A LOYAL FRIEND.
AS soon as Luiza began to go out regularly every day, Juliana said to
herself,--
“Good; now I am certain, when she goes out, that it is to meet that
coxcomb.”
And her attitude towards her mistress became more servile than ever.
She ran joyfully, with an obsequious smile upon her lips, to open the
door for Luiza when she returned home at five o’clock. And what zeal in
her service! What exactitude! If a button were wanting in a garment, if
a bill had been mislaid, it was, “A thousand pardons, Senhora; forgive
me this once,” followed by the humblest lamentations. She interested
herself, with real devotion, in the matter of Luiza’s health, of her
clothing, of what she ought to eat. Since her mistress had begun to go
out daily, Juliana’s work had increased; she was obliged to iron every
day; she was often obliged to wash stockings and cuffs till eleven
o’clock at night, or even later.
At six o’clock in the morning, and sometimes still earlier, she was
already with the smoothing-iron in her hand. Yet she did not complain.
On the contrary, she would say to Joanna, when washing or ironing,--
“It is a pleasure to look at so elegant a lady. Will you believe me,--I
can almost say that this gives me pleasure? And then, thank God! I
have good health now, and work has never frightened me.”
She no longer criticised her mistress; she affirmed repeatedly,--
“The senhora is a saint. I have never seen any one better.”
Her countenance lost something of its bilious hue, and of its bitter
contraction.
At times at dinner, or sewing in the evening, by the light of the
kerosene lamp, a sudden smile would cross her face, and her glance
would kindle with a genial light.
“The Senhora Juliana seems to be thinking of something pleasant,”
Joanna would say to her.
“The procession is going on inside, Senhora Joanna,” she would answer,
with an air of satisfaction.
To such a degree was her envious nature apparently changed, that she
even spoke with indifference of a silk gown which the professor’s
Gertrudes had worn for the first time on a certain holiday in
September. All she said was,--
“The day will come when I too shall be able to wear silk gowns, and
fine ones,--gowns made by a dressmaker.”
And by other words like these she betrayed her hopes in a time that was
drawing near. Joanna went so far as to say to her,--
“Does the Senhora Juliana, then, expect a legacy?”
“Perhaps,” she answered dryly.
And, notwithstanding, she detested Luiza more and more every day. When
she saw her in the morning adorning herself, perfuming herself with
Cologne-water, looking at herself in the mirror, going about singing,
she would leave the room, for she was seized with a fit of hatred,
and she feared to betray herself. She hated her for her dresses, for
her fine linen, on account of the man she went to meet, on account of
all her comforts and pleasures. When Luiza left the house she would
stand at the window gazing after her as she walked up the street,
exclaiming,--
“Amuse yourself, wanton, amuse yourself! My day, too, will surely come!”
Luiza did, in fact, amuse herself. She went out every day at two in
the afternoon. The neighbors would say to one another, as they watched
her,--
“The engineer’s wife has her S. Miguel now.”
Hardly had she turned the corner than the council would meet to sit
in judgment on her. They held it for certain that she went to meet a
gentleman. But where? This was the constant theme of the coal-vender.
“At a hotel,” Paula said on one of these occasions. “There is a great
deal of scandalous work going on in the hotels of Lisbon.”
The keeper of the tobacco-shop grew indignant: “A lady who had always
been so virtuous!”
“A cow let loose can easily take care of herself, Senhora Helena,”
Paula growled. “Women are all the same.”
“Not all; for I have always been an honest woman,” the keeper of the
tobacco-shop protested.
“And I,” added the coal-vender. “No one has anything to say against
me.”
“I speak of high society, of ladies, of those who wear silks; it is a
class that has gone to perdition. I know very well what I am speaking
about;” and he added, with an air of gravity, “There is more morality
among the people; the people are a different race.”
And with his hands buried in his pockets, and his legs wide apart, he
remained lost in thought, his head bent down, his gaze fixed on the
ground.
