Dragon's teeth

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,—

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,—

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,—

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,

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,—

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.