Dragon's teeth

ONE morning, some days afterwards, Jorge, who had forgotten that it was a feast-day, found the office closed, on going to the Department, and returned home. Joanna was standing at the door, talking to an old woman who was selling eggs. The hall door was open, and entering without ringing, he surprised Juliana comfortably seated on the sofa, reading the newspaper.

On seeing him she turned crimson, and rising to her feet stammered,—

“I am not to blame, Senhor; I have just had a violent palpitation,—”

“So violent that you sat down to read the newspaper,” returned Jorge, mechanically grasping his cane. “Where is the senhora?”

“She must be in the dining-room,” answered Juliana, taking up the broom and hastily beginning to sweep.

Luiza was not in the dining-room. Jorge found her in the laundry, in a morning wrapper, her hair in disorder, very busy ironing, and with an expression of dejection on her countenance.

“Can it be possible that you are ironing?” he exclaimed.

Luiza colored, and laid down the iron. As Juliana was sick, she said, and the clothes had accumulated—

“Let us settle this matter at once,” returned Jorge. “Who is mistress here, I should like to know, and who is servant?”

The sternness with which he spoke sent the color from Luiza’s cheek. “What do you mean?” she stammered.

“I mean to say that I find you here ironing, while she is downstairs, sitting at her ease on the sofa, reading.”

Luiza, bending over the clothes-basket in confusion, began to shake out the clothes and fold them with a trembling hand.

“You cannot imagine how much there is to be done,” she said. “The cleaning, the ironing, the waiting at table. And that poor sick creature—”

“If she is sick, let her go to the hospital!”

“No, you ought not to say that.”

This insistence in defending Juliana, who was taking her ease downstairs, exasperated him.

“But what does this mean? Are you depending upon her? Any one would think you were afraid of her!”

“Ah, if you have come home in that humor,” answered Luiza, with trembling lips, and ready to cry.

Jorge continued, with increasing vexation,—

“This indulgence must have an end! That this good-for-nothing should take her ease in my house, enjoying every comfort, stretching herself in my chairs, going out to amuse herself, and that you should take her part and do her work for her—no! an end must be put to this. Always excuses, and more excuses! Let her go to the hospital—or to the devil!”

Luiza burst into a fit of hysterical weeping.

“There it is! Now you begin to cry! What is the matter? Why do you cry?”

She continued weeping, without answering.

“But, child, what is the meaning of these tears?” he asked, in tones of mingled tenderness and impatience, approaching her.

“Why do you speak to me in that way?” she said, with a fresh sob, wiping her eyes. “You know I am ill and nervous, and you treat me as you do. You have only disagreeable things to say to me.”

“Disagreeable things! But, child, I have said nothing disagreeable to you,” he answered, embracing her, much moved.

But Luiza drew herself away from him, and in a broken voice said,—

“Is it a crime to iron? You are angry because I work, and attend to the affairs of the house. Would you prefer me to neglect things? This woman is sick, and if I do not help her, the work is left undone. And you are always saying disagreeable things to me.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. Come, reflect a moment and you will see it is only that I don’t want you to fatigue yourself.”

“Why do you tell me, then, that I am afraid of her?” she said, her tears beginning to flow afresh. “Afraid! And of what? What an absurdity!”

“Very well; I will not say it. Come, let us speak no more of the matter. But don’t cry. There! It is all over now.” He kissed her, and putting his arm around her waist, drew her gently away. “There, leave the ironing now. Come. What a child you are!”

Through good-nature and consideration for Luiza’s nerves Jorge did not speak again for some days about the “poor woman.” But he thought about her. And to think of that sickly creature, with one foot in the grave, in his house, irritated him. Since the night she had fainted, when he had seen with astonishment the comforts she enjoyed in her room, owing to the ridiculous indulgence of Luiza, he had found something mysterious and annoying in all this. As he was out during the day, and in his presence Juliana had only smiles and manifestations of affection for Luiza, he thought she had succeeded in insinuating herself into his wife’s confidence, and making herself, in the intimacy existing between mistress and servant, necessary and dear to her. This augmented his antipathy towards her,—an antipathy which he did not take the trouble to disguise. Luiza trembled at times, when she saw him follow Juliana with his angry glance. But what made her suffer most was the manner Jorge had adopted of speaking of the woman in terms of ironical respect; he called her “the illustrious Donna Juliana, my lady and mistress.” If a goblet or a wine-glass were wanting on the table he pretended to be astonished. “What!” he would exclaim, “Donna Juliana, that paragon, to forget anything!” He made use of jests that froze Luiza’s blood with terror.