Sebastião, who had remained nearly a fortnight at his villa in Almada,
was terrified when, on his return, Aunt Joanna told him that Luiza
left her house every day at two o’clock, and that the cousin had not
returned there. Gertrudes had told her of it, and the neighbors talked
of nothing else.
“Then a poor lady cannot even go to the shops to buy what she wants,”
exclaimed Sebastião. “Gertrudes is a shameless creature; and I don’t
know, Aunt Joanna, how you can consent that she should put her foot in
this house, with her vile slanders.”
“No, you are unjust,” Joanna answered, angry in her turn. “The poor
woman only repeats what she hears in the street. She defended her,--she
defended her with obstinacy. But the neighbors say it, and every one
repeats it, and if they say it--”
Sebastião, recovering his serenity, replied,--
“But who are those who say it, Aunt Joanna?”
“Who are they? Every one in the neighborhood says it; every one in
the neighborhood,--every one in the neighborhood,” she repeated with
emphasis.
Sebastião was confounded. Every one in the neighborhood! Perhaps, then,
it was true! She went out every day now, and when Jorge was at home
she hardly ever left the house. The neighbors, who had gossiped about
the visits of the _other one_, began to make remarks about her
going out. This would injure her reputation. And he could do nothing.
Should he go and warn her? What for? To have another scene like the
former one? That could not be. He tried to see her,--not that he wished
to touch on this matter at all; he only wanted to see her. She was not
at home. He returned two days later. Juliana said to him at the door,
with her nauseously sweet smile,--
“She left the house a moment ago; she went in the direction of the
Patriarchal.”
At last he met her one day at the head of the street of S. Roque.
Luiza appeared very much pleased at seeing him.
“Why did you remain so long in Almada? What a desertion!” she said.
He told her the carpenters had been there, that it was indispensable
to superintend the work, and that he had, in truth, found it somewhat
tiresome.
“Jorge writes that he will be obliged to remain away some time longer,”
Luiza said; “I begin to lose patience, now. Without Julião, without the
counsellor, without any one--”
Donna Felicidade was the only person who went to see her occasionally,
and then only to stay a moment. She was always now at the Encarnação.
Those pious people--
And she burst into a laugh.
Where was she going now? Sebastião asked her.
“To make some purchases, and afterwards to the dressmaker’s.”
“Come to see me, Sebastião,” she added.
“I will.”
“In the evening I am always alone.”
That same afternoon Sebastião received a letter from Jorge. “Have you
seen Luiza?” it said. He was uneasy because he had not heard from her
for five days. “And then,” it continued, “she seems to be always very
busy, and writes only half a dozen lines, as the mail is just leaving.
Go tell the mail to wait. What the deuce! She complains that she is
lonely, that she is _ennuyée_, that all her friends have abandoned
her, that she lives in a desert. Go bear her company,” etc.
On the following day, towards evening, Sebastião went to see her. She
made her appearance dressed in white, and looking very much flushed, as
if she had been crying. She had reached home much tired, and had fallen
asleep on the sofa after dinner. And what news was there? she asked.
They spoke of the work done at Almada, of the counsellor, of Julião,
and then they were silent. There was something that retained the words
unspoken on the lips of both.
Luiza then lighted the candles on the piano; she showed Sebastião
the new music she was practising,--the “Medjé” of Gounod; there was
a phrase in it in which she always found some difficulty. She asked
Sebastião to play it over for her; and, standing beside the piano,
keeping time with her foot, she accompanied, in a low voice, the music,
to which the skilful execution of Sebastião gave a touching charm. She
wished to try it after him; but found the same difficulty as before,
and she went and sat down on the sofa, saying,--
“I hardly ever play now; my fingers are beginning to grow stiff.”
Sebastião did not venture to ask for her Cousin Bazilio. Luiza did not
even mention his name; and Sebastião, seeing in this reserve either
a diminution of friendship or a remnant of displeasure on her part,
said that he was obliged to go to a meeting of the General Society of
Agriculture. He went away very much grieved. Every day that passed
brought with it some new annoyance. Sometimes it was Aunt Joanna, who
would say to him in the afternoon,--
“Luizinha went out again to-day. With this heat, that is dangerous for
her health.”
