Dragon's teeth

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:—

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:—

“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!”