CHAPTER XIII.MISTRESS AND MAID.
ON coming to herself again, Luiza’s first impression was that of two unknown faces bending over her. A moment afterwards one of them disappeared, and then the sharp sound of a glass bottle set down on the marble top of her dressing-table aroused her to fuller consciousness. She heard a voice saying softly,—
“She is better. Did it take her suddenly, Senhora Juliana?”
“Yes, suddenly; she came in very much excited.”
She was conscious of soft footsteps on the carpet, followed by the voice of Joanna saying close beside her,—
“Are you better, Senhora?”
She opened her eyes and slowly returned to a clearer perception of things; she was lying on the sofa, and they had loosened her dress; there was a strong odor of vinegar in the room. She raised herself on her elbow, and looking around her with a wandering gaze, said,—
“And the other?”
“The Senhora Juliana? She was so upset by your fainting that she was obliged to go and lie down. Do you feel better now?”
Luiza sat up; she felt a sense of weariness in every limb, and it seemed to her as if the room was rocking to and fro.
“You may go, Joanna,” she said.
“Does not the senhora want anything,—a cup of broth, perhaps?”
When Luiza found herself alone she glanced around her in terror. Everything was in order, and the blinds were closed. One of her gloves had fallen on the floor; she rose slowly, picked it up, and straightening it out mechanically, put it away in the drawer of her bureau. She then smoothed her hair at the glass. She found herself changed, with a different expression of countenance, as if she were in reality another person; and the silence of the apartment impressed her vividly. “Senhora,” said Joanna, timidly, at the door.
“What is it?”
“The coachman.”
Luiza turned towards her, without comprehending.
“What coachman?”
“A coachman who says the senhora had no change, and told him to wait.”
“Ah!”
And in an instant, as the whole interior of an apartment is disclosed at once to view by the lighting of a lamp within it, so was her misfortune, in all its completeness, revealed now to her mental vision. She trembled so violently that she could scarcely open the drawer of the bureau.
“I had forgotten him,” she murmured.
She gave the money to Joanna, and dropping on the sofa,—
“I am lost!” she cried, pressing her head between her hands.
All was discovered! She saw in imagination, standing out with the distinctness of a charcoal drawing on a white ground, the fury of Jorge, the horror of her friends, the indignation of some, the contempt of others. These thoughts burned into her soul as redhot coals burn into the flesh.
What remained? To fly with Bazilio.
This thought, the first and only one that presented itself to her mind, swallowed up every other, as water that has burst its bounds submerges the surrounding country. He had pictured to her so often the happiness they might enjoy in his apartment in the Rue St. Florentin, in Paris! Be it so, then; she would go. She would take no luggage with her. She could put some linen and her mother’s jewels into her morocco satchel. But the house and the servants? She would leave a letter for Sebastião, that he might go and shut up everything. On the journey she would wear her blue gown or her black one. She would take nothing more. Whatever else she needed she could buy in some other city, far from here.
“If the senhora would like to dine,” said Joanna, making her appearance at the door in a clean white apron. “The Senhora Juliana has gone to bed sick,” she added, “and says she cannot wait at table.”
“I will go presently,” responded Luiza.
She hardly tasted the soup. She drank a glass of water, and rising, said,—
“What is the matter with Juliana?”
“She says she has a severe pain in the heart.”
If Juliana were to die she would be saved! In that case there would be no necessity for her to fly, and she said with a gleam of wicked hope,—
“Go see how she is, Joanna.”
She had heard of so many who had died of a sudden pain! She might go afterwards to Juliana’s room, search her trunk, and regain possession of her letter. She would be afraid neither of the silence of death nor of the pallor of the corpse.
“She is easier, Senhora,” said Joanna, returning to the dining-room, “and says she will get up by-and-by. Will the senhora take nothing more?”
“No.”
And she went back again to her room, thinking,—
“Why seek to remedy matters? There is nothing left but to fly.”
She determined to write to Sebastião, but she could get no further than the words, “My Friend.”
Why write? When they saw that night came, and she had not returned, the servants—her enemy—would go tell Sebastião. He was the most intimate friend of the family. What a fright it would give him! He would think some accident had befallen her. He would run to the Encarnação, then to the police station; he would spend the night in anguish; all next day he would wait for news of her, suffering terrible disappointments, until at last he would telegraph to Jorge. And at the same hour, huddled in a corner of the car, listening to the deafening noise of the engine, she would be hurrying on to a new destiny. Yet why should she torment herself? How many there were who would envy her her misfortune! Yes, to give up a cramped existence between four walls,her only occupation to superintend the affairs of the kitchen and to crochet, in order to go with a man young and handsome, and whom she loved, to Paris—to Paris! to live surrounded by luxury, in apartments hung with silk, with a box at the Opera. She was indeed foolish to torment herself; this disaster was almost a piece of good fortune. Without it she would not have had the courage to break away from herbourgeoiseexistence. Yes, she would fly with Bazilio; she would put an end at once to this state of anxiety. But it was too late now to go to the hotel; she was afraid of the dark streets, of the lateness of the hour, of meeting with some drunken man.