Again it was the council of the neighbors, whom he saw, from a
distance, gathered together, and who were, to a certainty, tearing
to pieces the poor girl’s reputation. It seemed to him a repetition
of the aria of the _Calumnia_ in the “Barber of Seville.” The
voice of slander, at first soft as a zephyr, rises in a terrible
_crescendo_, until it bursts forth all at once like a clap of
thunder. He took a roundabout way so as not to have to meet the eyes of
Paula and the keeper of the tobacco-shop. He was ashamed of every one.
He chanced to meet Teixeira Azevedo, who said to him,--
“Has not Jorge come home yet? What the deuce! Does he intend to remain
away forever?”
And this trivial remark filled him with terror. At last he went one day
to look for Julião. He found him in his room in his shirt-sleeves, and
in slippers, uncombed, with a coffee-pot beside him. The dirty floor
was strewn with cigar-ends. Books were lying open on the unmade bed,
and on all sides were signs of great disorder.
At his entrance Julião straightened himself up; he shook himself,
rolled a cigarette, and said that he had been at work since seven
o’clock in the morning. Ah, it was a fine thing to work! He would like
to see how the Senhor Sebastião would stand it!
“For the rest, you have come just in time. I was about to send a
message to your house. I was to have received money, and it has not
come. Give me a _libra_.”
And then he began to speak about his thesis. The thing was turning out
well. He read paragraphs to Sebastião from the prologue, with paternal
delectation, well pleased with his labor. In a burst of confidence
resulting from his excitement he said, taking rapid strides up and down
the room,--
“I am going to show them that there are still Portuguese in Portugal,
Sebastião. I am going to open their eyes; you shall see.”
He sat down and began to number the sheets already written. Sebastião,
reluctant to disturb with private anxieties these lofty scientific
interests, said hesitatingly, and in a low voice,--
“I have come to talk to you about our friends.”
But the door opened suddenly, and a young man with a neglected-looking
beard and weak eyes entered the room. He was a student at the School,
and a friend of Julião. Almost immediately they recommenced a
discussion which they had begun in the morning, and which had been
interrupted at eleven o’clock, at which hour the young man with the
weak eyes was obliged to go to Aurea to breakfast.
“No, my dear fellow, no!” exclaimed the student, “I hold to my
assertion. Medicine is only a half-science; physiology is another
half-science; they are both conjectural sciences, because their
foundation--which is a knowledge of the principle of life--eludes our
research.”
And standing before Sebastião with folded arms, he added,--
“What do we know of the principle of life?”
Sebastião, with a sense of humiliation, lowered his eyes; but Julião
grew indignant.
“You are demoralized by the vitalist doctrine, unhappy man!” he cried.
“A theory which pretends that the laws which govern matter are not the
same as those which govern life is a scientific heresy, and Bichat, who
teaches it, an idiot.”
“Bah!” cried the student, beside himself with anger.
To call Bichat an idiot,--that was indeed idiocy. But Julião treated
the insult with contempt, and continued excitedly,--
“What does the principle of life matter to us? It matters as much to me
as the first shirt I put on. The principle of life is like every other
principle,--a secret of which we must remain forever in ignorance.
We cannot know the principle of anything. Life, death, the origin of
things, the purpose of them, are mysteries, are first causes with
which we have nothing to do, absolutely nothing. We may continue the
struggle for centuries, without advancing a step. The physiologist,
the chemist, have nothing to do with the principles of things. What
concerns them are phenomena. Very well, then. Phenomena and their
proximate causes, my dear friend, may be determined with as much
exactness in regard to dead matter as in regard to the living body; in
regard to a stone, as in regard to a man. That physiology and medicine
are sciences as exact as the science of chemistry has been proved from
the time of Descartes.”