“How did the philter that she gave you, taste?” he once said. “Was it pleasant?”

Since then she had not ventured, in his presence, to speak with naturalness to Juliana; she dreaded his ambiguous smiles, his asides,—“Go, give her a kiss; I can see in your face that you are dying to do so.” Fearing to awaken his suspicions, and anxious to show her independence, she began to speak to Juliana, when he was by, with abrupt and affected coldness. Juliana, who was very sagacious, and understood the motive of this conduct, bore with it in silence. She felt very ill, and feared being sent to the hospital. All day long she sipped broths or nibbled croquettes or sweet-potato pudding. She kept jelly and Port wine in her room, and she even asked occasionally for chicken broth in the evening.

“I pay for it with the sweat of my brow,” she would say to Joanna. “Since I work like a slave, I may as well have something for it.”

One day, however, when Jorge was more irritated than usual by the sallow countenance of Juliana, and his nerves vibrating from having found neither water nor towel in the bedroom, he lost control over himself, and cried angrily,—

“I am in no humor to put up with this carelessness any longer.”

Luiza hastily began to make excuses for Juliana.

He bit his lip, bowed profoundly, and in a voice trembling with anger said,—

“I beg your pardon; I had forgotten that Juliana’s person is sacred. I will go for the water myself.”

Luiza grew angry in her turn. If they were to come into constant collision on account of her, it was better to dismiss the woman, she said. Did he think, by chance, that she had any love for Juliana? If she kept her, it was because she was an excellent servant. But if they were going to have disputes on her account it was better that she should go. These continual sarcasms were a martyrdom to her.

Jorge did not answer.

Luiza was unable to sleep that night, tormented by the thought that this state of things could not last. She was weary of it now. To put up with Juliana herself, and to listen to hints and innuendoes at every moment on her account from Jorge,—no, this was too much! She began to fear that the bomb was at last about burst. She herself, then, it should be, she determined, who would set fire to the match. She would dismiss Juliana, and let her show Jorge the letters! If she retired to a convent, at least she would be freed from her; she would suffer, she would die; but anything was better than this slow martyrdom, these secret pin-pricks!

“What is the matter?” asked Jorge sleepily, feeling her restless.

“I cannot sleep.”

“Poor child! count a hundred and fifty backwards.”

And he turned over, wrapping the blankets comfortably about him.

On the following morning Jorge rose early. He had an engagement to dine at the Hotel Gibraltar with Alonso the Spaniard, with whom he had business connected with the mines. At ten he went into the dining-room to breakfast. He returned to the bedroom, to tell Luiza with a profound bow, and dwelling on each word, that the table was not yet set, that the teacups that had been used the evening before were still there unwashed, and that the Senhora Donna Juliana, the illustrious Senhora Donna Juliana, had gone to take a little walk!

“I told her last night to go to the shoemaker’s,” began Luiza, who was putting on her wrapper.

“Ah, I beg your pardon,” Jorge interrupted her, very ceremoniously. “I had forgotten that Juliana, your lady and mistress, was in question. I beg your pardon!”

“Yes, you are right,” answered Luiza. “You shall see. It is necessary to put an end to this.”

She hurried upstairs to the kitchen.

“Joanna, why did you not set the table when Juliana was not here to do it?” she cried.

The girl said she had not heard the Senhora Juliana going out. She thought she was downstairs in the parlor, as Juliana wanted to do everything herself now!

