calções.”

Half an hour afterwards Sebastião, followed by Mendez, who walked with military step, his arms slightly bending outward like a bow, was on his way to Jorge’s house. He had formed no plan of action. He reflected naturally that Juliana, on seeing a policeman enter the house at that hour, would be frightened, would think at once of Limoeiro and the coast of Africa, and would deliver up the letters and beg for mercy. And afterwards? He thought vaguely of paying her passage to Brazil, or giving her five hundred thousand reis to establish herself in some distant province. He would consider about it,—the chief thing was to frighten her.

In effect, when Juliana opened the door, and saw a policeman standing behind Sebastião, she grew livid, and exclaimed,—

“Ave Maria! What is the matter?”

She had a blank shawl around her shoulders, and the lamp she carried in her hand projected on the wall the shadow of her repulsive profile.

“Senhora Juliana,” said Sebastião, quietly, “do me the favor to light the parlor.”

She fixed an uneasy glance on the policeman.

“But what is the matter, Senhor? The master and mistress are out. If I had known, I should not have opened the door; no, indeed. Has anything happened?”

“It is nothing,” answered Sebastião, opening the door of the parlor. “Everything can be quietly arranged.”

He himself lighted one of the candles, causing the gilded picture-frames to stand out indistinctly from the surrounding darkness, and casting a gleam on the pallid countenance of the portrait of Jorge’s mother.

“Sit down, Senhor Mendez, sit down,” he said to his companion.

Mendez sat down on the edge of a chair, his hand on his hip and his sabre between his knees, maintaining all the while a grave countenance.

“This is the person,” said Sebastião, pointing to Juliana, who stood petrified with terror at the door.

“Senhor Sebastião, what jest is this?” she cried, retreating with a pallid countenance.

“It is nothing, nothing.”

He took the light, and touching her on the arm said, “Let us go inside to the dining-room.”

“But why? My God! is it anything that concerns me?”

Sebastião, when they had entered, closed the door, leaving Mendez in the parlor. He placed the light upon the table, on which were remnants of food on a plate, and a little wine in a glass; he took a few turns up and down the room, nervously snapping his fingers, and then stopping abruptly before Juliana,—

“Give me the letters that you stole from your mistress,” he said.

Juliana made a movement as if to open the window and call for help. Sebastião caught her by the arm, and forcing her into a chair, said,—

“You need not scream out of the window, because there is a policeman in the house. Give me the letters; if not—”

Juliana mentally caught a glimpse of a dark cell in Limoeiro, of the broth served out to prisoners.

“But what have I done?” she stammered.

“You have stolen those letters. Give them to me quickly!”

Juliana, seated on the edge of the chair, clasped her hands together with a gesture of desperation, and muttered between her teeth,—

“The hypocrite! the hypocrite!”

Sebastião laid his hand impatiently on the bolt of the door.

“Wait, in the name of a hundred thousand devils!” she cried, springing to her feet at a bound. She glanced at him vindictively, unfastened her jacket, put her hand into her bosom, and drew out a pocket-book. But suddenly she stamped her foot upon the floor, and cried frantically, “No, no, no!”

“May the Devil take me if you do not sleep to-night in prison,” said Sebastião to her. He half opened the door and called out, “Senhor Mendez!”

“There they are!” cried Juliana, throwing the pocket-book at his feet; and shaking her clenched fist in his face, she added, “may a thunderbolt strike you dead for this, you villain!”

Sebastião took up the pocket-book. It contained three letters, one, very much folded, of Luiza’s. He read the first line: “My adored Bazilio,” and turning very pale, placed all three in the breast-pocket of his great-coat. He opened the parlor door; the robust figure of Mendez stood out against the shadowy background.

“Everything is settled, Senhor Mendez,” he said, in a slightly tremulous voice. “I will not detain you any longer.”

The policeman bowed in silence. When Sebastião slipped a douceur into his hand at the head of the stairs, Mendez bowed again respectfully, and said in mellifluous accents,—

“When you need me again, you know my address, No. 64, Mendez, of the Guard. Do not trouble yourself, your Excellency; at the service of your Excellency. My wife and children will be grateful to you. Do not trouble yourself, your Excellency. No. 64, Mendez, of the Guard!”

Sebastião closed the door behind him and returned to the dining-room. Juliana had sunk into a chair, apparently overwhelmed by the blow that had fallen upon her; but no sooner did she see him than she rose, furious.

“I will tell that hypocrite what I think of this, when I see her. You have set this trap for me because you are her lover also!”

Sebastião, who had turned very pale, restrained himself with difficulty.

“Go get your hat and send to-morrow for your trunk,” he said; “your master has already dismissed you.”

“He shall know everything!” she screamed. “May the roof fall and crush me if I don’t tell him everything,—the letters she received from him, and when they met—”

“Silence!” cried Sebastião, bringing his hand down upon the table with a force that made the china rattle, and woke up the canaries. And he added, with white lips and trembling voice: “The police have your name written down, thief. At the first word you utter you go to Limoeiro or beyond seas, for you stole not only letters but gowns, linen—”

Juliana endeavored to protest, but he continued with violence,—

“Very well; she gave them to you, then, but under compulsion, for you threatened her. It is a robbery, which means transportation to Africa! You can tell your master now anything you please; the only thing wanting is that he should believe it. It will only end in your getting a good thrashing, you thief!”

Juliana muttered between her teeth. It was amusing! They had everything on their side, the police, the prison, fetters, Africa. And she—nothing.

All her hatred against Luiza burst forth.

“She is no better than a street-walker,” she exclaimed, “and I am an honest woman; no man can boast of ever having laid a hand on me. And that hypocrite!”

Her shawl had fallen from her shoulders, and she felt an uneasy sensation in the throat.

“This is an outrage!” she shrieked. “And all that I suffered with that witch his aunt! Is this the reward they give me? May the Devil take me if I don’t put this in the papers,—I who have passed my life chained down to work like a dog!”

Sebastião, against his will, listened with painful curiosity to these details. He felt an intense desire to choke her, and with his ears he devoured her words. When she paused, out of breath,—

“Put on your hat, and let us go,” he said.

Juliana, convulsed with rage, her eyes starting from their sockets, went up to him and spat in his face. But all at once she opened her mouth to its fullest extent, bent forward, pressed her hands to her heart with an agonized expression on her countenance, and fell, with a dull noise, a lifeless heap upon the floor. Sebastião bent over her and tried to move her; she was rigid, and a reddish foam discolored her lips. He caught up his hat, hurried downstairs, and ran along the Patriarchal. An empty carriage was passing. He hailed it, entered, and ordered the driver to take him with all speed to the house of Julião, whom he obliged to accompany him at once, without a collar, and in slippers.

“It is very serious—Juliana—” he murmured, with a pallid countenance.

On the way, amidst the noise of the carriage and of bells ringing, he told his companion incoherently that he had gone to Luiza’s, that he had found Juliana enraged at having been dismissed, and that, while talking and gesticulating she had suddenly fallen lifeless upon the floor.

“It was there, and it must happen one day or another,” said Julião, puffing his cigar.

The carriage stopped. Sebastião in his excitement had closed the door behind him on leaving the house. And the dead woman inside! The driver offered his latch-key, with which they succeeded in opening the door.

“Sha’n’t we take a little drive to Dá Fundo?” said the driver, as he put his latch-key back into his pocket.

But on seeing the door close behind them,—

“They are not the sort of people for that,” he muttered contemptuously, touching his horses with the whip.

Meantime they had entered the house. The silent hall had a lugubrious aspect in Sebastião’s eyes. With a feeling of terror he went up the stairs that seemed to be unending, and with his heart beating violently he glanced around, expecting to see her lying there in a faint, or standing before him pale but breathing.

No, there she was as he had left her, stretched on the floor, her arms extended, her fingers drawn up like claws. The edge of her skirt was slightly raised, disclosing to view her rose-colored stockings and her carpet slippers. The lamp that Sebastião had left on the floor, by the side of a chair, gave her rigid features livid tones, her distorted mouth was set in a grimace, and her half-open eyes, fixed immovably in death, were veiled by a cloud like a diaphanous cobweb. Everything around seemed motionless and dead. The silver on the shelves of the sideboard gleamed faintly in the light, and the cuckoo-clock continued its ceaseless ticking.

Julião examined her and then stood up, shaking his hands.

“She is dead, and very dead,” he said. “She must be taken away from here. Where is her room?”

Sebastião, very pale, pointed upstairs.

“Very well; carry her you, and I will take the light,” said Julião. Seeing that Sebastião did not move, “Are you afraid?” he asked, laughing. And he began to ridicule him. What was he afraid of? It was inert matter; it was just as if he were carrying a trunk. Sebastião, perspiring to the roots of his hair, put his hands under the arms of the corpse, raised it, and dragged it slowly along. Julião held the light before him, and through bravado sang the first bars of the March of Faust. But Sebastião, shocked, said in a trembling voice,—

“I will leave it all, and go away.”

“Let us respect the nerves of the young lady,” said Julião, with a bow.

They went on in silence. This frail body weighed on Sebastião like the stone of a sepulchre; one of the dead woman’s slippers fell off and rolled downstairs. Sebastião felt something strike against his knees; it was the chignon, fastened with a ribbon, which had fallen down. They laid her on the bed, and Julião said they must respect the traditions. He folded her hands across her breast, and closed her eyes. He stood watching her for a moment, and then said,—

“An ugly reptile!”

He covered her face with a towel, and glancing around as he left the room, remarked, “That good-for-nothing was better lodged than I am!”

He closed the door, turned the key in the look, and said, “Requiescat in pace?”

They went downstairs in silence, and when they were in the parlor Sebastião, laying his hand on Julião’s shoulder, said,—

“Do you think it was the aneurism?”

“Yes; she allowed herself to become excited, and it burst. It is stated by the authorities on the subject—”

“So that if she had not been excited to-night—”

“It would have been to-morrow. She has been dying for some time past. Leave her in peace; she is already beginning to decompose. Let us not disturb her.”

He then observed, rubbing his hands together, that he would like to eat something. He found in the cupboard some cold meat and half a bottle of Collares. He sat down, and, looking through his glass at the light, asked Sebastião, with his mouth full,—

“Have you heard the news?”

“No.”

“My opponent has got the place.”

“Is it possible!”

“It was settled beforehand,” said Julião, with a grimace. “I was going to make a scandal, but—” and he smiled—“but they pacified me by giving me another position. They threw me a bone.”

“Indeed!” responded Sebastião. “I am very glad; I congratulate you. And now?”

“Now, I will gnaw it.”

They had promised it to him at the first vacancy. The place was not a bad one. In short, he had bettered his condition. He was sick of medicine, he continued; it was a lane that led nowhere. He ought to have been a lawyer, a politician, a diplomat; he was born for it. He rose, and taking long strides up and down the room, he began, with shrill voice, his cigar between his teeth, to disclose his ambitious projects.

“The country is ruled by an intriguer who has strength of will; the people are degenerate, diseased, full of chronic catarrhs, of hereditary ailments, rotten within and without. The old constitutional society will fall to pieces. New men are needed!”

He planted himself in front of Sebastião.