Then they began an incidental dispute about Descartes, and all at once,
without Sebastião, who listened in amazement, being able to discover
the connection, they attacked each other fiercely about the idea of
God. The student seemed to have need of God in order to explain the
universe; but Julião attacked God with rage. He called him an “outworn
hypothesis,” an “antiquated fable of the Miguelist party.” And then
they attacked each other like two fighting cocks on the socialist
question. The student, with bloodshot eyes, and bringing down his
clenched fist upon the table with violence, sustained the principle of
authority. Julião cried out in defence of “individual anarchy,” and
after quoting with fury from Proudhon, Bastiat, and Jouffroy, they
descended to the arena of personalities. Julião, who dominated the
other by reason of the superior loudness of his voice, reminded the
student roughly of his six-percent bonds, and of the absurdity of the
position of the son of humble parents with aristocratic aspirations.
At this they cast glances of hatred and contempt at each other, and
shortly afterwards the student, letting fall a few disdainful words
about Claude Bernard, the dispute was renewed again in all its former
violence.
Sebastião took up his hat.
“Good-by,” he said to Julião, in a low voice.
“Good-by, Sebastião, good-by,” returned Julião, promptly.
He accompanied him to the head of the stairs.
“Ah, when do you think I had better speak to my cousin?” said Sebastião
in a low voice.
“Ah, yes; we shall see; I will think about it,” returned Julião with an
air of indifference, as if his pride in his labors had dissipated his
fear of being treated with injustice.
Sebastião went downstairs in silence, thinking it useless to say
anything to Julião now. But an idea suddenly presented itself to his
mind. What if he were to speak to Donna Felicidade, to consult with her
frankly? Donna Felicidade, it is true, was not very wise, but she was
a woman of mature years, and she was a friend of Luiza. She had more
influence with her, besides being possessed of more tact. He made up
his mind to do so, called a carriage, and drove to the street of S.
Bento. The servant of Donna Felicidade made her appearance at the door,
tearful and disconsolate.
“But do you not know what has happened?” she said.
“No.”
“Ah, it seems impossible!”
“But what is it?”
The mistress--such a misfortune!--had dislocated her foot at the
Encarnação. She had been ill, very ill; she was now staying at the
Encarnação,--on the ground floor; she was unable to go upstairs. She
was with the Senhora Donna Ana Silveira. Such a misfortune! And she was
so distressed about it!
“And when did it happen?”
“The day before yesterday, in the evening.”
Sebastião sprang into the carriage and ordered the driver to go with
all speed to Luiza’s. So Donna Felicidade was ill, at the Encarnação.
Luiza, then, might well go out every day. She went, no doubt, to see
her friend, to bear her company, to chat with her. The neighbors to
gossip so wickedly, when the poor girl went to see her sick friend! It
was two o’clock when the carriage stopped at Luiza’s door. Sebastião
met her coming down the steps, dressed in black, with her veil down.
“Ah, come in, Sebastião, come in; won’t you come in?” she said.
“No; many thanks. I came to tell you,--do you not know that Donna
Felicidade--”
“What about her?”
“She has dislocated her foot; she is very ill.”
“What do you tell me, Sebastião!”
Sebastião gave her all the details.
“You should go to see her,” he added.
“I will go there now.”
“I cannot go, for they do not allow men to enter the Encarnação. How
unfortunate! They say she is very ill.”
He accompanied her to the corner of the street, giving her many
messages for Donna Felicidade. He was sorry not to be able to see her,
poor lady!
He then went in the direction of the Patriarchal. Those daily
excursions of Luiza would be henceforth justified in the eyes of the
world,--she would go to nurse poor Donna Felicidade. It was necessary
that every one should know it,--Paula, the keeper of the tobacco-shop,
Gertrudes, the Azevedos, every one; so that when they saw her leave
the house to-morrow they should say, “She is going to stay with the
invalid, poor lady!”
Paula was standing at the door of his shop, and Sebastião, struck by a
sudden idea, was astonished to find himself so fertile in expedients,
so full of tact. He pushed his hat back a little from his forehead, and
pointing with his umbrella to the portrait of João VI.,--
“How much do you ask for that, Senhor Paula?” he said.
Paula was struck with astonishment.