When Joanna placed the breakfast on the table a short time afterwards, Jorge sat down, nervously twisting his mustache. Twice he rose, smiling silently, first to get a spoon, and then the sugar-bowl. Luiza noted the contraction of his countenance, and tried in vain to eat; she felt as if every mouthful would choke her; the teaspoon trembled in her hand. She stole a glance from time to time at Jorge, whose silence made her suffer keenly.

“You said yesterday you were going to dine out to-day?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered shortly; adding, “Thank Heaven!”

“You are in a good humor!” murmured Luiza.

“As you see!”

Luiza turned pale, and took up the newspaper to hide a tear that trembled on her lashes; but the letters danced before her eyes, and she felt her heart oppressed with anguish. Suddenly there was a ring at the bell. It was Juliana, without doubt.

Jorge rose.

“It must be that lady; I have a few words to say to her.”

And he remained standing by the table, sharpening a toothpick with deliberation.

Luiza rose, trembling.

Jorge caught her quietly by the arm.

“No, allow me,” he said; “let me have that pleasure!”

Luiza dropped into a chair, very pale. The noise of Juliana’s high heels could be heard in the hall. Jorge continued tranquilly sharpening his toothpick.

Luiza turned towards him, and clasping her hands, said in a supplicating voice,—

“Don’t say anything to her!”

He looked at her in astonishment.

“Why?” he asked.

Juliana opened the door.

“What do you mean by going out and leaving your work undone?” said Luiza, rising.

Juliana, who arrived smiling, stood still at the door, as if petrified; notwithstanding her naturally livid color, a sudden flush overspread her cheeks.

“Let this not happen again! Do you hear?” continued Luiza. “Your obligation is to remain in the house in the morning.”

She stopped, transfixed by a terrible glance from Juliana. Then, taking up the pitcher with trembling hand,—

“Take this and bring some water—quick!” she said.

Juliana did not move.

“Did you hear?” shouted Jorge, impatiently, giving the table a blow with his hand that made the plates rattle.

“Jorge!” exclaimed Luiza, seizing him by the arm.

“Leave the house!” continued Jorge. “Pay her her wages and let her go! I am tired of it now, and I shall bear it no longer. If I see her here when I come back, I will tear her to pieces! I have been silent long enough! It is my turn now!”

He took up his overcoat, trembling with excitement, and as he was about to go out, turned round to say,—

“Let her go this very instant, do you hear? She shall not stay here an hour longer. She has been sticking in my throat for a fortnight past. Put her in the street!”

Luiza went to her room, scarcely able to support herself. She was lost! A thousand wild and insensate ideas whirled around in her brain, like dead leaves in a storm. She thought of leaving the house, and under cover of the darkness that night throwing herself into the river. She regretted not having accepted the money from Castro. All at once she saw Jorge in imagination opening the letters given to him by Juliana, and reading, “My adored Bazilio.” A panic terror paralyzed her soul. She ran to Juliana’s room to beg her pardon, to ask her to remain in the house, and not to inflict martyrdom upon her. And Jorge? She would tell him that Juliana had wept, that she had knelt to her. She would lie to him; she would cover him with kisses; he loved her, and she would be able to pacify him.

Juliana was not in her room. Luiza went upstairs to the kitchen. She was there, sitting in a chair, her eyes flaming, her arms folded tightly, an expression of mute rage upon her countenance. When she saw Luiza she started from her chair at a bound, and shaking her fist in her mistress’s face, cried in a shrill voice,—

“The next time you speak to me as you have done to-day there is an end to everything!”

“Silence, wretch!” cried Luiza.

“You tell me to be silent? You—” said Juliana, with mingled scorn and rage.

Joanna ran up to her, and gave her a slap with her hand full on the face that took her off her feet.

“No, Joanna!” cried Luiza, catching her by the arms.

Juliana fled from the room in terror.

“Oh, Joanna, what a disgrace and what a scandal!” said Luiza, pressing her head between her hands.

“I will tear her limb from limb!” cried the girl, clenching her teeth and waving her arms. “I will tear her limb from limb!”

Luiza walked around the kitchen table mechanically, trembling from head to foot, and white as chalk.

“What have you done, girl! what have you done!” she cried.