“This country, my friend,” he said, “thus far has been governed by expedients. When the reaction against these comes, the country will look for some one who will give it fundamental truths. But who has fundamental truths? No one. They have debts, secret vices, artificial teeth; but fundamental truths, no one! If there were a few brave spirits who would take the trouble to expound half a dozen serious, rational, modern truths, the country would go on its knees to them and would say to them, ‘Gentlemen, do me the favor to put the bit in my mouth;’ I ought to be one of those men. I was born for it, and it makes me angry to think that while others, astuter or less scrupulous, are basking in the sun,—‘the beautiful Portuguese sun,’ as the farces say,—I should be prescribing poultices for devout old women, or curing the ailments of decayed clerks.”

Sebastião’s thoughts, meanwhile, dwelt silently on the dead woman upstairs.

“Stupid country, stupid life!” growled Julião.

A carriage stopped at the door.

“The prince and princess have returned!” said Julião.

Jorge was helping Luiza out of the carriage, when Sebastião, opening the door, said abruptly,—

“Something very serious has happened.”

“Fire?” asked Jorge, turning around in alarm.

“No; Juliana’s aneurism has burst,” said Julião in the shadow of the doorway.

“The devil!” exclaimed Jorge in amazement, as he hastily looked for the money to pay the driver.

“I shall not go in,” exclaimed Donna Felicidade, showing her face, muffled in a veil, at the carriage door. “I shall not enter!”

“Nor I!” said Luiza, terrified.

“But where shall we go, child?” asked Jorge.

To his house, Sebastião answered. There was his mother’s room; there was nothing to do but to arrange the bed.

“Let us go there, Jorge; let us go,” entreated Luiza. “It is the best thing we can do.”

Jorge hesitated; the patrol was passing farther up the street, and on seeing this group standing in the light of the carriage lamp, they stopped. Finally Jorge yielded to persuasion, and consented, but very much against his will.

“The devil of a woman to go take it into her head to die at such an hour!” he exclaimed. “The carriage will take you home, Donna Felicidade,” he added.

“And me,” said Julião. “I am in my slippers.”

Donna Felicidade with Christian piety suggested that some one ought to watch beside the dead woman.

“For Heaven’s sake give up such nonsense!” exclaimed Julião, getting into the carriage and closing the door.

But Donna Felicidade insisted. It was a want of religion; they should light a pair of candles at least, and send for a priest.

“Drive on, coachman,” growled Julião, impatiently.

The carriage turned the corner. Donna Felicidade, putting her head through the window, notwithstanding Julião’s efforts to pull her back by the dress, cried out, “It is a mortal sin, a sacrilege! At least a pair of candles!”

Luiza had some scruples in the matter. It was true, she said, they ought to send for some one.

Jorge grew angry. Whom should they send for at such an hour? What hypocrisy! Was she not dead? Well, then, there was an end of it; they would bury her. To watch beside that good-for-nothing! And why not put her a chapelle ardente as well? Perhaps Luiza herself would like to watch beside her.

“Come Jorge, come,” murmured Sebastião.

“Yes, it is just as I have said; nothing but a love of excitement.”

Luiza bent her head in silence, and while Jorge was closing the door of the house, she went down the street leaning on Sebastião’s arm.

“She expired in a fit of rage,” he said to her in a low voice.

During the whole of the way Jorge continued to grumble. What an idea to go sleep out of the house! That was making too much of the matter.

“It seems as if you wanted to add to my suffering,” said Luiza, “and I feel very ill already.”

Jorge bit his cigar with anger, and was silent. Sebastião, in order to satisfy Luiza, proposed that Aunt Vicenta, the negress, should go watch beside Juliana.

“That would be best,” she murmured.

They had by this time reached Sebastião’s door.

The rustle of Luiza’s silk skirt in his house moved Sebastião profoundly; his hand trembled as he lighted the candles in the parlor. He wakened Aunt Vicenta to make them some tea; he himself saw to the arrangement of their room, happy in being able to extend to them his hospitality. When he returned to the parlor Luiza was alone, seated on the edge of the sofa.

“And Jorge?” he asked.

“In the study, writing to the parish priest about the burial. Have you got them?” she added, with glittering eyes and trembling voice.

Sebastião took Juliana’s pocket-book out of his pocket. Luiza caught it from him eagerly, and, taking his hand in hers with an abrupt movement, pressed her lips upon it.

Jorge entered, smiling.

“Are you more tranquil now, child?” he asked.

“Entirely so,” she answered, with a sigh of relief.

They went into the dining-room to take some tea. Sebastião related to Jorge, coloring faintly as he did so, how he had gone to his house, and how, as Juliana was telling him that she had been discharged, and talking and working herself into a passion, she suddenly fell upon the floor, dead! “Poor creature!” he ended.

Luiza, as he uttered this falsehood, gave him an adoring glance.

“And Joanna?” asked Jorge, suddenly.

“Ah, I forgot to tell you,” said Luiza, tranquilly; “she asked me for permission to go to Bellas to see her aunt, who is very ill. She said she would be back to-morrow. A little more tea, Sebastião.”

They forgot in the end to send Aunt Vicenta, and no one watched beside the dead woman.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE LETTER.

LUIZA passed a feverish and uneasy night. In the morning Jorge was alarmed by the frequency of her pulse and the heat of her skin. He, too, owing to a feeling of nervousness, had spent a wakeful night. The room in which they slept had been shut up for a long time past, and was pervaded, in consequence, by a chill dampness; there were stains of mould on the wall near the ceiling; the antique bed, without curtains, with its pillars of bent-wood, and the old chest of drawers with its mirror of the last century, had an indefinable air of sadness, as though recalling lives long dead and gone. To find himself thus with his wife under a strange roof produced in his mind, without his knowing why, a vaguely superstitious feeling. It seemed to him as if a turning-point had come in his life, and that, like a river which changes its course, it would begin from this night forth to flow amid different surroundings. The northeast wind beat against the window-panes, and howled through the narrow street, seeking an outlet.

In the morning Luiza was unable to rise.

Julião, who was called in haste, allayed their fears, however.

“It is a slight nervous fever that will pass away with a little rest,” he said. “Last night’s fright, no doubt.”

“I dreamed all night of her,” responded Luiza. “I thought she had come back to life again. How horrible it was!”

“You need have no uneasiness on that score,” returned Julião. “Have they prepared her for burial yet?” turning to Jorge.

“Sebastião is there,” answered Jorge, “and I am going now to take a look at things.”

The death of old parchment was already known in the neighborhood. The woman who had laid her out—a matron deeply pitted with the small-pox, with eyes reddened by the abuse of spirituous liquors—was an acquaintance of the Senhora Helena. She had stood a moment in the sunshine chatting with her at the door of the tobacco-shop.

“Is there much business, Senhora Margarida?”

“A good deal, a good deal,” replied the other in a husky voice. “In winter there is always more to do. But they are all old people, who drop off with the cold. There is not a pretty corpse among them.”

The Senhora Margarida, it will be seen, had artistic tastes.

The tobacconist related many particulars to her regarding Juliana,—the favors shown her by her master and mistress, her airs, and the luxury she enjoyed of having a matted room. The Senhora Margarida responded that she was amazed by what she heard. And who would have it all now? she asked. “But I must dress that doll,” she ended, going into the house with an air of compunction. The priest was there conversing in a husky voice with Sebastião about agriculture, drainage, and grafting, and passing his folded handkerchief from time to time under his nose with his hairy hand. All the windows were open to the pleasant warmth of the sun, and the canaries were twittering in their cages.

“Had the deceased been long in the family?” asked the priest of Jorge, who was walking up and down the parlor, smoking.

“Three years.”

The priest slowly unfolded his handkerchief and shook it out preparatory to blowing his nose.

“Her mistress must regret her greatly,” he said. “But it is a debt we must all pay at last.” And he blew his nose loudly.

Joanna made her appearance at this moment, wrapped in a shawl, with a handkerchief tied around her head. She had heard from the neighbors that Juliana was dead, and that the master and mistress were at Dom Sebastião’s. She came from there now. Luiza had sent for her to her room, and when Joanna saw her “dear mistress” lying ill in bed, she shed tears; but Luiza told her that now things would soon be better, and that she might come back.

“And listen, Joanna,” she ended; “if the master should ask you, say that you went to Bellas to see your aunt.”

The girl went for her bundle, and installed herself anew in the house, somewhat frightened by a death having taken place there.

Shortly afterwards Senhor Paula knocked discreetly at the door. He came to offer his services for whatever might be wanted on the occasion. Taking off his cap, and scraping his foot, he said in his hoarse voice, “I am very sorry for the misfortune,—very sorry. But we are all mortal!”

“True, true, Senhor Paula,” answered Jorge; “but I need nothing. Many thanks.”

And he shut the door abruptly. He was impatient to get rid of the whole matter; irritated by the hammering of the men upstairs who were nailing the coffin, he called to Joanna,—

“Tell those people to make haste; we don’t want this to go on forever.”

Joanna went upstairs to deliver the message. She had made friends with the Senhora Margarida, who went to the kitchen with her to take a little refreshment; as there was no fire she contented herself with some bread and wine, which she declared good enough for any one.

She was disgusted with the deceased, she declared; she had never seen an uglier creature. She looked like a dried herring. And she glanced at Joanna’s rounded form as she spoke.

“You seem to have a fine figure,” she added, as if she were calculating mentally how she would arrange the shroud on those robust contours.

“I suppose you would like—” began Joanna, indignantly.

“People of very high position have passed through my hands,” interrupted the other in a piping voice, smiling. (She had lost two of her front teeth.) “Do me the favor to give me a little more wine. It is Cartaxo, isn’t it? Excellent wine!”

At last, at about four o’clock, to Jorge’s great relief they brought the coffin downstairs. The neighbors looked on curiously from their doors as it was carried out. Senhor Paula, through bravado, waved a good-by with his hand as it passed him, adding,—

“A good journey!”

“Are you not afraid of remaining here alone?” Jorge asked Joanna upstairs.

“No, sir; the dead can’t come to life again,” she answered. Not that she was not in reality afraid, but she expected Pedro to keep her company in her solitude.

Jorge returned with Sebastião to the house of the latter. “It is all over,” he said, entering the room where Luiza was in bed. “She is on her way to the heights of S. João,” he continued, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, “with everything duly arranged for the journey. Per omnia saccula sacculorum!”

Aunt Joanna, who was sitting with Luiza, burst out hastily,—

“Let her go, let her go! She was a bad woman!”

“She was a good-for-nothing creature,” said Jorge. “Let us hope she is now boiling in the caldron of Pedro Botello, eh, Aunt Joanna?”

“Jorge!” exclaimed Luiza, reprovingly. She thought it a Christian duty to recite two Pater Nosters for the dead woman’s soul.

This was the sole effect produced on earth by the death of her who was now being carried by two worn-out hacks to the common burial-ground, and who in life was known as Juliana Conceiro Tavira.