“Senhor Sebastião is in the mood for jesting,” he returned.
“Jesting!” exclaimed Sebastião; “I am very much in earnest. I want some
pictures for the entrance-hall at Almada, but old ones, without lustre,
that will harmonize with the dark paper on the wall.”
“I beg your pardon, Senhor Sebastião.”
“I like this João VI. How much is it worth?” Paula replied without
hesitation,--
“Seven thousand two hundred; but it is a masterpiece.”
Sebastião thought it dear; but Paula showed him the price written on
a slip of paper at the back. He explained to him the merits of the
picture, pointed out its beauties, spoke of his honor as a merchant,
characterized others of his fellow-merchants as bandits without
conscience, gave him to understand that the portrait had belonged to
the house of Queluz, and that he had bought it at public auction.
Sebastião interrupted him, saying,--
“Very well, I will take it. Send it to my house, and the bill with it.”
“You will have a fine work of art.”
Sebastião looked around the shop. He wished to speak of Donna
Felicidade’s dislocated foot, and sought for an opportunity of
introducing the subject. He looked at some Indian vases, at a large
china jar, and seeing an invalid’s chair,--
“How nice that would be for Donna Felicidade,” he exclaimed,--“a
handsome and comfortable easy-chair!”
Paula opened wide his eyes.
“For Donna Felicidade Noronha,” replied Sebastião, in answer to his
mute inquiry, “to recline in. Is it possible you do not know that she
hurt her foot, and has been and is still very ill?”
“Donna Felicidade, the friend of the people here?” and he indicated
with his thumb the house of the engineer.
“Yes, my friend, yes. She dislocated her foot in the Encarnação, and
was obliged to remain there. Donna Luiza goes to see her every day. She
has gone there just now.”
“Ah!” said Paula, slowly, after a moment’s silence. “Well, it is not a
week since I saw Donna Felicidade going in there.”
“The accident happened the day before yesterday,” said Sebastião. He
coughed, and added, attentively examining some engravings, “Donna Luiza
went every day to the Encarnação before, but it was to see Donna Ana
Silveira, who was sick. It is three weeks now since the poor girl has
been acting as sick-nurse. She hardly leaves the Encarnação; and now,
to cap the climax, Donna Felicidade!”
“I knew nothing of it,--absolutely nothing,” said Paula, in a low
voice, his hands in his pockets.
“Send me home that João VI.”
“At your orders, Senhor Sebastião.”
Sebastião returned home. He went up to the parlor, and throwing his hat
on the sofa,--
“Good!” he said to himself. “How, at least, appearances are saved.”
He took a few turns up and down the room, with bent head, sad and
thoughtful; for that he had been able by chance to justify those
excursions of Luiza’s in the eyes of the neighbors made the thought
only the more cruel to him that he was not able to explain them
to himself. The suspicions the neighbors had for some time past
entertained he had shown to be unjust; but what of his own? He desired
to prove them false, childish, unreasonable, and against his will, his
common-sense, and his principles he was involving himself in greater
and greater difficulties. After all, he had done his duty, and with a
sorrowful gesture he said aloud, breaking the silence around him,--
“The rest is a matter for her own conscience to settle.”
That same afternoon the whole neighborhood knew that Donna Felicidade
had dislocated her foot in the Encarnação; some of the neighbors
declared that she had broken her leg, and that Donna Luiza never left
her bedside; and Paula affirmed in authoritative accents,--
“She is a very good girl, a very good girl!”
The professor’s Gertrudes went in the evening to ask Aunt Joanna if
it was true that Donna Felicidade had broken her leg. Aunt Joanna set
her right; it was a dislocated foot, and nothing more. Gertrudes went
back to tell the professor, adding that the accident had taken place at
the Encarnação, where the sick lady now was. All the neighbors praised
Luiza. A few days afterwards Teixeira Azevedo, who of late had hardly
saluted her, meeting her by chance in the street of S. Roque, stopped
her, and with a profound bow said,--
“I beg your pardon, Senhora; how does your patient get on?”