She began to pack the satchel. She put into it some linen, a few handkerchiefs, her nail-brush, the rosary Bazilio had given her, rice-powder, and some jewels that had belonged to her mother. She wished to take with her Bazilio’s letters also. She had put them away in a little sandal-wood box in the bureau-drawer. She took them out, scattered them on her lap, and opened one, from which fell a pressed flower, and then another containing the likeness of Bazilio. It suddenly struck her that they were not all here; there should be seven of them,—two letters and five notes,—the first letter he had written to her, full of his affection for her, and the last, written one day when they had quarrelled. She counted them; there were in fact three wanting,—this first letter and two of the notes. Juliana had stolen these also! She rose, pale with anger. “Infamous creature!” she exclaimed. She felt an impulse to go up to her room and tear theletters from her by force, even if she had to strangle her in order to do so. But what did it matter? Whether Juliana had one letter or three, her misfortune was the same.
She laid out on the sofa, in a state of feverish excitement, the black dress she was to wear, the hat, a cloak. The cuckoo-clock struck ten. She went into her bedroom, and placing the candlestick on the night-table, stood gazing at the large bed with its curtains of white muslin. This was the last time she should sleep in it. The crochet counterpane she herself had made during the first year of her marriage,—there was not a single stitch in it that was not associated with some happy recollection. Jorge had watched her working at it, smiling silently or talking to her in low tones while he twisted the cotton slowly around his fingers. There she had slept every night for three years. In that bed she had gone through an attack of pneumonia. For weeks Jorge bad not taken off his clothes, nursing her, covering her when she threw off the bedclothes, giving her her medicine, making her take nourishing soups, bestowing endearing words upon her that did her so much good. He spoke to her as he would have spoken to a little child. “This will pass,” he would say; “you will soon be better now, and then we will take a little trip into the country.” But while he said it his eyes filled with tears. At other times he would exclaim, “Are you better? Tell me that you are better!” And she desired so ardently to get well that a refreshing wave seemed to sweep over her, calming the fever in her blood. In the first days of her convalescence he helped her to dress; he knelt down to put on her slippers; heassisted her to the sofa, and arranged the cushions for her to lie down upon it; he read to her; he amused her by drawing landscapes for her, by cutting paper soldiers. She depended upon him for everything; she had no one else in the world to care for her in sickness, to mourn for her if she should die. She always went to sleep with his hand between both of hers, for she still felt at night something of the terror she had experienced in the delirious visions of the fever; and poor Jorge, in order not to awaken her, would remain hour after hour with his hand held thus imprisoned. He slept, without undressing, on a mattress beside her bed. Many times she had awakened during the night and surprised him wiping away his tears,—tears of joy because she was spared to him. When the physician, the good Dr. Caminha, had said to him, “She is out of danger; now we must set about reconstructing this organism,” Jorge, poor fellow, had caught the old man’s hands in his and covered them with kisses.
And now when he should come home and learn all! She would be far away in a foreign land hearing a strange tongue; and he there alone in the house, weeping in the embrace of Sebastião. How many souvenirs of her would be there to torture him,—her gowns, her slippers, the articles on her dressing-table, everything in the house! What a sorrowful existence he would lead! He would sleep alone; there would be no one there to awaken him with a kiss, and say to him, laying a hand on his shoulder, “It is late, Jorge.” Everything would be at an end foreverbetween them—forever.
She threw herself on the bed, and broke into bitter weeping. She heard Juliana speaking loudly in the hall to Joanna, and she rose to her feet in terror. Was the vile wretch going to enter her room? She heard the sound of retreating footsteps, and then Joanna came in with a light.
“The Senhora Juliana got up for a little while,” she said; “but she does not feel very well yet, and she has gone back to bed again. Does the senhora require anything?”
“No,” answered Luiza from the alcove.
She undressed herself, and at last fell asleep through exhaustion.
Juliana could not sleep. Tortured by pain, she struggled with the demon of sleeplessness on her straw mattress, as she had done so many times before during the past few weeks. Ever since she had taken the letter from the sarcophagus she had lived in a continual fever, so intense was the joy, so strong the hope that animated her. From the time when Bazilio had first begun to frequent the house, she had felt a conviction that her opportunity had come. What an explosion of joy when, after so much fruitless spying, she had found the letter in the sarcophagus! She had run to her room, read it eagerly, and when she realized the importance of her discovery, her eyes filled with tears of joy, she lifted up her vile soul to heaven, saying,—
“God be praised!”
What use should she make of it? This was the question that troubledher. Her first thought was to sell it for a good round sum to Luiza. But where could her mistress find the money? No, it was better to wait for Jorge’s return, and then, through the medium of some other person, concealing her own share in the transaction, extort from him a large amount by the threat of making the matter public. At times, when she was most irritated by Luiza’s excursions, by her handsome toilets, by her beauty, she felt a temptation to rush out into the street, call the neighbors around her, read the letter to them, and thus avenge herself on this wanton.
Aunt Victoria soothed and advised her. She told her that to make the plot complete it was necessary to have a letter of the lover in her possession. She was obliged to employ much ingenuity,—all the stealthy watchfulness of a cat joined to the dexterity of a pickpocket,—to try several keys (two of them made after impressions in wax). But she obtained the letter; and what a letter! She read it to Aunt Victoria, whose sides shook with laughter as she read it.