On the following day Luiza was better, and they spoke of returning home, to the great disgust of Aunt Joanna. Sebastião said nothing, but he secretly desired that Luiza’s convalescence might detain them in his house for an indefinite period. She gave him such grateful glances that he alone could understand! He was so happy to have her and Jorge under his roof! He held consultations with Aunt Vicenta about the dinner; he walked through the house with a feeling of reverence, almost on tiptoe, as if it were sanctified by her presence in it; he filled the vases with camellias and violets; he smiled beatifically when Jorge smacked his lips over the old cognac after dinner. He felt an indefinable sense of well-being that infused new life into him, and he thought sorrowfully that when she went away an air of greater coldness than before would hang over everything, like the sadness that hangs over a ruin.

Two days afterwards, however, they returned home. Luiza was very much pleased with the new servant whom Sebastião had engaged. She was a girl with expressive eyes, and a pleasing manner, and was very neat in her person. Her name was Marianna, and she soon told Joanna that she would do anything for the mistress, who had an angelic disposition, and who was very handsome.

Jorge sent Juliana’s trunks to Aunt Victoria.

When Jorge left the house in the afternoon, Luiza shut herself up in her room with Juliana’s pocket-book, drew down the blinds, lighted a candle, and burned the letters. Her hands trembled, and she beheld, with eyes swimming in tears, those words, the evidence of her shame, disappear in a column of white smoke,—at last, thanks to Sebastião, to that dear Sebastião! She went to take a look at the parlor, at the kitchen; everything seemed new to her, and life full of sweetness; she opened the windows, ran her fingers over the keys of the piano, tore to pieces with a superstitious feeling the music of Medjé that Bazilio had given her, talked a long time to Marianna, and sipping her cup of chicken-broth, thought with a radiant countenance,—

“How happy I shall be now!”

When she heard Jorge’s step in the hall she ran out to meet him, threw her arms around his neck, and with her head on his shoulder said,—

“I am very happy to-day. If you only knew what a good girl Marianna is!”

That very night the fever returned. Julião found her much worse on the following morning.

“This begins to grow a little more serious,” he said in a dissatisfied tone.

He was writing a prescription, when Donna Felicidade came in, very much excited. She was surprised to find Luiza sick; leaning over her, she whispered in her ear,—

“I have something to tell you.”

When Jorge and Julião had left the room, she seated herself beside the bed and proceeded to unbosom herself to Luiza, speaking now in low and confidential tones, now in a voice rendered shrill by indignation. She had been robbed, basely robbed, she cried. The man she had sent to Tuy, like the unscrupulous thief he was, had written to her servant Gertrudes that he was not coming back to Lisbon, that the sorceress had changed her place of abode, and that he desired to hear nothing more about the matter,—all in the clerkly handwriting of a paid copyist, and in horrible Portuguese. But not a word did he say of money.

“What do you think of the swindler? Eight dollars! If it were not for the shame of it, I should go to the police. I want to have nothing more to do with Gallicians. That was the reason the counsellor made no further advances; the sorceress had not wrought the spell.”

If she did not believe in the honesty of the Gallicians, however, it was very evident that she still believed in the arts of magic. It was not for the money, but for the annoyance. Where could the woman be now? It was enough to make one crazy. What did Luiza think of the matter?

Luiza shrugged her shoulders. Enveloped in the bedclothes, she lay there silent, with flushed face and heavy eyes. Donna Felicidade advised her, with a sigh, to take something to make her perspire; and finding she could obtain no consolation from Luiza, she went to the Encarnação to unbosom herself to the Senhora Silveira.

Towards morning Luiza grew worse. The fever increased. Jorge, very uneasy, dressed himself hurriedly at nine o’clock to go for Julião. He was going downstairs hastily, buttoning his overcoat, when he met the postman, who seemed to have a bad cough, going up.

“Are there any letters?” asked Jorge.

“One for the senhora,” answered the postman.

Jorge looked at the envelope; it was directed to Luiza, and bore the French postmark.

“Who the deuce can it be from?” he thought, putting it in his pocket and going out. He returned in a carriage half an hour later with Julião; Luiza was sleeping heavily.

“She needs care; we shall see,” said Julião, shaking his head, while Jorge watched him anxiously from the other side of the bed. He wrote a prescription, and remained to breakfast. The day was cold and cloudy. Marianna, wrapped in a shawl, waited at table, her fingers swollen with chilblains. Jorge felt depressed, as if the mists of the atmosphere were gathering around his soul. What could be the cause of this fever? he asked Julião disconsolately. It was very strange. For six weeks she had been ill and well by turns.

“These fevers have a thousand different causes,” said Julião, tranquilly breaking off a piece of toast; “sometimes a draught is the cause, sometimes anxiety. I have at present in my practice a curious example,—an individual, one Alves, who was at death’s door as the result of a couple of months of constant anxiety. Two weeks ago, through a caprice of Fortune,—for that lady is, as we know, capricious,—he was able to settle his affairs, and free himself from his embarrassments. Well, ever since he has had a fever of this kind, insidious, perplexing, with contradictory symptoms. What is the cause of it? That the nervous excitement debilitates, and the sudden joy inflames the blood. A general wasting away of the system follows, until at last the implacable creditor presents himself, and—per omnia saccula.”

He rose and lighted a cigar.

“In any case let her have absolute repose,” he continued, “as if her senses were wrapped up in cotton-wool. No noise, no conversation; and if she is thirsty, lemonade. Good-by.” And he went away drawing on the black gloves which he had worn ever since he had become a member of the medical fraternity.

Jorge returned to the bedroom. Luiza was still dozing. Marianna, seated in a low chair beside the bed, an expression of sorrow on her countenance, did not remove her eyes, in which there was a vague terror, from her mistress.

“She has been very quiet,” she whispered.

Jorge touched the burning hand of Luiza, and drew the bedclothes around her; then he pressed his lips to her hair, and went softly and closed the window-blinds. Walking up and down in his study a short time afterwards, Julião’s words recurred to him. “These fevers are sometimes caused by an annoyance.” He thought of the case of the merchant, and recalled Luiza’s inexplicable state of depression and weakness which had lately caused him so much anxiety. Bah, nonsense! Anxiety? what source of anxiety could she have? She had been so happy while they were at Sebastião’s that Juliana’s death could not be the cause. Besides, he had but little faith in fevers caused by anxiety. Julião’s knowledge of medicine was mostly theoretical, and it occurred to him that perhaps it would be well to call in old Dr. Caminha. As he put his hand into his pocket it came in contact with a letter,—the one given him by the postman for Luiza. He examined it again with curiosity; the envelope was an ordinary one, such as is to be found in cafés and restaurants; the handwriting, which was that of a man, was not familiar to him. It bore a French postmark. He felt an impulse to open it, but he restrained himself, and throwing it on the table, began to roll a cigarette. He returned to the bedroom. Luiza continued to doze: the sleeve of her nightgown had fallen back, and disclosed to view her beautifully modelled arm; her face was brilliantly flushed; her long lashes rested motionless on her cheek; an escaping curl fell over her forehead; and with her feverishly bright color she seemed to Jorge more beautiful than ever. The thought came to his mind, he knew not why, that others might find her equally beautiful, and that they might even tell her so if she gave them the opportunity. Why should she receive a letter from France? He returned to his study; the letter lying there before him on the table irritated him; he tried to read, but after a few moments threw away the book impatiently. He began to walk up and down the room, nervously twisting the lining of his pockets between his fingers. He took up the letter and tried to read its contents through the semi-transparent envelope, and unconsciously his fingers began to tear one of its corners. This was dishonorable, he felt. But curiosity, which was strong within him, suggested, with persuasive voice, many and various reasons for opening it. She was sick, and it might be something urgent, perhaps a legacy. Besides, she had no secrets from him, and least of all in France. His scruples were puerile. He could tell her he had opened it by mistake. And if the letter should contain the secret of the anxiety of Julião’s theory, then it was his duty to open it in order that she might be the sooner restored to health. Without his own volition he found the letter open in his hand. He devoured it at a glance, but he failed to master its contents at once. The letters danced before his eyes. Approaching the window he read slowly:—

MY DEAR LUIZA,—It would take too long to explain to you how and why I found myself the day before yesterday in Nice, on my way to Paris, which I reached this morning, and where I received your letter. Judging by the number of stamps upon it, it must have travelled all over Europe in search of me. As it is now nearly two months and a half since you wrote it, I suppose that you will have already settled with that woman, and do not need the money; but if this should not be the case, send me a telegram and you shall receive it two days afterwards. I see by your letter that you do not believe that my departure was caused by business, and in this you do me an injustice. My departure ought not to have deprived you of your illusions regarding love, as you say it did, for in truth I did not know how much I loved you until I had left Lisbon; and not a day passes that I do not think of our meetings. What happy mornings! Do you ever pass the house now? Do you remember our lunch? I have time to say no more. Perhaps I shall soon return to Lisbon, when I hope once more to see you, for without you Lisbon would be a desert to me. Receive an ardent kiss from your

BAZILIO.

Jorge slowly folded the letter, threw it upon the table, and said aloud,—

“Excellent!”

He mechanically filled his pipe with tobacco, took a few turns up and down the floor with wandering gaze and quivering lip, threw his pipe suddenly across the room, breaking a pane of glass in the window, shook his clenched fist violently in the air, buried his face in his arms upon the table, moving his head from side to side and biting his sleeves with rage, and burst into a passion of sobs, stamping his feet like a madman upon the floor. Then he rose abruptly, took up the letter, and was about to go with it into Luiza’s room; but he was restrained by the recollection of Julião’s words: “Keep her quiet; no conversation, nothing to excite her.” He locked the letter in a drawer and put the key in his pocket. Standing thus, his nerves quivering, his eyes bloodshot, thoughts flashed through his brain like flashes of lightning through the tempest—of killing her, of abandoning her, of blowing his brains out!

Marianna knocked lightly at the study door, and told him the senhora was calling for him. The blood rushed to his head, he looked stupidly at Marianna, his eyelids nervously twitching, as he answered hoarsely,—

“I will go directly.”

On passing by the oval looking-glass in the parlor he was surprised to see that he seemed to have grown suddenly aged. Entering the bedroom, he passed a wet towel over his face, smoothed his hair, and went to the alcove. When his glance fell on Luiza, her large eyes dilated by fever, he was obliged to catch hold of the rail of the bed to overcome the sensation he felt that the walls were oscillating around him like a vessel with the motion of the sea. He looked at her with a smile, however. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“Badly,” she murmured faintly, beckoning him to her side with a gesture full of weariness.

He sat down beside her without looking at her.

“What is the matter with you?” she said, approaching her face to his. “Don’t grieve,” she added, taking his hand and laying hers upon it on the bed.

Jorge pushed her hand away coldly and rose abruptly to his feet, with set teeth. He felt an impulse of brutal anger, and was about to leave the room, afraid of himself, afraid of committing a crime, when he heard her voice speaking to him in sorrowful accents,—

“What is this, Jorge? What is the matter with you?”

He turned round and saw her half sitting up in bed, her dilated eyes fixed upon him and anguish depicted on her face, down which two tears rolled silently. He fell on his knees beside the bed, caught her hands in his, and broke into sobs.

“What is this?” asked the voice of Julião at the door of the bedroom.

Jorge rose to his feet, very pale.

Julião led him into the parlor, and standing before him with folded arms and a terrible look upon his face,—

“Are you mad?” he said. “You are aware of her condition, and yet you yield to your feelings in this way before her?”