“Better, thank you.”
“It is truly a very charitable action on your part, Senhora, to go
every day to the Encarnação.”
“She does not want for society,” returned Luiza.
“A very charitable action, indeed,” repeated Azevedo, with emphasis.
“I have said so everywhere,--a very charitable action on your part.
Good-day.”
And he went on his way much moved.
Luiza went, in fact, shortly afterwards to see Donna Felicidade. A
simple sprain was all that was the matter with her; but lying in
bed, in the Senhora Silveira’s room, with compresses of arnica on her
foot, she thought with terror that she was going to lose her leg; and
she spent the day, surrounded by friends, crying, eating Recolhimento
peaches, and nibbling azaroles. No sooner did any new visitor arrive
than she redoubled her exclamations and her complaints; then followed
a minute, circumstantial, and prolix history of the misfortune. Then,
when she saw the excitement was beginning to die away, she would raise
herself on her elbow to exclaim,--
“Ah, our Lady of Health! this was a miracle; I might have died.”
All the ladies agreed that it was indeed a miracle; they were full of
sympathy for her, and went in turn to kneel before the saints to ask
their intercession for the alleviation of Senhora Noronha’s suffering.
Luiza’s first visit was a great consolation for Donna Felicidade, who
complained greatly of being obliged to remain in bed without hearing of
or being able to speak of him. On the succeeding days, as soon as Luiza
entered the room, she would call her to her bedside to ask her in low
and mysterious accents,--
“Have you seen him? Have you heard from him?”
Her chief trouble was that the counsellor did not know she was
ill, and that consequently he could not dedicate to her those
compassionate thoughts to which her foot had a right, and which would
be a consolation to her heart. But Luiza had not seen him, and Donna
Felicidade, throwing herself back in the bed, exhaled bitter sighs.
On two or three occasions Luiza, returning home, had come face to face
with Juliana, returning also in great haste by the Moinho de Vento.
“Where do you come from?” she had asked her, on reaching the house.
“From the doctor’s, Senhora,--from the doctor’s.”
She complained of sharp pains, of palpitations, of a want of breath.
“Flatulence, flatulence,” Luiza said.
For some days past Juliana would set the house in order in the morning,
and no sooner had Luiza turned the corner of the street at one o’clock
than she would go to her room to dress herself, and then, looking very
fine in her merino gown, her hat, and her parasol, would go say to
Joanna,--
“I am going to the doctor’s.”
And Joanna would answer, delighted, “Yes; go.”
Juliana’s way led her by S. Pedro de Alcantara into the Rua do Carmo,
and finally to an alley in front of the barracks. There, on a third
floor, lived her intimate friend Aunt Victoria. She was an old woman
who had once kept an employment agency, but of late years her business
had been of a more complicated and varied character. For some time past
Juliana had been in the habit of visiting her frequently; and no sooner
did she make her appearance than the old woman, notwithstanding her
many occupations, would rise, take her to her private room, shut the
door, and remain closeted with her for half an hour or more. Juliana
always came out from these interviews flushed, her eyes sparkling, and
looking happy. She would return home in haste, and her first words on
entering the house always were,--
“Has the mistress returned, Joanna?”
“Not yet; she is in the Encarnação.”
“Poor thing! And afterwards she will naturally take a walk. She is very
right to amuse herself.”
Joanna was by nature stupid and obtuse. Nevertheless she noticed
that of late the Senhora Juliana manifested great affection for her
mistress, and she said to her one day,--
“It seems that you are better friends with the mistress now than
formerly, Juliana.”
“Better friends?”
“Yes; I mean more--more--”
“More attached to the mistress?”
“Yes; more attached.”
“I always was so. Besides, people have their whims and caprices. But
I am now convinced, Joanna, that I could nowhere be better off than
I am here. The mistress is very good-tempered; she is not exacting
or capricious. I return thanks to Heaven daily for the comfort and
happiness I enjoy here.”
