CHAPTER XXIII.THE LETTER.
LUIZA passed a feverish and uneasy night. In the morning Jorge was alarmed by the frequency of her pulse and the heat of her skin. He, too, owing to a feeling of nervousness, had spent a wakeful night. The room in which they slept had been shut up for a long time past, and was pervaded, in consequence, by a chill dampness; there were stains of mould on the wall near the ceiling; the antique bed, without curtains, with its pillars of bent-wood, and the old chest of drawers with its mirror of the last century, had an indefinable air of sadness, as though recalling lives long dead and gone. To find himself thus with his wife under a strange roof produced in his mind, without his knowing why, a vaguely superstitious feeling. It seemed to him as if a turning-point had come in his life, and that, like a river which changes its course, it would begin from this night forth to flow amid different surroundings. The northeast wind beat against the window-panes, and howled through the narrow street, seeking an outlet.
In the morning Luiza was unable to rise.
Julião, who was called in haste, allayed their fears, however.
“It is a slight nervous fever that will pass away with a little rest,”he said. “Last night’s fright, no doubt.”
“I dreamed all night of her,” responded Luiza. “I thought she had come back to life again. How horrible it was!”
“You need have no uneasiness on that score,” returned Julião. “Have they prepared her for burial yet?” turning to Jorge.
“Sebastião is there,” answered Jorge, “and I am going now to take a look at things.”
The death of old parchment was already known in the neighborhood. The woman who had laid her out—a matron deeply pitted with the small-pox, with eyes reddened by the abuse of spirituous liquors—was an acquaintance of the Senhora Helena. She had stood a moment in the sunshine chatting with her at the door of the tobacco-shop.
“Is there much business, Senhora Margarida?”
“A good deal, a good deal,” replied the other in a husky voice. “In winter there is always more to do. But they are all old people, who drop off with the cold. There is not a pretty corpse among them.”
The Senhora Margarida, it will be seen, had artistic tastes.
The tobacconist related many particulars to her regarding Juliana,—the favors shown her by her master and mistress, her airs, and the luxury she enjoyed of having a matted room. The Senhora Margarida responded that she was amazed by what she heard. And who would have it all now? she asked. “But I must dress that doll,” she ended, going into the house with an air of compunction. The priest was there conversing in ahusky voice with Sebastião about agriculture, drainage, and grafting, and passing his folded handkerchief from time to time under his nose with his hairy hand. All the windows were open to the pleasant warmth of the sun, and the canaries were twittering in their cages.
“Had the deceased been long in the family?” asked the priest of Jorge, who was walking up and down the parlor, smoking.
“Three years.”
The priest slowly unfolded his handkerchief and shook it out preparatory to blowing his nose.
“Her mistress must regret her greatly,” he said. “But it is a debt we must all pay at last.” And he blew his nose loudly.
Joanna made her appearance at this moment, wrapped in a shawl, with a handkerchief tied around her head. She had heard from the neighbors that Juliana was dead, and that the master and mistress were at Dom Sebastião’s. She came from there now. Luiza had sent for her to her room, and when Joanna saw her “dear mistress” lying ill in bed, she shed tears; but Luiza told her that now things would soon be better, and that she might come back.
“And listen, Joanna,” she ended; “if the master should ask you, say that you went to Bellas to see your aunt.”
The girl went for her bundle, and installed herself anew in the house, somewhat frightened by a death having taken place there.
Shortly afterwards Senhor Paula knocked discreetly at the door. He came to offer his services for whatever might be wanted on the occasion.Taking off his cap, and scraping his foot, he said in his hoarse voice, “I am very sorry for the misfortune,—very sorry. But we are all mortal!”
“True, true, Senhor Paula,” answered Jorge; “but I need nothing. Many thanks.”
And he shut the door abruptly. He was impatient to get rid of the whole matter; irritated by the hammering of the men upstairs who were nailing the coffin, he called to Joanna,—
“Tell those people to make haste; we don’t want this to go on forever.”