“I could not control myself.”

“You must. Am I trying to break up the fever only in order that you may augment it? Are you mad?”

Julião was really indignant. He took an interest in Luiza as his patient, and he wanted to cure her. He felt pleasure, too, in exercising the authority of a person whose presence was necessary in the house which heretofore he had always entered with a certain feeling of dependence. Nor did he forget, on leaving, to offer a cigarette, with apparent carelessness, to Jorge. During the remainder of the day Jorge gave proofs of heroism. He could not remain long at a time by Luiza’s bedside, for his soul was torn by conflicting emotions; but he went there continually; he smiled at her, he drew the bedclothes around her with trembling hand. When she dozed, however, he remained looking at her with a curiosity at once painful and ignoble, as if he wished to surprise in her countenance traces of another’s kisses, or hoped that the fever would draw some name or fact from her unguarded lips. He loved her more since he had known that she was unfaithful to him, but with a perverted love. Then he would shut himself up in his study and pace restlessly up and down like a wild beast in its cage. He re-read the letter an infinite number of times, and the same vile and corroding desire for details continued to torture him. He re-read the letters he had received from her in Alemtejo, trying to discover in their words the symptoms of her coldness, the time of her faithlessness. Then he felt a ferocious hatred towards her. Thoughts of murder passed through his mind,—of strangling her, of giving her chloroform or laudanum. Then he would sit leaning back in his chair motionless, and with turbid gaze, recalling the past, the day of their marriage, certain walks they had taken together, the words he had said to her. At times the thought occurred to him that the letter might be a forgery. Some enemy might have written it and sent it to France. Perhaps Bazilio had known some other “Luiza” in Lisbon, and in directing the letter had written the name of his cousin by mistake. The momentary joy these fancies gave him only made the reality more cruel. But how did it happen? If he only knew the truth he would be more tranquil. He would tear this love from his heart as if it were some foul parasite; as soon as she was well he would take her to a convent, and he himself would go far away to end his days—to Africa or elsewhere. But—who knew the truth? Juliana! She knew it, without a doubt. All those favors to Juliana, the new room, the furniture, the clothes, all were now explained. She had been paying her for her complicity in her crime! She had been her confidante, had carried the letters, had known everything! And the accursed wretch was lying in her grave dead, unable to speak!

Sebastião came in the evening, as was his custom. The lamps were not yet lighted, and Jorge, lighting a candle, called him into his study, and taking the letter from the drawer, said, “Read that!”

Sebastião was struck with astonishment when he saw Jorge’s face by the light. He looked at the letter Jorge handed him, and trembled; and when he saw the signature the cold sweat of agony covered his brow. It seemed to him that the ground swayed beneath him, and that he swayed with it. But he controlled himself, read the letter, and placed it upon the table in silence.

“Sebastião,” said Jorge, “this is my death-blow. Do you know anything of this, Sebastião? You came here, you must know. Tell me the truth!”

Sebastião extended his arms. “What would you have me tell you?” he said. “I know nothing.”

Jorge caught his hands in his, shook them with violence, and looking at him entreatingly,—

“Sebastião,” he said, “for the sake of our friendship, by the soul of your mother, by all the years we have passed together—tell me the truth, Sebastião!”

“I know nothing,” he repeated. “What should I know?”

“You lie!”

“They may hear you!” murmured Sebastião.

There was a pause. Jorge pressed his temples between his hands, strode up and down the study, making the floor tremble with his steps, then suddenly stopping before Sebastião in an attitude of supplication,—

“Tell me, at least, what she did. Did she go out? Did any one come to see her?”

Sebastião responded, with his gaze fixed upon the light,—

“Sometimes, in the beginning, her cousin came to see her, and when Donna Felicidade was sick she went to see her. Her cousin went away afterwards. I know nothing more.”

Jorge looked at Sebastião fixedly for a moment.

“But what did I ever do to her, Sebastião,—I who adored her? What did I ever do to her that she should treat me thus,—I who adored her?”

He broke into bitter weeping. Sebastião remained standing by the table, overwhelmed.

“It was a passing folly!” he murmured.

“And those allusions,” cried Jorge, turning around with sudden rage and shaking the paper violently,—“those meetings, those happy mornings spent together. She is a vile wretch!”

“She is sick, Jorge,” Sebastião said timidly.

Jorge did not answer. He walked up and down the room in silence for some time, while Sebastião gazed intently at the flame of the candle. Jorge put the letter back into the drawer, and taking the candlestick in his hand, said in accents of resigned and melancholy lassitude,—

“Let us go and take tea, Sebastião.”

They did not again allude to the letter.

That night Jorge slept profoundly, and on the following morning he rose with a countenance impassible, and of a ghastly serenity.

After an uncertain course of three days the disease defined itself; it was intermittent fever. She lost flesh rapidly, but Julião continued tranquil. Jorge passed the days at her bedside. Donna Felicidade came to see her almost every morning, seated herself at the foot of the bed, and remained there silent, an aged look upon her face. The hopes she had placed on the woman of Tuy, so suddenly dashed to the ground, had thrown her existence off its balance, like an edifice from beneath which part of the foundation has been suddenly removed; she was falling into decay, and gave signs of animation only when, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, she saw the counsellor entering to inquire after “our beautiful invalid.” Keeping his hat in his hand, and refraining, through modesty, from entering the alcove, he would utter some profound observation, such as: “Health is a blessing which we fully appreciate only when we have lost it;” or, “Sickness is the test of friendship.” And he would end thus: “Soon, dear Jorge, the carmine of health will again color the cheeks of your virtuous spouse.”

At night Jorge slept on a mattress on the floor, but he closed his eyes for only an hour or two at the most. During the rest of the night he tried to read, but he never got beyond the first few lines; the book lay beside him, and with his head between his hands, his thoughts reverted continually to the same question: How had it happened? He put together in logical sequence certain facts. He saw Bazilio arrive in Lisbon, visit Luiza, fall in love with her, send her flowers, follow her, take every opportunity of seeing her, write to her—and then? He comprehended that the money was for Juliana. Did she demand it? Had she surprised them? Had she letters of theirs in her possession? In this painful reconstruction of details there were gaps, like dark gulfs, in which his tortured soul was submerged. He recalled the days since his return from Alemtejo, her tenderness, her caresses. Why did she seek to deceive him?

One night he searched her drawers, taking the precautions of a thief to avoid detection while he did so; he looked in her pockets, in the boxes in which she kept her collars and her laces; he went to the very bottom of her sandal-wood trunk,—nothing, not even a withered flower! At other times he moved the articles of furniture in the bedroom and the parlor from their places, as if they could reveal the details of her perfidy to him. Where had they sat? Did he kneel at her feet here on the carpet? Above all, the view of the sofa irritated him. At last he came to hate it. He began also to hate the house, as if the roof that had sheltered them and the floor that had supported their weight had been conscious accomplices in their crime. But what most tortured him was the words, “our meetings,” “those happy mornings.”

Meantime Luiza slept tranquilly. By the end of the week the fever had disappeared, but she was very weak; on the day she rose for the first time she fainted twice; she required help for several days to dress herself, and then to reach the lounge, and she insisted, with the capriciousness of a child, on Jorge remaining at her side. It seemed as if she absorbed life at his eyes and health from his touch. She made him read the paper in the morning, and do his writing, seated beside her. He submitted to all her exactions, and these acts of tyranny were like caresses to a wound, for he loved her tenderly. Unconsciously he would feel sudden thrills of happiness. He surprised himself saying tender words to her, laughing with her, oblivious of what had taken place. Reclining on the lounge, Luiza, tranquil and happy, looked over old volumes of the “Illustração franceza,” which the counsellor had sent her, and in which, as he said, she might acquire useful information concerning historical events, at the same time that she enjoyed the engravings. Or she tasted silently, her head resting on the cushions, the happiness of returning health, of seeing herself free from the tyranny of that woman and the bitterness of the past. One of her pleasures was to see Marianna enter with her breakfast on a tray; her appetite was returning, and she sipped with delight the glass of Port wine prescribed for her by Julião. If Jorge were not there she would enter, with a sense of contentment, into long chats with Marianna while she ate her jelly. At other times she would silently form plans, her eyes fixed on the ceiling; she would go for a few weeks to the country to re-establish her health and on her return she would set to work to embroider strips of cashmere to cover anew the parlor furniture; for she wanted to occupy herself with household matters, and to live quietly. Jorge would not go back to Alemtejo, he would not leave Lisbon again. Thus life would for the future be easy and sweet.

At times she thought Jorge preoccupied. What was the matter with him? He gave her as an excuse for his evident dejection fatigue and sleepless nights. She told him if he were to fall sick it must be when she was strong and able to nurse him; but he was not going to fall sick, was he? She made him sit down beside her; she passed her hand through his hair, gazing at him tenderly, for with returning strength her pleasure in the sweetness of life returned. Jorge was conscious that he still loved her, and this consciousness augmented his unhappiness.

When alone she formed yet other resolutions. She would see Leopoldina no more; she would attend church regularly; her sickness had given rise within her to a vague feeling of sentimental devotion. When she had the fever she fancied herself at times in some dreadful place, in which, from amidst red flames forms rose, twisting their arms,—black forms that whirled round and round, while groans of agony ascended up to heaven; already the tongues of fire had begun to lick her breast, when suddenly she felt the cool touch of something ineffably sweet; it was the pinions of a luminous angel who caught her in his arms, and she felt herself mounting up, her head resting on the celestial bosom, inundated with a supernatural felicity, and she saw the stars close beside her, and she heard the noise of wings. This left upon her mind a melancholy impression of heaven. She aspired to heaven, and she hoped to gain it by devout attendance at Mass, and by prayers to the Virgin.

One morning she entered the parlor, and for the first time opened the piano. Jorge was standing at the window looking out into the street; she called to him with a smile.

“I have taken a dislike to that sofa,” she said. “We might have it taken away from there, don’t you think so?”

Jorge felt as if a dagger had been thrust into his heart, but he controlled himself, and said,—

“I think so.”

“I should like to have it taken away,” she repeated, as she left the parlor, sweeping the floor with the long train of her morning-gown.

Jorge began to experience a feeling of sombre resignation. When he heard her gayly making plans for the future, and speaking with so contented an air of the happiness in store for her, he almost resolved to destroy the letter and forget everything. There was no doubt but that she had repented of her sin, and she loved him. Why, in cold blood, prepare a life of perpetual unhappiness for them both? But at other times a wave of brutal rage swept over his soul, and he left the room that he might not be tempted to strangle her.

In order to account for his silence and moroseness he began to complain of his health, to say he did not feel well, and her solicitude and the mute questioning of her eyes made him still more unhappy, for he felt that he was loved while he knew he had been betrayed. At last one Sunday Julião gave Luiza permission to sit up a little later than usual, and to do the honors of the house for the evening. It was a happiness to every one to see her once more in the parlor,—a little thin and pale still, but, in the words of the counsellor, “restored to her domestic duties and to the enjoyments of society.” When Julião arrived, at about nine o’clock, he found her “as good as new,” he said. Then, standing in the middle of the parlor, he exclaimed, opening wide his arms,—

“What do you say to the news? Ernesto’s play has achieved a triumphant success.”