“Good!” she said to Juliana; “now you have the knife and the cheese; with this you can stand your ground and wait your chance. Amiability, a pleasant countenance, plenty of smiles, so as not to alarm her, and a watchful eye. You have the mouse safe; let her play as much as she wishes.”
From this time forth Juliana enjoyed in secret all the delight of knowing that she had Luiza, the senhora, the mistress, under her thumb. She saw her adorn herself, go to meet her lover, sing gayly and eat well, and she thought with feline pleasure,—
“Go on; amuse yourself; I will make you pay for it all by-and-by.”
This filled her with pride, and she had a vague sense of being mistress of the house. She held in her hand the happiness, the good name, of her master and mistress. What joy! Her future was secure. Her secret was money,—the bread of her old age. At last her turn had come; and she recited every day asalveof thanks to our Lady the Mother of Sinners.
But after the scene with Luiza she could no longer stand with her arms folded, with the letters in her pocket. She must go out; she must do something. She resolved to consult Aunt Victoria.
On the following morning, at about seven o’clock, without taking her coffee, or saying a word to Joanna, she went downstairs, and out of the house.
Aunt Victoria was not at home. In the little parlor were several persons awaiting her return. Senhor Gouvêa, with the tassel of his cap in a tangle, was leaning over the table, writing, and nursing his cold. Juliana said good-day to every one in general, and then sat down, very erect, in a corner of the room, holding her parasol between her knees.
About half an hour afterwards Aunt Victoria entered hurriedly, and seeing Juliana, said to her,—
“Ah, you here already? I had some business to attend to, and I have been out since six this morning. Good-day, Senhora Theodosia; good-day, Anna; hello, my handsome youth! Come in here, Juliana; I shall be back directly, chickens; it is a question of a moment.”
She led Juliana into a room that opened on the hall.
“What is there new?” she asked.
Juliana gave her a minute account of the scene of yesterday, ending in her mistress’s fainting.
“Well, my dear,” said Aunt Victoria, “what is done, is done. There is no time to be lost; you must set to work at once. Go to see Brito at his hotel, and have an understanding with him.”
Juliana shook her head; she did not dare, she said; she was afraid.
Aunt Victoria reflected for a moment, scratching her ear. She then rose and went into the parlor, held a whispered consultation with Uncle Gouvêa, and re-entered the room, closing the door behind her.
“Let us see,” she said; “you have the letters?”
Juliana took from her pocket an old red morocco pocket-book. But she hesitated a moment before opening it, at the same time giving Aunt Victoria a suspicious glance.
“You are afraid to give me the letters,” exclaimed the latter, with an offended air. “Very well; settle the affair yourself, then.”
Juliana handed her the letters, charging her to be very careful of them.
“A certain person,” said Aunt Victoria, “will go to-morrow to see Brito and ask him for aconto de reis.”[7]
Juliana was dazzled. Aconto de reis! Aunt Victoria was jesting!
“Why, what are you thinking?” said the latter.
“For a letter that contained scarcely anything a gentleman who may be seen any day driving in the Chiado (I saw him myself driving thereyesterday in company with a lady), paid three hundred thousand reis in good bank-notes. It was the lover who paid, of course. If it were any one but Brito I should say nothing; but he is rich, and a spendthrift.”
Juliana, pale with emotion, tremblingly caught Aunt Victoria by the arm.
“I would give you a silk gown, Aunt Victoria,” she said—
“A blue one. You see, I tell you even the color.”
“But Brito is not an easy man to deal with, Aunt Victoria; he might take the letters by force.”
“Do you think me a fool, then?” replied the other, disdainfully. “I shall not send the letters, but copies of them.”
And she added, after a momenta reflection,—
“You will return home—”
“No, I will not go back.”
“Perhaps you are right. Come and sleep here until we see how this is going to end, and dine with me to-day; we have a fine fish for dinner.”
“But will there be any danger if Brito should have recourse to the police?”
Aunt Victoria shrugged her shoulders impatiently.
“See, go away now,” she said; “for you put me out of patience. The police! These matters are not brought to the notice of the police. Leave it all to me, and come back to dinner at four.”
Juliana went away, feeling as if she floated on air. Aconto de reis! It was theconto de reisshe had once seen in her dreams come back to her now with the tinkle of gold and the rustle of bank-notes. Her brain was filled with images stretching out inwondrous perspective,—the counter of a millinery-shop, behind which she was to stand, waiting on her customers; a husband at her side at supper-time; innumerable pairs of boots, of the best quality and the most chic fashion. Where should she keep her money? In the bank? No, at the bottom of her trunk; there it would be safer, and more at hand.
To get through the morning, she bought a quarter of a pound of biscuits, and seated herself on a bench in the Gardens, under the shade of her parasol, indulging already in delightful anticipations of the life she would lead, fancying herself already a lady; and she even cast a speculative glance at a peaceable householder who was passing by, and who quickened his pace, scandalized, as he caught her eye.