Joanna, still boiling over with rage, her face flushed, moved the tripod furiously on the fire, saying,—

“If that shameless creature speaks a single word to me I will put an end to her.”

Luiza went downstairs to her room. Juliana came out to the hall to meet her, with her face very red, and a handkerchief tied around it.

“If that shameless hussy is not sent out of the house,” she cried, “I will stand in the doorway, and when the master comes home I will tell him everything!”

“Very well, then, tell him. Do what you like,” returned Luiza, passing her without a glance.

“Let there be an end to this anguish and this hatred,” she thought. “Better the end should come at once!”

She felt something like a sense of painful relief at seeing the end of her long martyrdom approach. It had lasted for months; and reflecting on all she had done and suffered, the infamy in which she had been steeped, and the humiliations which she had endured, she felt a loathing for herself and a profound disgust towards life. It seemed to her that she was no longer the same; that she had neither legitimate pride nor a single pure feeling; that her whole being, body and soul, had been trampled in the dust like a rag trodden underfoot by the multitude. It was not worth while to make any struggle for a life so vile. To enter a convent would be to expiate her crime and to die,—above all to expiate her crime. And where was he,—the man who was the cause of all her misfortunes? In Paris, twirling his mustache, jesting, driving his horses, making love to other women, while she was here, stupidly suffering! And when she had written to him, asking him to save her, not even a word in answer, as if he thought her not worth the expense of a postage-stamp. And he had told her that he would dedicate his life to her, that he would live in the shadow of her presence. Traitor! So long as she was free from care and happy, all went well; but when trouble came, when she suffered and wept—ah, no; not that. You are a beautiful animal on whom I depend for pleasure and enjoyment—very well; everything you wish! But you have become an afflicted creature, who has need of consolation and some hundreds of thousands of reis, then good-by; I am going to the steamer that is waiting for me! Ah, what a stupid thing life was! How gladly would she have done with it!

She leaned against the window and looked out; the day was cloudless and mild. The sun shed a reddish light on the walls of the houses and on the pavement. There was a serene softness in the air. Senhor Paula in his carpet slippers was standing at the door of the tobacco-shop. Lulled by the soft winter air, she felt moved to tears. Every one was happy on this beautiful morning,—every one but her, miserable creature that she was; she alone suffered! She remained sunk in melancholy reflections; a tear trembled on her lashes. Suddenly she saw Juliana cross the street, turn the corner, and after a while come back, accompanied by a stout Gallician, carrying a bag on his shoulder.

“She is going!” thought Luiza. “She is about to take away her trunk!” And afterwards? Would she send the letters to Jorge, or would she give them to him at the door, as she had threatened? Good God! She fancied she saw Jorge entering the room, with a pallid countenance, and the letters in his hand. She was seized with a fit of terror. She did not wish to lose her husband, her Jorge, his love, her house, everything! A feeling of rebellion against this state of widowhood took possession of her. To enter a convent at twenty-five! No, impossible! She went to Juliana’s room; her clothing was lying scattered on the bed; boots wrapped in old newspapers were lying on the floor.

“Have you come to see if I am taking anything away with me?” cried Juliana, angrily. “I am leaving a few things here still; see, there is the bundle. And I want my wages.”

“Listen, Juliana,” said Luiza. “Don’t go.” And her voice died away in her throat as she spoke, while the tears sprang to her eyes.

Juliana looked at her, haughty and triumphant, with a boot in either hand.

“If you turn that shameless creature into the street,” she said in her shrill voice, “I will be satisfied.” And she added, shaking the dust from her boots, “Everything shall go on as before, in peace and quietness.” An expression of intense joy lighted up her glance. She had avenged herself; she had made her mistress shed tears, she had turned the other out of the house, and she had lost none of her comforts! “Send that impudent creature away! send her away!” she repeated.

Luiza, with a gesture of despair, went slowly upstairs to the kitchen. The steps seemed to her unending. She dropped on a stool in the kitchen, and wiping her eyes, said,—

“Listen, Joanna; you cannot remain in the house.”