Joanna went upstairs to deliver the message. She had made friends with the Senhora Margarida, who went to the kitchen with her to take a little refreshment; as there was no fire she contented herself with some bread and wine, which she declared good enough for any one.
She was disgusted with the deceased, she declared; she had never seen an uglier creature. She looked like a dried herring. And she glanced at Joanna’s rounded form as she spoke.
“You seem to have a fine figure,” she added, as if she were calculating mentally how she would arrange the shroud on those robust contours.
“I suppose you would like—” began Joanna, indignantly.
“People of very high position have passed through my hands,” interrupted the other in a piping voice, smiling. (She had lost two of her front teeth.) “Do me the favor to give me a little more wine. It is Cartaxo, isn’t it? Excellent wine!”
At last, at about four o’clock, to Jorge’s great relief they brought the coffin downstairs. The neighbors looked on curiously from their doors as it was carried out. Senhor Paula, through bravado, waved a good-by with his hand as it passed him, adding,—
“A good journey!”
“Are you not afraid of remaining here alone?” Jorge asked Joanna upstairs.
“No, sir; the dead can’t come to life again,” she answered. Not that she was not in reality afraid, but she expected Pedro to keep her company in her solitude.
Jorge returned with Sebastião to the house of the latter. “It is all over,” he said, entering the room where Luiza was in bed. “She is on her way to the heights of S. João,” he continued, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, “with everything duly arranged for the journey.Per omnia saccula sacculorum!”
Aunt Joanna, who was sitting with Luiza, burst out hastily,—
“Let her go, let her go! She was a bad woman!”
“She was a good-for-nothing creature,” said Jorge. “Let us hope she is now boiling in the caldron of Pedro Botello, eh, Aunt Joanna?”
“Jorge!” exclaimed Luiza, reprovingly. She thought it a Christian duty to recite two Pater Nosters for the dead woman’s soul.
This was the sole effect produced on earth by the death of her who was now being carried by two worn-out hacks to the common burial-ground, and who in life was known as Juliana Conceiro Tavira.
On the following day Luiza was better, and they spoke of returning home, to the great disgust of Aunt Joanna. Sebastião said nothing, but he secretly desired that Luiza’s convalescence might detain them in his house for an indefinite period. She gave him such grateful glances that he alone could understand! He was so happy to have her and Jorge under his roof! He held consultations with Aunt Vicenta about the dinner; he walked through the house with a feeling of reverence, almost on tiptoe, as if it were sanctified by her presence in it; he filled the vases with camellias and violets; he smiled beatifically when Jorge smacked his lips over the old cognac after dinner. He felt an indefinable sense of well-being that infused new life into him, and he thought sorrowfully that when she went away an air of greater coldness than before would hang over everything, like the sadness that hangs over a ruin.
Two days afterwards, however, they returned home. Luiza was very much pleased with the new servant whom Sebastião had engaged. She was a girl with expressive eyes, and a pleasing manner, and was very neat in her person. Her name was Marianna, and she soon told Joanna that she would do anything for the mistress, who had an angelic disposition, and who was very handsome.
Jorge sent Juliana’s trunks to Aunt Victoria.
When Jorge left the house in the afternoon, Luiza shut herself up in her room with Juliana’s pocket-book, drew down the blinds, lighted a candle, and burned the letters. Her hands trembled, and she beheld, with eyes swimming in tears, those words, the evidence of her shame,disappear in a column of white smoke,—at last, thanks to Sebastião, to that dear Sebastião! She went to take a look at the parlor, at the kitchen; everything seemed new to her, and life full of sweetness; she opened the windows, ran her fingers over the keys of the piano, tore to pieces with a superstitious feeling the music of Medjé that Bazilio had given her, talked a long time to Marianna, and sipping her cup of chicken-broth, thought with a radiant countenance,—
“How happy I shall be now!”