The house had, indeed, an air of tranquil happiness. Luiza went out
every day, and found fault with nothing. Her antipathy to Juliana
seemed to have disappeared; and she seemed to regard her now as an
inoffensive creature. Juliana continued to take her soups, to go out,
and to complain of her ailments. Joanna, who had much greater liberty
than formerly, and who was almost always alone in the house, enjoyed
the society of her carpenter. There were no visitors. Donna Felicidade
was in the Encarnação steeped in arnica. Sebastião was in Almada,
where he had gone to superintend the repairs going on at his villa;
the counsellor had left the city for Cintra, “to feast his spirit,” as
he had told Luiza, to “gladden himself in contemplating the wonders
of that Eden;” Senhor Julião, “the doctor,” as Joanna called him, was
working at his thesis. The household kept regular hours; silence and
repose reigned everywhere. In the kitchen one day Juliana, vividly
impressed with the quietude and contentment that pervaded the house,
exclaimed,--
“Ah, Joanna, one could not be better off! Our boat sails in a sea of
roses.” And she added, with a little laugh, “This is happiness!”
At about this time, as Luiza was one day going to meet Bazilio, she
suddenly saw emerge from a gateway, a little beyond Santa Barbara, the
figure of Ernesto.
“You here, Cousin Luiza,” he exclaimed in astonishment,--“in this
neighborhood! What brings you here? It is a surprise indeed to see you
in such a street!”
His face was flushed; he held up the skirts of his great-coat behind
with one hand, and with the other brandished in his excitement a thick
roll of paper. Luiza paused, very much startled. She told him she was
going to see a friend.
“You do not know her,” she added; “she has just arrived from Oporto.”
“Ah, very well; very well! And what have you been doing? How have you
spent your time? When is Jorge coming home?”
Then he began to excuse himself for not having gone to see her. He had
not a free moment, he said, from morning till night,--always busy with
the rehearsals.
“So the drama progresses?” said Luiza.
“Yes, indeed!” And he added enthusiastically, “And how! It is a
masterpiece! when one works, one works.” He had just come from the
house of the actor Pinto, who took the lover’s part,--that of the Count
of Monte Redondo. He had been listening to him reciting the final words
of the third act. “Malediction! Fate pursues me; be it so then; I shall
fight hand to hand with Fate! To the combat!” It was wonderful. He had
just been receiving notice, too, to remodel the monologue in the second
act. The manager thought it a trifle long.
“So then the manager continues to annoy you with his exactions,” said
Luiza.
Ernesto shrugged his shoulders with a look of irritation. Then he said,
with a joyful countenance,--
“Every one is wild about it. Yesterday he said to me, ‘Ledesma, all
Lisbon will come in a body to the first representation; you will ruin
the other theatres.’ He is not a bad sort of man. I am going now to the
house of Bastos, who writes for the ‘Verdade.’ Do you know him?”
Luiza could not well remember.
“Bastos, of the ‘Verdade,’” he repeated. And seeing that Luiza was
trying in vain to recollect, he added, “There is no one you know
better.” And he went on to describe him.
But Luiza, impatient to put an end to the conversation, interrupted
him,--
“Ah, yes; now I remember.”
“Yes; I am going to his house.” And he added confidentially, “We are
great friends. He is a very good fellow, and he has a beautiful boy.”
He pressed her hand, and said, “Good-by, Cousin Luiza; I have not a
moment to lose. Would you like me to accompany you?”
“No; it is quite near.”
“Good-by. Remembrances to Jorge.”
She had only taken a few steps when he ran after her.
“Ah, I forgot,” he cried. “Do you know that I have forgiven her?”
Luiza looked at him in astonishment.
“The heroine--the countess,” said Ernesto.
“Ah!”
“Yes; the husband forgives her. He obtains a diplomatic mission, and
goes to live abroad. It is more natural.”
“Assuredly,” Luiza assented in confusion.
“The piece ends by the Count of Monte Redondo, the lover, saying,
‘He has gone to die in solitude, the victim of this fatal passion.’
It produces a great effect.” And looking at her a moment, he added,
“Good-by, Cousin. Remembrances to Jorge.”