The girl looked at her with an expression of terror.

“What Juliana said to me was on the spur of the moment,” she continued. “She is sorry for it; she has been crying. She has been longest in the house, and the master is very much attached to her.”

“Then—the senhora is sending me away; you are sending me away?”

“It was on the spur of the moment,” repeated Luiza, in a low voice, blushing with shame. “She has asked my pardon.”

“And all for taking the part of the mistress!” exclaimed the girl, in accents of distress, looking at Luiza in astonishment.

Luiza understood the implied indignity, but, impatient to end the matter at once, she said,—

“Well, Joanna, let us speak no more about it; I am the mistress. I am going to pay you your wages.”

“A pretty return to make me!” exclaimed Joanna in desperation. And she added, stamping her foot with an air of determination on the floor, “But I will tell the master; yes, I will tell him; I will tell him all that has taken place. The senhora is not doing right.”

Luiza looked at her in silence. So the disaster was to come at last from her, the docile one. It was too much! She felt seized by a strange terror, a fear of her own conscience; and pressing her temples between her hands, she exclaimed, “What a punishment! My God! what a punishment!”

Suddenly she seized Joanna by the arms in her frenzy, and whispered in her ear,—

“Go, for the love of God, Joanna! Say nothing, but go!”

And losing all sense of self-respect she fell on her knees before the girl, sobbing,—

“For Christ’s sake, Joanna, go! Go at once, dear Joanna!”

The girl, terrified, began to cry.

“I am going; yes, dear mistress, I will go!”

“Yes, Joanna, yes. I will give you something. You shall see. But don’t cry. Wait.”

She ran downstairs to her room, took from a drawer two pounds of her savings, ran quickly upstairs again, and putting the money into her hand, said in a low voice,—

“Take this to make a jacket for yourself, and to-morrow I will send your trunk.”

“Yes, Senhora, yes,” responded the other, sobbing. “Yes, dear Senhora!”

Luiza went to her room, and throwing herself on the sofa, buried her face among the cushions, sobbing, wishing for death, asking God in her terror to take pity upon her.

Suddenly she heard the harsh voice of Juliana in the doorway.

“Well, what have you decided upon?” she asked.

“Joanna is going. What more do you want?”

“Let her go at once,” returned the other, imperiously. “I will get the dinner—for to-day, of course.”

Luiza’s tears were dried by the heat of her anger.

“And now,” continued Juliana, “let the senhora listen to me.”

Juliana’s tone was so insulting that Luiza rose as if cut by the stroke of a whip.

“The senhora must act squarely with me; otherwise I shall speak out,” she ended haughtily, and with a menacing gesture of the finger. And turning on her heel she went away with noisy steps.

Luiza glanced up, dazed, as if a flash of lightning had suddenly passed through the room. But everything was motionless; not a fold of the curtains moved; the two little porcelain shepherds smiled pretentiously as before upon the dressing-table. She took off her wrapper quickly, put on a gown, without waiting to lace herself, then a winter wrap, then her hat, without smoothing her hair, left the house, hurried down the steps, and almost ran through the street, entangling her feet in the folds of her gown.

Senhor Paula walked out to the edge of the sidewalk to follow her with his eyes, saw her enter Sebastião’s house, and then went to say to the tobacconist, “There is something new at the engineer’s.”

And he remained standing at the door, his eyes fixed on the windows in which the folds of the green rep curtains hung down motionless.

“Senhor Sebastião?” Luiza asked the girl who opened the door for her, as she followed her into the hall.

“He is in the parlor,” returned the girl.

Luiza went upstairs; she could hear him playing the piano. She opened the door quickly, and running to him clasped her hands across her breast, and said in a choking voice, with an expression of anguish on her face,—

“I wrote a letter to a man, and Juliana stole it from me! I am lost!”

Sebastião, pale with astonishment, rose to his feet. Seeing her face bathed in tears, her hat half fallen off, and her agonized glance,—

“What is the matter? What has happened?” he asked.

“I wrote to my cousin,” she returned, her eyes fixed anxiously upon him, “and that woman stole the letter from me! I am lost!”