He had seen the news in the papers. The “Diario de Noticias” said: “The author was called before the curtain in the midst of the greatest enthusiasm, and received a beautiful laurel-crown.”

Luiza expressed a desire to see the piece.

“Later on, Donna Luiza, later on,” said the counsellor. “It is prudent to avoid every strong emotion for the present. You would not fail to shed tears. I know the goodness of your heart, and that might cause a relapse. Am I not right, friend Julião?”

“Certainly, Counsellor, certainly. I, too, would like to see it, and convince myself with my own eyes—”

The noise of a carriage stopping suddenly at the door cut him short. A moment afterwards the bell rang vigorously.

“I’ll wager it is the author,” said Julião.

Almost at the same moment Ernesto, in evening dress, precipitated himself into the room, his face radiant with happiness; they all arose and embraced him effusively. “A thousand congratulations,—a thousand congratulations!” they cried. And the counsellor, his voice dominating the voices of the others, exclaimed, “Welcome to the illustrious author; welcome!”

Ernesto was suffocating with happiness; he smiled in silence; his nostrils dilated as if to breathe in incense, his bosom swelling with pride; he nodded his head unceasingly, as if mechanically acknowledging the acclamations of the multitude.

“Here I am! here I am!” he said at last.

He sat down out of breath, and with an air of friendly fellowship said that the final rehearsals had left him no time to come and see Cousin Luiza. To-night he had been able to steal away for a moment, but he was obliged to be back at the theatre by ten o’clock; he had not yet supped. He recounted his triumph, to its minutest details. At first he had had severe pains in the stomach,—every one had them, even those most accustomed to write for the stage, the most illustrious authors. But no sooner had Campos recited the monologue in the first act (and one must hear him to know how he recited—it was sublime) than the ice was broken. The audience was pleased throughout, but at the end it was something stupendous; calls for the author, thunders of applause; he came before the curtain reluctantly, but—Jesuina on the one hand and Maria Adelaide on the other—it was a frenzy. Savedra, of the “Seculo,” had said to him, “You are our Shakspeare;” Bastos, of the “Verdade,” had added, “You are our Scribe.” There was a supper afterwards, and they had presented him with a wreath.

“And does it fit you?” asked Julião.

“Yes—a little too large.”

The counsellor said with authority,—

“Great authors—the illustrious Tasso, our own Camoens—are represented in their portraits wearing wreaths.”

“Take my advice, Senhor Ledesma,” said Julião, rising, and clapping him on the shoulder, “and have your likeness taken with your wreath on.”

They all laughed, and Ernesto, somewhat annoyed, said, unfolding his perfumed handkerchief,—

“Senhor Zuzarte will have his jest.”

“That is the penalty of fame, my friend. The victorious generals of ancient Borne kept by their side a slave whose business it was to remind them that they were but mortal.”

“I think,” said Luiza, smiling, “that this is an honor for the family.”

Jorge was of the same opinion. He was walking up and down the room, smoking, and he paused to say that he had as much pleasure in the wreath as if it were he himself who was to wear it.

Ernesto turned towards him,—

“Do you know that I pardoned her at last, Cousin Jorge?” he said. “I pardoned the unfaithful wife.”

“Like Christ,” responded Jorge.

“Like Christ,” assented Ernesto, with satisfaction. Donna Felicidade approved of this.

“You did very well; it is more moral,” she said.

“It was Jorge who wanted me to kill her,” said Ernesto, with a fatuous laugh. “Do you remember that night?”

“Yes, yes,” returned Jorge, laughing nervously.

“Our dear Jorge,” said the counsellor gravely, “could not persist in such extreme opinions; and doubtless reflection, and a wider experience of life—”

“Let us change the subject, Counsellor,” interrupted Jorge. And he went into his study abruptly.

Sebastião followed, filled with anxiety. The room was in darkness.

“Will those idiots never be silent? Will they never go away?” Jorge said hoarsely, catching Sebastião by the arm.

“Compose yourself.”

“Oh, Sebastião! Sebastião!” he cried, in a voice that had the sound of tears in it.

Luiza called to them from the parlor,—

“What are you plotting together there in the dark?”

Sebastião returned to the parlor, saying,—

“Nothing; we remained inside a moment.” And he added, in a lower voice, “Jorge is tired, and not very well.”

They noticed, when Jorge re-entered the room, that he looked very tired.

“In fact, I do not feel well,” he said. “I am a little out of sorts.”

“And the delicate Donna Luiza needs the repose of her couch,” said the counsellor, rising.

Ernesto, who could remain no longer, placed his carriage—a modest coach—at the disposal of Julião and the counsellor, if they were going towards the city.

While Donna Felicidade was putting on her wraps, the three men went downstairs together. Half-way down Julião stood still, and folding his arms, said,—

“Here I am, between the representatives of the two great movements of our time in Portugal,—Literature,” bowing to Ernesto, “and Constitutionalism,” paying the same tribute of respect to the counsellor.

They both smiled with pleasure at the compliment, saying together,—

“And our friend Zuzarte?”

“I?” he said. And lowering his voice he added. “A few days ago I was a terrible revolutionist; now—”

“Well?”

“I am a friend of order,” he exclaimed gayly.

And they went down the stairs, satisfied with themselves and with their country, to take seats in the carriage of the successful author.

CHAPTER XXIV.

EXPIATION.

ON the following morning Jorge went for the first time in some days to the Department, but he did not remain long. In the street the presence of strangers and of acquaintances was alike irritating to him; he felt as if every one was acquainted with his shame; in the most innocent glance he thought he discovered some secret intention, and in the most friendly hand-clasp a token of sympathy. He returned home in a more morose mood and more weary of life than ever; on entering the hall he heard Luiza singing the Mandolinata, as in other times. She was dressing.

“How do you feel?” he asked, putting his cane in a corner.

“Better,—much better; a little weak still.”

Jorge took a few steps up and down the room.

“And you?” she asked.

“So, so,” he answered, in so mournful a tone that she laid down the comb she was using, and going over to him, with her hair hanging loose around her, placed her hands caressingly on his shoulders.

“What is the matter?” she said. “There is something the matter with you. I find you so altered for some days past. You are not the same. At times you look as if you had committed some crime. What is the matter? Tell me!” And her glance sought his, which he turned away in confusion.

She embraced him, and urged him again to tell her what was the matter. She asked him to confide in his little wife.

He looked at her fixedly, and suddenly, as if he had just come to a decision,—

“Very well, then,” he said. “I will tell you. You are well now, and you can hear it. Luiza, for the past two weeks I have lived in a hell, and I can endure it no longer! You are well now, is it not so? Well, then, what is the meaning of this? Tell me the truth.” And he held Bazilio’s letter before her eyes.

“What—is it?” she articulated, pale as death, taking the letter in her hand.

She opened the letter, saw Bazilio’s handwriting, and divined everything at a glance; she looked at Jorge for a moment with the gaze of madness, extended her arms mutely, then raised her hands to her head with an uneasy gesture as if she had received a sudden wound, gave a hoarse cry, staggered and fell, first upon her knees, and then full length upon the floor.

Jorge uttered a cry, and the two servants came running in. They laid her on the bed. Jorge told Joanna to run quickly for Sebastião, and stood stupefied beside the bed, gazing at her, while Marianna loosened her mistress’s dress.

Sebastião came at once. There was ether in the house, and they made her inhale it. When she opened her eyes Jorge threw himself down beside her on the bed.

“Speak, Luiza, hear me!” he cried. “I do not doubt you, no! only speak to me. What do you feel?”

At the sound of his voice a convulsive shudder ran through her, and she fainted again. Sebastião went hastily in search of Julião.

Luiza appeared sunk in a stupor, motionless and white as wax, her hands lying helplessly outside the quilt, while two tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. Shortly afterwards a carriage stopped at the door, and Julião entered, out of breath.

“She took ill suddenly, Julião. Come, she is very ill,” cried Jorge, meeting him at the door.

They made her inhale more ether, and she again came to herself. Julião spoke to her while he felt her pulse.

“No, I want no one,” she murmured, drawing away her hand; and she repeated impatiently, “I want no one; go away!”

Her tears continued to flow. They went out of the bedroom, in order not to irritate her, but they soon heard her call,—

“Jorge!”

He went in again, and kneeling down by the bedside, approached his face to hers, saying,—

“What ails you? Come, let us say no more about it; it is past. Don’t get sick. I love you; I swear it to you. Let it be what it will, I don’t want to know it. I want to know nothing.”

Seeing she was about to speak, he laid his hand upon her mouth: “I want to hear nothing. I want you to be well—not to suffer. Say you are better. To-morrow we will go to the country and forget it all. It is all past now.”

“Jorge, Jorge,” she murmured, in a choking voice.

“Very well, yes; but now you are going to be happy again. Tell me what you feel?”

“Here!” she answered, raising her hands to her head. “It hurts me!”

Jorge rose to his feet in order to call Julião, but she detained him, and gazing eagerly at him, with feverish eyes, approached her face to his. He bent towards her and pressed on her lips a long, long kiss full of forgiveness.

“Oh, my poor head!” murmured Luiza.

Her temples throbbed violently, and a burning flush suffused her countenance. As she often suffered from headache, Julião did not regard her illness as very serious; he advised absolute repose, and ordered mustard plasters to the feet till he came again. Jorge remained at the bedside, his mind filled with melancholy presentiments; from time to time he sighed profoundly.

Four o’clock struck; a fine rain was falling, a melancholy light filled the apartment.

“This will be nothing!” Sebastião would murmur.

Luiza tossed about on the bed, pressing her head between her hands, tortured by the pain that was momentarily increasing, and burning with thirst.

Marianna went about the room on tiptoe, setting things in order, and wondering at this house in which nothing was to be seen but sickness and sorrow. But even her light steps tortured Luiza as if they were blows of a hammer upon her skull.

Julião did not remain long away. When he entered the bedroom the aspect of the patient alarmed him. He lighted a match and held it close to her face; the light made her give a scream as if a cold steel had pierced her brain. Her dilated eyes shone with a metallic brilliancy. She lay very still, for the slightest movement caused her horrible pains in the back of her neck. Only from time to time she smiled at Jorge with an expression of mute and resigned wretchedness.