When she heard Jorge’s step in the hall she ran out to meet him, threw her arms around his neck, and with her head on his shoulder said,—
“I am very happy to-day. If you only knew what a good girl Marianna is!”
That very night the fever returned. Julião found her much worse on the following morning.
“This begins to grow a little more serious,” he said in a dissatisfied tone.
He was writing a prescription, when Donna Felicidade came in, very much excited. She was surprised to find Luiza sick; leaning over her, she whispered in her ear,—
“I have something to tell you.”
When Jorge and Julião had left the room, she seated herself beside the bed and proceeded to unbosom herself to Luiza, speaking now in low and confidential tones, now in a voice rendered shrill by indignation. She had been robbed, basely robbed, she cried. The man she had sent to Tuy, like the unscrupulous thief he was, had written to her servantGertrudes that he was not coming back to Lisbon, that the sorceress had changed her place of abode, and that he desired to hear nothing more about the matter,—all in the clerkly handwriting of a paid copyist, and in horrible Portuguese. But not a word did he say of money.
“What do you think of the swindler? Eight dollars! If it were not for the shame of it, I should go to the police. I want to have nothing more to do with Gallicians. That was the reason the counsellor made no further advances; the sorceress had not wrought the spell.”
If she did not believe in the honesty of the Gallicians, however, it was very evident that she still believed in the arts of magic. It was not for the money, but for the annoyance. Where could the woman be now? It was enough to make one crazy. What did Luiza think of the matter?
Luiza shrugged her shoulders. Enveloped in the bedclothes, she lay there silent, with flushed face and heavy eyes. Donna Felicidade advised her, with a sigh, to take something to make her perspire; and finding she could obtain no consolation from Luiza, she went to the Encarnação to unbosom herself to the Senhora Silveira.
Towards morning Luiza grew worse. The fever increased. Jorge, very uneasy, dressed himself hurriedly at nine o’clock to go for Julião. He was going downstairs hastily, buttoning his overcoat, when he met the postman, who seemed to have a bad cough, going up.
“Are there any letters?” asked Jorge.
“One for the senhora,” answered the postman.
Jorge looked at the envelope; it was directed to Luiza, and bore the French postmark.
“Who the deuce can it be from?” he thought, putting it in his pocket and going out. He returned in a carriage half an hour later with Julião; Luiza was sleeping heavily.
“She needs care; we shall see,” said Julião, shaking his head, while Jorge watched him anxiously from the other side of the bed. He wrote a prescription, and remained to breakfast. The day was cold and cloudy. Marianna, wrapped in a shawl, waited at table, her fingers swollen with chilblains. Jorge felt depressed, as if the mists of the atmosphere were gathering around his soul. What could be the cause of this fever? he asked Julião disconsolately. It was very strange. For six weeks she had been ill and well by turns.
“These fevers have a thousand different causes,” said Julião, tranquilly breaking off a piece of toast; “sometimes a draught is the cause, sometimes anxiety. I have at present in my practice a curious example,—an individual, one Alves, who was at death’s door as the result of a couple of months of constant anxiety. Two weeks ago, through a caprice of Fortune,—for that lady is, as we know, capricious,—he was able to settle his affairs, and free himself from his embarrassments. Well, ever since he has had a fever of this kind, insidious, perplexing, with contradictory symptoms. What is the cause of it? That the nervous excitement debilitates, and the sudden joy inflames the blood. A general wasting away of the system follows,until at last the implacable creditor presents himself, and—per omnia saccula.”
He rose and lighted a cigar.
“In any case let her have absolute repose,” he continued, “as if her senses were wrapped up in cotton-wool. No noise, no conversation; and if she is thirsty, lemonade. Good-by.” And he went away drawing on the black gloves which he had worn ever since he had become a member of the medical fraternity.
Jorge returned to the bedroom. Luiza was still dozing. Marianna, seated in a low chair beside the bed, an expression of sorrow on her countenance, did not remove her eyes, in which there was a vague terror, from her mistress.
“She has been very quiet,” she whispered.