A deathlike pallor overspread her countenance; her eyes closed.

Sebastião caught her in his arms, and laid her, half-fainting, on the yellow damask sofa; and then, paler than Luiza, remained standing beside her, his hands in the pockets of his blue sack-coat, motionless and stupefied. Suddenly he left the room, came back with a glass of water, and sprinkled some on her face. Luiza opened her eyes, put her hands out blindly before her, gave him a glance of terror, and leaning on the arm of the sofa, her face buried in her hands, burst into a passion of tears. Her hat fell upon the ground. Sebastião took it up, shook out the flowers gently, placed it carefully on the jardinière, and returned to her side with noiseless steps.

“Come, come!” he murmured, touching her lightly on the arm with his hand, which trembled like a leaf. He offered her some water, but she put it away with her hand. She slowly raised herself to a sitting posture, wiping her eyes, and drawing long breaths between her sobs.

“Have patience with me, Sebastião,” she said.

She drank a little water, and then let her hands drop powerless on her lap, while her tears continued to flow. Sebastião closed the door, and returning to her, said gently,—

“But let us see; what is it?”

Luiza raised her agitated countenance, in which her eyes burned feverishly, looked at him a moment, and then said, bowing her head in humiliation,—

“A misfortune, Sebastião! A disgrace!”

“Come, come; don’t distress yourself in this way!” He took a seat near her, and said to her in low and earnest accents, “I am at your disposal for whatever service you may require of me and I can perform.”

“Sebastião,” she exclaimed, her heart overflowing with gratitude, “believe me, I have been well punished. I have suffered a great deal, Sebastião.”

She remained silent a moment, her eyes fixed on the floor; then, catching him abruptly by the arm, she burst into a torrent of words that followed each other incoherently, like water escaping from a narrow-necked vessel.

“She stole the letters from me,—in what way I know not,—and she asked at first six hundred thousand reis for them; then she began to torture me; and I was obliged to give her gowns—everything she demanded. She changed her room, and she took for her own use my finest sheets; she was the mistress, I the servant. Every day she threatens me; she is a monster. All was in vain,—soft words, entreaties. Where could I find the money,—is it not so? She knew it well What have I not suffered! They say I have grown thin; you yourself have noticed it. My life is a hell. If Jorge were to know! That vile wretch threatened to tell him everything to-day. I work like a slave. In the morning I sweep and put things in order; often I wash the breakfast things. Have pity on me, Sebastião, if it were only for his sake! Unhappy creature that I am, I have no one in the world to turn to.” And burying her face in her hands, she burst into a fresh fit of weeping.

Sebastião bit his trembling lip in silence; two tears rolled down his cheeks, and rising slowly,—

“But why did you not tell me this before?” he said.

“I could not, Sebastião. I was on the point of telling you once, but I could not.”

“You were wrong.”

“This morning Jorge wanted to dismiss her. He has observed her neglect of her duties, and he is displeased with her, but he suspects nothing,” she added, flushing, and turning away her eyes. “He has often scolded me for taking her part, but to-day he grew angry, and told her to leave the house. No sooner was he gone than she came to me like a fury, and began to insult me.”

“Good God!” murmured Sebastião, in amazement, pressing his head between his hands.

“Perhaps you will not believe, Sebastião, that it is I who throw out the sweepings.”

“But that vile creature deserves death!” he exclaimed, stamping his foot on the floor. He took a few turns up and down the room with his hands in his pockets, his head sunk between his broad shoulders; then he returned to his seat beside her, and touching her timidly on the arm, said in a low voice, “Those letters must be got from her.”

“But how?”

Sebastião scratched his beard and then his head.

“They must be got from her, and they shall be got from her,” he said at last.

“If you could only do it, Sebastião,” said Luiza, catching his hand in hers.

“I will get them from her.”

He reflected a moment, and then said, with his habitual air of gravity,—

“I will arrange the matter with her. It would be well for her to be alone in the house. You might go to the theatre to-night. He rose, took the ‘Jornal do Commercio’ from the table, and glanced over the advertisements. You could go to the S. Carlos, that is out later than the others. They represent Faust to-night. Go to see Faust.”