Julião placed three pillows, one above the other, under her head, to keep it elevated. Night was falling without, damp and chill. In Luiza’s room they went about cautiously and on tiptoe; they stopped the monotonous ticking of the clock on the wall. The patient began to moan wearily, and to toss about from side to side with sharp cries of pain; then she would lie motionless, uttering groans of anguish. They had applied mustard plasters, but she did not feel them. Towards nine o’clock she grew delirious; her tongue was dry and of a dirty white color. Julião applied cloths wet in cold water to her head, but her delirium continued to increase. At times she would utter a hoarse and indistinct murmur, in which the names of Leopoldina, Jorge, and Bazilio followed one another in rapid succession; then she would toss her arms wildly, and tear her nightgown with her hands; again she would try to sit up in bed, her eyes rolling in their sockets till only the whites were visible. Then she would remain quiet for a time, smiling with an imbecile sweetness; then she would pass her hand caressingly over the quilt with an expression of childish delight. By and by she would begin to gasp for breath, she would mutter some words in a terrified voice, and strive to hide herself among the pillows and bedclothes, as if she were pursued by some frightful phantom; she would press her hands to her head, begging them to open it and relieve her of the weight that tortured her,—to take pity upon her, the tears coursing meanwhile down her cheeks. They put her feet in a hot mustard-bath whose pungent odor filled the room. Jorge poured words of consolation and entreaty into her ear; he supplicated her to be calm, to look at him with recognition in her eyes. Suddenly she flew into a violent passion, demanded her letters, heaped maledictions on Juliana, and in the same breath, in the midst of endearing epithets spoke of sums of money. Jorge feared that in her delirium she would reveal everything to Julião and to the servants, and a cold perspiration covered his brow. At times he would fly like a madman from the room, and throw himself on the sofa in the parlor, sobbing and writhing in anguish.

“Is she in danger?” Sebastião asked Julião.

“Yes,” he answered. “If she had felt the mustard-plasters—but these accursed brain-fevers—”

They were silent on seeing Jorge re-enter the bedroom, his face pale and rigid as that of a corpse. Julião took him by the arm and led him outside. “Listen, we must cut off her hair,” he said.

Jorge gazed at him stupidly.

“Her hair?” he repeated, catching him by the arm. “No, Julião, no; anything else you wish,—you ought to know what is best. But not her hair,—no, no, for the love of Heaven, no! She is not in danger. Why cut off her hair?”

“The mass of hair interferes with the action of the water.”

“To-morrow, if it must be so, to-morrow. Wait until to-morrow, and I will eternally be grateful to you, Julião.”

Julião consented, against his will; but he caused wet cloths to be kept constantly applied to her head. As Marianna’s hand trembled so as to wet the pillow a great deal, Sebastião seated himself at the head of the bed, and let the water drop slowly on her head from a wet sponge all night. So as to have a constant supply of cold water they filled jugs and set them in the balcony. The delirium abated a little during the night, but her bloodshot eyes had a wild aspect and the pupils looked like small black points.

Jorge, seated at the foot of the bed, his head between his hands, kept his face fixed upon her; he recalled vaguely other nights of vigil when she was ill with pneumonia, and recovered. She was even paler then, with a pallor that imparted a softer aspect to her countenance. They would go to the country when she grew better; he would hire a little house, and would go out there in the omnibus every day after business, and watch her waiting for him at the door in the distance as evening was softly falling. Here a moan fell upon his ear, and he raised his eyes, startled. She seemed to him changed; he fancied she was disappearing before his gaze, in the midst of the feverish atmosphere that filled the alcove, the heavy stillness of the night, and the pungent odor of the mustard. He sighed, and returned to his former immobility.

Joanna was praying upstairs. The candles that had burned with a dull flame were going out. At last a faint light threw the shadows of the leaden setting of the window-panes on the white curtains. Day was dawning. Jorge stood up, and going over to the window looked out. The rain had ceased, and the pavements were beginning to dry; the light was gray and misty. Silence reigned over everything. A forgotten towel moved slowly in the cold wind on the balcony of the Azevedos.

Jorge went into the alcove. Luiza was muttering in a gasping voice. She was vaguely conscious of the mustard plasters, but the pain in her head had not abated. She began to toss about in bed, and shortly afterwards the delirium returned. Julião ordered her hair to be cut off at once.

Sebastião went to the Rua da Escola for a hair-cutter, who came at once, the collar of his coat turned up about his ears, and looking half frozen. With fingers greasy with pomade he took slowly out from a little leathern bag the razors and the scissors.

Jorge went into the parlor; he felt as if, with those beautiful locks that were falling one by one under the sharp steel, the edifice of his happiness were falling to the ground stone by stone. With his head clasped between his hands he recalled to mind certain fashions in which she had worn her hair, certain shades it was wont to take in the light. He went back, irresistibly drawn to the alcove; he listened to the metallic sound of the scissors, and his glance fell on a little cup on the table filled with soap-suds, and in which rested a well-worn shaving-brush. He called to Sebastião in a low voice,—

“Tell him to be quick; I am burning at a slow fire; tell him to be quick!”

He went to the dining-room; he wandered restlessly through the house. As the light grew stronger the cold increased; the wind rose, whirling along clouds of gray dust. When he returned to the bedroom the barber was putting away his instruments as slowly as he had taken them out. When this was accomplished he took up his shabby hat and went out on tiptoe, murmuring in lugubrious accents,—

“I shall rejoice to hear of the lady’s recovery. God grant that this may be nothing.”

The delirium passed away at the end of an hour, and Luiza fell into a doze, giving utterance to faint moans that broke from her lips like an inward lament for her ruined life.

Jorge told Sebastião that he would like to call in Dr. Caminha. He was an old physician who had attended Jorge’s mother, and he had brought Luiza safely through an attack of pneumonia in the second year after their marriage. Jorge had retained a grateful admiration for that celebrity of by-gone days, and all his hopes were now fixed on him, as if he were some saint who was to perform the miracle of restoring Luiza to health. Julião deigned his consent, for he regarded the old doctor with esteem, and Sebastião hurriedly went for him to his house.

Luiza, roused for an instant from her lethargy, heard them speaking in low tones, and called to Jorge in a faint voice.

“They have cut off my hair,” she said sorrowfully.

“It is for your good,” said Jorge, looking almost as deathlike as herself. “It will soon grow again and be finer than ever.”

She did not answer; two tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.

This must have been her last sensation. The prostration of coma had begun to paralyze her faculties; from time to time her head moved gently on the pillow; she moaned continually, in a gasping voice; her face grew gradually paler, and the noises in the street failed to produce any impression on her senses. At noon Donna Felicidade made her appearance; she was struck dumb at seeing Luiza so ill, when she had come with the intention of carrying her off to the Encarnação, and even to the shops. She took off her hat and installed herself in the house. She caused the alcove to be put in order, had the mustard plasters and the various articles used during Luiza’s illness put away, and arranged the bed, for there was nothing worse for a sick person, she said, than an untidy bedroom; and she bravely strove to inspire Jorge with courage.

A carriage stopped at the door; it was Dr. Caminha at last. He came in, his throat enveloped in a green-and-black check muffler, complaining of the cold, and slowly drawing off his gloves, which he placed methodically inside his hat. He advanced to the alcove with measured step, smoothing down with his hand the few gray hairs brushed flat against his head. Julião remained alone with him in the alcove, while the others waited outside in silence with Jorge, who was pale as wax, with eyes like lighted coals.

“We are going to put a blister on the back of her neck,” said Julião, coming out of the room.

Jorge devoured Dr. Caminha with his eyes as the latter, putting on his gloves, said,—

“We shall see the result of the blister. She is very ill now, and she may be worse. I will return, my friend; I will return.”

The blister was useless; she did not feel it; she lay pallid and motionless, with drawn features, and the nerves of the face twitching convulsively.

“There is no hope,” said Julião to Sebastião, in a low voice.

Donna Felicidade was seized with terror, and began to talk of the “rites of the church.”

“What for?” growled Julião, impatiently.

Donna Felicidade declared that she had scruples of conscience, that it was a mortal sin; and calling Jorge over to the window, she said to him in a trembling voice, “Don’t be frightened, Jorge; but it would be well to think of the rites of the church.”

“The rites of the church!” repeated Jorge in terror.

Julião interposed abruptly, in an accent of irritation:

“Let us have no nonsense! What is the use of sacraments, if she neither hears, nor understands, nor feels? It is necessary to put on another caustic, perhaps to cup her. These are the only sort of sacraments that are of any avail here.”

But Donna Felicidade was shocked, and began to cry.

“You forget God, and there is no hope for her but in him,” she said, blowing her nose noisily.

“And what does God do for me?” exclaimed Jorge, roused from his stupor and throwing out his hands as if in protest against an injustice. “What have I ever done that this should happen to me? What have I ever done?”

Julião ordered another blister. Confusion reigned in the house. Joanna came into the room, when no one looked for her, with some broth that no one had asked for, her eyes red with weeping. Marianna sobbed in corners. Donna Felicidade came and went, shut herself up in the parlor to pray, made vows to the saints, and considered whether it might not be well to call in Dr. Barbosa or Dr. Barral.

Luiza meantime remained motionless; the livid hue of her features imparted to them a rigid and swollen appearance.

Julião, faint with hunger, asked for a glass of wine and a piece of bread. Then they remembered that they had not eaten anything since the previous day, and they went to the dining-room. Joanna, her eyes swimming in tears, placed some soup and eggs on the table, but she gave them neither plates nor spoons; she alternately murmured a prayer and asked them to excuse her. Jorge, meantime, his swollen eyes fixed on the edge of the table, with contracted features, nervously twisted his napkin in his hands. After a little he left the table and went downstairs to the bedroom. Marianna was seated at the foot of the bed. Jorge sent her upstairs, telling her to go wait on the table; and as soon as she was gone, falling upon his knees by the bedside, he took one of Luiza’s hands in his and began to speak to her, first in a low voice and then more loudly,—

“Listen, hear me, for the love of God. Do not remain thus; try to get better. Don’t leave me alone in this world, for I believe in no other. Forgive me, tell me that you forgive me; give me some sign that you do. She does not hear me, my God!”

And he looked at her with an expression of anguish on his countenance. Then raising his arms wildly,—

“Thou knowest that I believe in thee, my God,” he cried. “Save her! save her!” And lifting up his soul to Heaven, he continued: “Hear me, my God! Listen to me. Be merciful!”

He gazed and gazed, waiting for a movement, a voice, a miracle. But everything seemed to him more still than before. The livid countenance began to sink in. He placed his hand with cowardly vacillation upon her head, from which the wet cloth had partly fallen; it was cold. He smothered a cry, ran out of the room, and stumbled against Dr. Caminha, who was entering, taking off his gloves with deliberation.

“Doctor, she is dead! She does not speak; she is cold!” he cried.

“Let us see, let us see,” responded the doctor. “Softly, softly!”

He took Luiza’s hand, and felt her pulse escaping under his fingers like the expiring vibration of a chord.

Julião arrived shortly afterwards, and he agreed with Dr. Caminha that the cupping was useless.

“She would not feel it,” added the doctor, shaking the snuff from his fingers.

“What if we were to give her a little brandy?” said Julião suddenly. And he added, on seeing the look of astonishment on the doctor’s face, “At times these symptoms of coma do not signify that the brain is disorganized; it may be inaction of the nervous force. If death is inevitable nothing is lost; and if it is only a depression of the nervous system, she may be saved.”

Dr. Caminha shook his head incredulously.

“Theories,” he murmured.

“In the English hospitals—” began Julião.

Caminha shrugged his shoulders with contempt.

“If the doctor would only read—” Julião insisted.

“I read nothing,” said Caminha, raising his voice. “My books are my patients.” And he added with an ironical bow, “Nevertheless, if my intelligent colleague wishes to make the trial—”

“A glass of brandy or whiskey!” called out Julião from the door of the bedroom.

Caminha seated himself tranquilly, to enjoy the discomfiture of his “intelligent colleague.”

