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:—

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:—

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,”—

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:

“Have you not heard it, Luiza? There can be nothing more touching; it brings tears to the eyes.”

She resumed with infinite sweetness,—

“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:—

“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,—

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.”