“Very well,” answered Luiza with a sigh of relief.

Seated on the edge of the sofa, she listened anxiously to Sebastião while in a low voice he explained to her his plan.

She must write to Donna Felicidade, begging her to accompany her to the theatre, and send a message to Jorge to tell him they would call for him at the Hotel Gibraltar on their way. “And what about Joanna?” he ended.

Joanna had already left the house, she replied, and Juliana would therefore be alone in the house at nine o’clock.

“Do you see how easily everything can be managed?” he said, smiling.

“Yes,” she said; “but will that woman give up the letters?”

Sebastião scratched his beard again.

“She will have to give them up,” he answered. Luiza looked at him, deeply moved; his countenance appeared to her graced with the perfection of moral beauty, and standing before him,—

“You are going to do this for me, Sebastião,” she said, in melancholy accents,—“for me, who have been so wicked?”

Sebastião colored, and answered, shrugging his shoulders, “There are no wicked women, Senhora; it is the men who are wicked.” And he added presently, “I shall go for the tickets now, so as to get good seats, eh,—seats in the front row?” He smiled in order to tranquillize her.

She put on her hat and lowered her veil, all the while giving utterance to choking sobs that resounded through the parlor. In the hall they found Aunt Joanna waiting with open arms to greet Luiza, whom she kissed repeatedly. What a miracle it was that Luiza had made them a visit, she said; and how well she looked! She was the flower of the bairro.

“Enough, enough, Aunt Joanna,” said Sebastião, gently putting her aside.

How selfish he was! Aunt Joanna returned. He had had her to himself for more than half an hour, and now she wanted her a little while too. He ought to have a wife like that, a modest girl, a lily—

Luiza blushed painfully, unable to utter a word.

And the Senhor Jorge, what had become of him? No one saw anything of him now. And Donna Felicidade?

“Enough, enough, Aunt Joanna!” repeated Sebastião, growing impatient.

“Good gracious! no one is going to eat the child!” responded Aunt Joanna.

Luiza forced a smile. Suddenly she remembered that she had no one to send with the message to Donna Felicidade, of to Jorge at the hotel.

Sebastião took her to his study to write her notes, saying he would send them. He chose the paper for her, and dipped the pen in the ink, more solicitous for her now, and more attentive to her, than before he had known of her misfortune. Luiza wrote the note to Jorge; and as, notwithstanding her anxieties, she recalled to mind a certain low-necked gown of Donna Felicidade, she added in a postscript to her note to that lady: “It is best to dress in black, and not to wear too conspicuous a toilet. No low necks or light-colored gowns.”

As she approached her own house she saw a young man coming out of it, carrying Joanna’s bundle. She heard the husky voice of the latter, saying in menacing accents,—

“Touch it with but a finger and you shall not escape out of my hands alive, you hog!”

“Get out of the house! get out of the house!” retorted Juliana, at the head of the stairs. “It would be better for you to go and throw yourself into the river than lay a hand on me!”

Luiza listened, biting her lips in silence. Her house converted into a tavern!

“Let me ever catch you!” growled Joanna, going down the steps.

“Leave the house, you hog!” replied Juliana.

Luiza called the cook to her in a low voice.

“Joanna,” she said, “don’t look for a situation, and come here the day after to-morrow.”

Upstairs, Juliana was singing the “Carta adorada” with shrill gayety.

A short time afterwards she came down to announce stiffly that dinner was on the table.

Luiza did not answer her. She waited until Juliana had gone upstairs again to the kitchen, and then hurried to the dining-room, took some bread, a plate of the dessert, and a knife, went to her own room, shut herself in, and ate her dinner off the jardinière. At six a carriage stopped at the door. It must be Sebastião. She went herself on tiptoe to open the door. It was he, looking animated and fresh-colored, with his hat in his hand He had brought the key of box No. 18.

“And this?” said Luiza, as he put a bouquet into her hand. It was a bunch of red camellias, surrounded by double violets.