They raised Luiza’s head, and Julião made her swallow a little of the brandy. When they laid her back again in bed, she remained in the same condition of comatose immobility as before. Dr. Caminha took out his watch, looked at it, and waited. An anxious silence reigned. At last the doctor rose, felt the pulse of the patient, and noted the increasing coldness of the extremities; then he took his hat, without speaking, and began to draw on his gloves.

Jorge went out with him, and catching him forcibly by the arm, said,—

“Well, Doctor?”

“Everything is being done that can be done,” said the old man, shrugging his shoulders.

Jorge remained at the head of the stairs, stupefied, watching the doctor go down; his slow footsteps, as he went down step by step, resounded dolorously in Jorge’s heart. He leaned over the banister and called to him softly. The doctor paused and looked up. Jorge followed him.

“Then—there is no hope?” he said in a voice of mingled humbleness and entreaty.

The doctor made a vague gesture and pointed toward heaven.

Jorge returned to the alcove, supporting himself along the wall. He knelt down at the foot of the bed, and remained there, his head buried in his arms, sobbing quietly.

Luiza was dying. Her beautiful arms, that she had so often caressed before the looking-glass, were already paralyzed; her eyes, that had flamed with passion or shone humid with pleasure, were sunken in their sockets. Donna Felicidade and Marianna had placed a lighted lamp before an engraving of the Virgin of Sorrows, and were praying on their knees. Twilight was falling sadly, and seemed to bring with it a funereal silence. The bell rang discreetly, and a few moments afterwards the countenance of the Counsellor Accacio appeared at the bedroom, door. Donna Felicidade rose to her feet, and on seeing her tears the counsellor said,—

“I come to perform a duty,—to accompany you on this sad occasion.”

He said he had met the good Dr. Caminha by chance, and that he had informed him of the dreadful event. But he had no wish to enter the alcove. He sat down in a chair, rested his elbow sorrowfully on his knee, and his head in his hand, saying in a low voice to Donna Felicidade,—

“Go on with your prayers. The designs of God are inscrutable!”

In the alcove Julião felt Luiza’s pulse and glanced at Sebastião, making a gesture with his hand as of something about to vanish.

They approached Jorge, who was motionless on his knees, his face buried in the bedclothes.

“Jorge,” whispered Sebastião to him, almost inaudibly.

He raised his face, that looked haggard and aged; his hair hung in disorder over his forehead, and dark rings were about his eyes.

“Come away,” said Julião. And he added, seeing the terror depicted on Jorge’s countenance, “No, she is not dead; she is still in the same lethargic condition. Come.”

Jorge rose, and answered with gentleness,—

“Yes; I am going. There is nothing the matter with me—thanks.” And he left the alcove.

The counsellor rose, and embraced him with solemnity, saying,—

“I am here, dear Jorge.”

“Thanks, Counsellor, thanks.”

He took a few steps up and down the room; from time to time he glanced uneasily at a package that was on the table; he took it up, opened it slightly, and saw Luiza’s hair; he looked at it, passing it from one hand to the other, and said, kissing it tenderly, “She took such pride in it, my darling!”

He returned to the alcove, but Julião took him by the hand and sought to draw him away. He resisted gently, and pointing to a candle that was on the little table by the bed, said,—

“Perhaps the light troubles her.”

“She can no longer see it, Jorge,” said Julião, deeply moved.

Jorge drew his hand from Julião’s clasp and threw himself on Luiza’s body; he caught her head between his hands, gazed at it a moment with exquisite tenderness, then kissed her cold lips twice, murmuring, “Good-by, good-by!”

He rose to his feet, extended his arms, and fell to the floor, senseless. They hastened to him, lifted him up, and laid him on the sofa. And while Donna Felicidade, drowned in tears, closed Luiza’s eyes, the counsellor, his hat still in his hand, folded his arms, and shaking his respectable bald head, said to Sebastião,—

“What a terrible misfortune for our Jorge!”

CHAPTER XXV.

AND SO THE WORLD GOES ON.

AFTER Luiza’s funeral Jorge dismissed the servants, and went himself to stay with Sebastião. At about nine o’clock in the evening of the same day the Counsellor Accacio was walking disconsolately by the Moinho de Vento, when he encountered Julião, who had just come from visiting a patient in the Rua da Rosa. They walked on together, conversing about Luiza, the funeral, and Jorge’s grief.

“Poor fellow! It is a terrible blow to him,” said Julião, compassionately.

“She was a model wife!” murmured the counsellor.

He had just come, he said, from Sebastião’s, but he had not been able to see his dear Jorge, who had thrown himself upon the bed and fallen into a profound sleep. And he added,—

“I have been lately reading that intense suffering is apt to be followed by profound sleep. Thus it was with Napoleon, for instance, after Waterloo,—the great disaster of Waterloo.” And after a moment’s silence he continued,—

“The truth is, I went to see Sebastião; I wanted to show him—”

And he interrupted himself to say, dwelling on every word,—

“For I thought it my duty to pay a tribute to the memory of the unhappy lady. It was my duty,—a duty from which nothing could absolve me. And I rejoice to have met you, for I desire to know your conscientious and dispassionate opinion of it.”

Julião coughed, and asked,—

“Is it an obituary?”

“It is an obituary.”

And the counsellor, although he did not consider it altogether proper, on account of his exalted position, to enter a public coffee-house, intimated to Julião that they might rest a little at Tavares’ if there were not many people there, and he would read him his production.

They entered the café. They found no one there, except two old men seated at a table drinking coffee, with their hats on, and leaning on their bamboo canes. The waiter was dozing at the other end of the room. A glaring and intense light filled the narrow apartment.

“There is a propitious silence here,” said the counsellor.

He invited Julião to take some coffee, and drawing from his pocket a sheet of ruled paper, murmured, “Unfortunate lady!” He then bowed to Julião and began:—

OBITUARY.

TO THE MEMORY OF THE SENHORA DONNA LUIZA MENDONÇA DE BRITO CARVALHO.

“Rosa d’amor, rosa purpurea e bella,

Quem entre os goivos te esfolhon da campa.”

“Those are the words of the immortal Garrett.” And he continued, in slow and lugubrious accents:

“An angel has ascended to heaven,—a flower that bloomed on earth till the storm-wind of death swept her with relentless fury to the tomb.”

He glanced at Julião as if soliciting his admiration, but seeing him occupied in stirring his coffee, he continued, with a still more lugubrious intonation:—

“Pause, and cast a glance on this cold earth. Here lies the chaste wife torn from the arms of the intelligent husband! Here lies, stranded like a vessel on a rock-bound coast, the virtuous lady who, from the amiability of her nature, was the delight of all who enjoyed the honor of gathering around her hearth! Why do you sigh?”

“A cup of coffee, Antonio!” called out gruffly a stout man in a jacket, who had just entered and seated himself at a table, laying his cane noisily on the marble.

The counsellor gave him a vindictive glance from under his brows, and lowering his voice, continued:

“Sigh not! For angels belong not to earth, but to heaven!”

“Has Senhor Guedes been here yet?” asked the gruff voice.

“Not yet, Senhor Dom José,” answered the waiter, wiping the metal cross-bars of the railing with a cloth.

The counsellor continued:—

“There her spirit, soaring upward on spotless wing, shall sing praises to the Eternal; she will not fail to supplicate the Omnipotent for mercies, to shower them on the head of her idolized husband, who one day, do not doubt it, will meet her in those celestial regions, the country of the elect.”

And the voice of the counsellor, as if symbolizing that paradisiac transit, grew flute-like in its intonations.

“Was Senhor Guedes here last night?” persisted the individual in the jacket, resting his elbows on the table, and smoking like a chimney.

“He was here very late,—at about two o’clock in the morning.”

The counsellor shook the paper he was reading, in mute desperation; from behind his dark spectacles his eyes shot the contemptuous glance of an interrupted author at the offending individual. He continued reading, however:—

“And ye, tender souls, shed tears, without forgetting that man should bow to the decrees of Providence—”

He interrupted himself to say,—

“That is in order to inspire our poor Jorge with courage.”

He then continued:—

“Heaven has an angel more, and her spirit shines brightly—”

“Was there any one with Senhor Guedes?” asked the before-mentioned individual, shaking the ashes of his cigar on the marble.

The counsellor paused, pale with anger.

“That man must be a person of very low extraction,” he muttered, with an inflection of hatred in his voice.

The waiter spoke in shrill accents from behind the counter,—

“He was accompanied by a Spanish lady who lives up the street,—a thin lady with curls, and a red mantle.”

“Lola!” said the other, in a satisfied tone, delivering himself up with enjoyment to his recollections of the aforesaid lady.

The counsellor resumed more hastily,—

“Besides, what is life? A short and rapid passage through this world, an indistinct dream, from which we awaken in the bosom of the God of armies, of whom we are all the unworthy subjects.”

He ended with this monarchical phrase.

“What do you think of it?” he said. “Frankly, now—”

Julião drank the last drop from the bottom of his cup.

“Is it for publication?” he asked.

“Yes; in the ‘Voz Popular,’ surrounded by a black border.”

Julião scratched his head nervously, and rising, said,—

“It is very good, Counsellor.”

Accacio, taking the money for the waiter from his pocket, replied,—

“I think it is worthy of her and of me.”

They left the coffee-house in silence. The night was dark. A cold northeast wind was blowing, and the ground was still wet from the recent rain. Julião paused suddenly as they reached Loreto, and said:—

“I forgot! Have you heard the news, Counsellor? Donna Felicidade is going to retire to the Encarnação.”

“Ah!”

“So she has just told me. I had been to see her before making my visit in the Rua da Rosa. She has a slight fever,—nothing serious, the agitation, the fright. She herself told me so; to-morrow she enters the Encarnação.”

“I always thought that lady had retrogressive ideas,” said the counsellor. “It is the result of the machinations of the Jesuits, my friend.” And he added in the melancholy tone of a discontented liberal, “The reaction is already beginning to take place.”

Julião took him familiarly by the arm and said, smiling,—

“What reaction are you talking of? Why, it is on your account, ingrate!”

The counsellor stood still.

“What does my worthy friend wish to insinuate?” he said.

“Yes, my dear fellow; I don’t know how the deuce she discovered something very serious about you—”

“What? I assure you—”

“Something that I discovered also,—that a rival has already taken secure possession of the heart she aspired to occupy. She has just told me so!” And laughing heartily he turned down the street of Alecrim, calling out “Good-by, good-by.” The counsellor remained standing with folded arms, petrified with astonishment.

“Unhappy lady! What a fatal passion!” he murmured, caressing his mustache with a satisfied air.

He had still to copy the obituary, and he went home. He seated himself at the table with a rug around his knees, and the cares of the author made him forget before long the anxieties of the man. In the august silence of his sancta sanctorum his pen ran over the paper in the flowing and beautiful characters of his official handwriting until eleven o’clock. He was just finishing, when the door creaked on its hinges, and Adelaide, with a shawl around her shoulders, said,—

“Do you not intend to go to bed to-night?”

“I am going, Adelaide, I am going.”

