Dragon's teeth

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

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

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

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

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

“Is he coming?”

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

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

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

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

“Accacio!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah,” said Jorge, “it is Ernesto.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The counsellor asked for the argument of the piece.

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

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

“A fine situation!” said the counsellor.

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

“How?” they all ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, read it,” repeated every one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He wants the husband to pardon his wife.”

There was a movement of astonishment.

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

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

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

“That is true,” assented Donna Felicidade.

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

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

“Try these egg bonbons; they are fresh.”

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

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

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

“A tart, Senhor Counsellor?” interrupted Luiza.

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

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

“Ah, then—”

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

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

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

Every one laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Without fail.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There is no help for it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he smiled bitterly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that a Tyrolese air you are playing?”

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

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

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

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

Donna Felicidade put on her black serge shawl.

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

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

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

“Straight as an arrow, Senhora.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.”

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

“Perhaps.”

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

“Sebastião, will you play a malaguenha?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Assuredly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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