“Oh, Sebastião!” she cried, deeply moved.

“Have you a carriage?” he asked.

“No.”

“I will send one. At eight, eh?”

He went down the steps, happy to serve her in anything, and she followed him with a humid glance. “Ah, what a man!” she said to herself; and she inhaled the perfume of the violets, turning the bouquet around in her hands, feeling a tender joy in being the object of his protection and his care.

She heard a knock at the door.

“Does not the senhora wish to dine?” said the impatient voice of Juliana outside.

“No.”

“There will be so much the more for me, then.”

Donna Felicidade arrived before eight o’clock. Luiza was reassured by seeing her appear in a black gown with a high neck, and her emerald ornaments.

“What is this? What piece of folly is this, I want to know?” the excellent lady said gayly, as she entered the room.

“A caprice,” answered Luiza. Jorge was dining out and she felt lonely. She took a notion, which she could not resist, to go to the theatre. They had to stop at the Hotel Gibraltar on their way, for Jorge.

“I had just finished dining when I received your note. I was on the point of not coming. To lace one’s self after dinner! Fortunately I had eaten scarcely anything.”

She asked what they were going to perform that evening. Faust. Good. On which side of the house was the box? No. 18. What a pity! They lost the view of the Royal Family. And then that theatre was so far away! She rose, and standing before the dressing-table, looked at herself sidewise in the glass, smoothing down the bands of her hair, and then arranged her bracelets, her eyes shining joyously.

A carriage stopped at the door.

“The coach!” she said smilingly.

Luiza put on her gloves and her wrap, and glanced around. Her heart beat violently, and there was a feverish light in her eyes.

“Are you forgetting anything?” asked Donna Felicidade. “The key of the box? Your handkerchief?”

“Ah, my bouquet!” said Luiza.

Juliana was struck with amazement when she saw her mistress dressed for the theatre; she lighted her out in silence, and slammed the door insolently after her.

“What a barefaced creature!” she muttered.

Just as the carriage started, Donna Felicidade cried out, knocking at the window,—

“Wait! Stop! I have forgotten my fan! I cannot go without my fan! Stop, driver!”

“We shall be late, my dear. Take mine,” said Luiza, impatiently.

Donna Felicidade complained that these mental agitations disturbed her digestion. The drive down the Chiado restored her good-humor, however. Dark groups, gesticulating violently, stood out in bold relief against the brightly illuminated doorways of the Havaneira. In front of the Riding Academy carriages passed rapidly, the white capes of the drivers lighted up by the shifting gleams of the lamps. Donna Felicidade, a smile on her countenance, enjoyed the exhilaration produced by the winter air, and the brightness of the numerous gas-lights, and it was with a sense of satisfaction, when the carriage stopped, that she saw the porter of the Hotel Gibraltar open the door and stand waiting their orders, cap in hand.

Luiza gave him a message for Jorge.

They gazed in silence at the staircase of the hotel, on which the shaded lamps diffused a soft light. Donna Felicidade, curious to know something of hotel life, observed attentively the laundress, who was just then entering with a basket of clothes; then a lady who descended the staircase in evening dress, her feet encased in white satin slippers; and she smiled as she saw the passers-by cast curious glances at them through the open window of the carriage.

“They are dying to know who we are,” she said.

Luiza pressed her bouquet between her hands in silence. Jorge at last made his appearance at the head of the stairs, speaking with great energy to a very lean individual with his hat on one side of his head, his hands in the pockets of his narrow trousers, and an enormous cigar in his mouth. They stopped, gesticulated, whispered. Finally the lean individual pressed Jorge’s hand, whispered something in his ear, laughed under his breath, and turning back, clapped him on the shoulder, and obliged him to take another cigar. Then he pulled his hat still more to one side and went to speak to the porter.

Jorge ran out, smiling, to the carriage-door.

“What follies are these?” he said. “Theatres! Suppers! I shall apply for a divorce!”

He seemed to be in a very good humor. All he regretted, he said, was that he was not in evening dress, but he would remain in the background, in the box. And in order not to crush their gowns he took a seat outside.