He began to read over in a low voice what he had written; it seemed to him that the end was not sufficiently affecting; he desired to conclude it with a prolonged exclamation of sorrow. He reflected, his elbows resting on the table, his head between his hands, the fingers of which were spread wide apart. Adelaide approached him slowly and laid her hand upon his head. Her touch seemed to have the effect of making his thought flash out like a spark, for he took the pen and added,—

“Weep! weep! As for me, my sorrow chokes me!”

He rubbed his hands together with a feeling of pride, and repeated aloud in mournful accents,—

“Weep! weep! As for me, my sorrow chokes me!”

And passing his arm around the waist of Adelaide, he exclaimed,—

“That will make a sensation, my Adelaide.”

He stood up; he had brought to its close a well-spent day. He had read in the “Diario do Governo” in the morning that the royal family continued in the enjoyment of good health; he had fulfilled one of the duties of friendship, accompanying Luiza to the cemetery of the Prazeres in a hired carriage; he had assured himself, by an examination of the list of deputies, of the continuance of the peace of his country; he had composed a remarkable piece of writing, and his Adelaide loved him. And his thoughts dwelt with delight on all this happiness which contrasted so strongly with the sepulchral images his pen had described, for Adelaide heard him murmur,—

“Life is an inestimable boon;” adding, like a good citizen, “above all in this era of public prosperity.”

At the same hour two men descended from a carriage at the door of the Central Hotel; the one wore an ulster and the other a fur pelisse. A German waiter, who was chatting with the porter, recognized them, and said, taking off his cap,—

“Senhor Dom Bazilio! Senhor Viscount!”

The Viscount Reynaldo, who was stamping his foot on the ground, growled inside his fur pelisse,—

“Here we are once more in this pig-pen!”

“And at what an hour we have arrived!”

“At what hour would you have us arrive? Only twelve hours delayed; a bagatelle. In Portugal, that is a trifle.”

“Was there an accident?” the servant asked with solicitude, following them upstairs.

“The national accident!” answered Reynaldo, striking his foot nervously against the matting of the corridor. “The cars got off the track! We are here by a miracle. A vile country!”

He vented his anger on the servant as he had done before on the stones of the street, so intense was his disgust.

“For more than a year,” he said, “my sole prayer has been, ‘O my God, send another earthquake!’ I read the telegraphic news every day to see if the earthquake has taken place. Nothing. A minister has fallen, a new baron has been created, but of the earthquake, nothing.” And he smiled, vaguely grateful to a country whose defects provided him with so many subjects of complaint.

When the servant told him, trembling, that there were only a parlor and a double-bedded room on the third story, the rage of Reynaldo knew no bounds.

“Do you expect us to sleep in the same room?” he cried! “The hotel is full? And whom the devil does it occur to, to come to Portugal? Foreigners? Just so; that is the worst part of it.” And he added, shrugging his shoulders, “It is the climate, the national bait, that attracts them! A pestiferous climate! There is no greater disadvantage to a country than to possess a fine climate!” He did not cease to utter his invectives against the country, while the waiter, with a servile smile, placed on a table, plates, cold meats, and a bottle of Burgundy.

Reynaldo had come to Lisbon to dispose of the last remaining portion of his estate, and Bazilio had accompanied him in order to finish the troublesome affair of “that madwoman.”

Reynaldo did not cease to murmur inside his fur pelisse,—

“Here we are again in this pig-pen!”

Bazilio remained silent. From the moment of their arrival at Santa Apolonia, recollections of Luiza, of the romance of the past summer, began to throng upon him, exercising over him a powerful fascination. Leaning against the window he contemplated the scene before him. The moon, cold and pale, pursued her course among the clouds; a luminous network covered the surface of the water at times with shifting lights; then everything was plunged again in obscurity, unbroken save for the indistinct shapes looming up here and there, or the lantern of some vessel shining coldly.

“What is she doing now?” thought Bazilio. “Has she gone to sleep yet?” How little she imagined he was back again in his room in the Central Hotel!

They supped. Bazilio took the bottle of brandy with him to his room, and with his face covered with rice-powder, and the collar of his shirt thrown open, he gave himself up, stretched at full length in bed, and smoking a cigar, to his sensations of luxurious lassitude. Presently he smiled, and his gaze wandered to the ceiling.

“What the deuce!” he said to himself; “she is a lovely girl. It is well worth while!”

He drank a glass of brandy, and was soon sound asleep.

At the same hour Jorge, alone in his room, sitting motionless in his chair, and breaking into sobs from time to time, was also thinking of her. In his room below Sebastião was shedding tears silently. Julião, stretched at full length on a sofa in the hospital, was reading the “Revue des Deux Mondes.” Leopoldina was dancing at a soirée at the Cunhas; every one else was sleeping. And the chill wind that swept the clouds across the face of the heavens, and caused the gas-jets to flicker in their globes, stirred with a melancholy motion the branches of the tree that hung over the grave of Luiza.

Bazilio left his hotel at an early hour in the morning and went to find a decent coupé. Pinteos saw him from a distance, and drove towards him, saying, “Here is Pinteos, Senhor.”

He smiled, charmed to see the Senhor Dom Bazilio again.

“To the Patriarchal, Pinteos.”

“To the senhora’s? We will be there in a flash, Senhor,” he said, mounting into the driver’s seat, and touching the horses with his whip.

When the coupé stopped at Jorge’s door Senhor Paula came out to the sidewalk, the tobacconist came to her door, and the professor’s servant flattened her nose against the window-pane, all straining their eyes to see. Bazilio rang the bell a little nervously; he waited awhile, bit the end of his cigar, and rang the bell again, this time more loudly.

“The windows are closed, Senhor,” said Pinteos. Bazilio went out into the middle of the street and looked up at the house; the green blinds were closed, and the house wore a deserted aspect.

Bazilio directed himself to Paula.

“Are the people out who live here?” he asked.

“They live here no longer,” answered Paula, lugubriously, caressing his mustache.

Bazilio’s attention was aroused by those funereal tones.

“Where do they live, then?” he asked.

Senhor Paula looked mournfully at Bazilio. “Are you a relative?” he said.

“I am,” replied Bazilio, smiling.

“And—you know nothing?”

“But what is it, man, for Heaven’s sake?”

Senhor Paula scratched his head. “Well, I am sorry to have to tell you of it,—the senhora is dead.”

“What senhora?” asked Bazilio, turning very pale.

“The senhora,—Donna Luiza, the wife of Senhor Carvalho the engineer. Senhor Jorge is at the house of Senhor Sebastião, there at the end of the street. If you want to go there—”

“No,” replied Bazilio, with a quick gesture of the hand, and lips that quivered slightly. “But how did it happen?”

“A fever. It carried her off in a couple of days.”

Bazilio went slowly and with bent head back to the coupé. He glanced once more at the house, then shut the carriage door quickly. Pinteos drove quickly toward the city. Senhor Paula went over to the tobacconist’s.

“It didn’t seem to grieve him much,” he said. “Gentlemen! Canaille!” he muttered.

“Well, I am no relation,” said the tobacconist, “and every night I recite two Pater Nosters for her.”

“And I,” said the coal-vender, sighing.

“Much good they’ll do her!” growled Paula, as he left them. His business was bad just now, and the deaths that had recently taken place in the street impressed him with the uncertainty of life. He hated the priests more and more every day; at night he read the Nação, which Azevedo lent him, spitefully turning his eyes away from the devotional articles, which exasperated him and impelled him to atheism, while his disgust at the state of public affairs inclined him to communism. Everything, as he said, was a mass of rottenness.

Going down the street of Alecrim, Bazilio saw the Viscount Reynaldo standing at the door of Street’s Hotel. He told the driver to stop, and getting out of the coupé, said to him,—

“Do you know what has happened?”

“What?”

“My cousin is dead.”

“Poor thing!” murmured Reynaldo, politely.

They walked down the street arm in arm till they reached Aterro. The day was a glorious one; there was an invigorating coolness in the air, the atmosphere was filled with a golden light in which the houses, the trees, the masts of the vessels, took on softer outlines; every sound vibrated with joyous sonorousness; the river shone like molten metal; the boat from Cacilhas sent forth puffs of smoke that floated upward with opaline tints, and a blue haze enveloped the hills, in the midst of which nestled peaceful villas.

As they walked along they talked of Luiza.

The viscount regretted that the poor lady should have died in the midst of such glorious weather. But as a matter of fact he had always thought that affair absurd. For after all, to be frank, what was there in his cousin to attract Bazilio? He wished to speak no ill of the poor lady, who was now lying in that horrible Prazeres, but it could not be denied that she was wanting in chic; she drove in a hired carriage; she had married an employee; she lived in a mean little house; she had no respectable acquaintances; she bought tickets in the lottery; she had no esprit; and she did not know how to dress.

“Still, for a month or two that we are to remain in Lisbon,” murmured Bazilio, with eyes bent on the ground.

“Well, for that perhaps,” responded Reynaldo, disdainfully.

They were silent for a time. Presently they began to laugh simultaneously at a man who passed by, controlling with difficulty a pair of black horses. What a carriage! What style! It was only in Lisbon that such things were to be seen.

When they reached the end of Aterro they turned back, and the Viscount Reynaldo, passing his hand over his whiskers, said to Bazilio,—

“So now you are a widower.”

Bazilio smiled resignedly; and at the suggestion of the viscount they went together into the English café to take a glass of sherry.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] About eight hundred and ten dollars.

[2] About six hundred and seventy-five dollars.

[3] A conto de reis is about thirteen hundred and fifty dollars.

[4] About eleven cents.

[5] In the original, Tu, foste tu,—“Thou, it was thou,”—familiar style.

[6] About thirteen cents.

[7] About thirteen hundred and fifty dollars.

[8] About two hundred and seventy dollars.

[9] About four hundred and five dollars.

[10] About eight hundred and ten dollars.

[11] A real is twelve cents.

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Table of Contents

DRAGON’S TEETH

PREFACE.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. HUSBAND AND WIFE.

CHAPTER II. A PORTUGUESE “TEA.”

CHAPTER III. COUSIN BAZILIO.

CHAPTER IV. THE PUBLIC GARDENS.

CHAPTER V. PREPARING THE GROUND.

CHAPTER VI. ON TRIAL.

CHAPTER VII. A CONSULTATION.

CHAPTER VIII. PLAYING WITH FIRE.

CHAPTER IX. DRAGON’S TEETH.

CHAPTER X. IN THE TOILS.

CHAPTER XI. A LOYAL FRIEND.

CHAPTER XII. BROUGHT TO BAY.

CHAPTER XIII. MISTRESS AND MAID.

CHAPTER XIV. FROM DREAMS TO WAKING.

CHAPTER XV. THE TELEGRAM.

CHAPTER XVI. A REPRIEVE.

CHAPTER XVII. JORGE’S RETURN.

CHAPTER XVIII. BIDING HER TIME.

CHAPTER XIX. A DINNER AT THE COUNSELLOR’S.

CHAPTER XX. THE DREGS IN THE CUP.

CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW OF A SIN.

CHAPTER XXII. THE FATE OF THE SCORPION.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE LETTER.

CHAPTER XXIV. EXPIATION.

CHAPTER XXV. AND SO THE WORLD GOES ON.

FOOTNOTES:

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