Jorge touched the burning hand of Luiza, and drew the bedclothes around her; then he pressed his lips to her hair, and went softly and closed the window-blinds. Walking up and down in his study a short time afterwards, Julião’s words recurred to him. “These fevers are sometimes caused by an annoyance.” He thought of the case of the merchant, and recalled Luiza’s inexplicable state of depression and weakness which had lately caused him so much anxiety. Bah, nonsense! Anxiety? what source of anxiety could she have? She had been so happy while they were at Sebastião’s that Juliana’s death could not be the cause. Besides, he had but little faith in fevers caused by anxiety. Julião’s knowledge of medicine was mostly theoretical, and it occurred to him that perhaps it would be well to call in old Dr. Caminha. As he put hishand into his pocket it came in contact with a letter,—the one given him by the postman for Luiza. He examined it again with curiosity; the envelope was an ordinary one, such as is to be found in cafés and restaurants; the handwriting, which was that of a man, was not familiar to him. It bore a French postmark. He felt an impulse to open it, but he restrained himself, and throwing it on the table, began to roll a cigarette. He returned to the bedroom. Luiza continued to doze: the sleeve of her nightgown had fallen back, and disclosed to view her beautifully modelled arm; her face was brilliantly flushed; her long lashes rested motionless on her cheek; an escaping curl fell over her forehead; and with her feverishly bright color she seemed to Jorge more beautiful than ever. The thought came to his mind, he knew not why, that others might find her equally beautiful, and that they might even tell her so if she gave them the opportunity. Why should she receive a letter from France? He returned to his study; the letter lying there before him on the table irritated him; he tried to read, but after a few moments threw away the book impatiently. He began to walk up and down the room, nervously twisting the lining of his pockets between his fingers. He took up the letter and tried to read its contents through the semi-transparent envelope, and unconsciously his fingers began to tear one of its corners. This was dishonorable, he felt. But curiosity, which was strong within him, suggested, with persuasive voice, many and various reasons for opening it. She was sick, and it might besomething urgent, perhaps a legacy. Besides, she had no secrets from him, and least of all in France. His scruples were puerile. He could tell her he had opened it by mistake. And if the letter should contain the secret of the anxiety of Julião’s theory, then it was his duty to open it in order that she might be the sooner restored to health. Without his own volition he found the letter open in his hand. He devoured it at a glance, but he failed to master its contents at once. The letters danced before his eyes. Approaching the window he read slowly:—
MY DEAR LUIZA,—It would take too long to explain to you how and why I found myself the day before yesterday in Nice, on my way to Paris, which I reached this morning, and where I received your letter. Judging by the number of stamps upon it, it must have travelled all over Europe in search of me. As it is now nearly two months and a half since you wrote it, I suppose that you will have already settled with that woman, and do not need the money; but if this should not be the case, send me a telegram and you shall receive it two days afterwards. I see by your letter that you do not believe that my departure was caused by business, and in this you do me an injustice. My departure ought not to have deprived you of your illusions regarding love, as you say it did, for in truth I did not know how much I loved you until I had left Lisbon; and not a day passes that I do not think of our meetings. What happy mornings! Do you ever pass the house now? Do you remember our lunch? I have time to say no more. Perhaps I shall soon return to Lisbon, when I hope once more to see you, for without you Lisbon would be a desert to me. Receive an ardent kiss from yourBAZILIO.
MY DEAR LUIZA,—It would take too long to explain to you how and why I found myself the day before yesterday in Nice, on my way to Paris, which I reached this morning, and where I received your letter. Judging by the number of stamps upon it, it must have travelled all over Europe in search of me. As it is now nearly two months and a half since you wrote it, I suppose that you will have already settled with that woman, and do not need the money; but if this should not be the case, send me a telegram and you shall receive it two days afterwards. I see by your letter that you do not believe that my departure was caused by business, and in this you do me an injustice. My departure ought not to have deprived you of your illusions regarding love, as you say it did, for in truth I did not know how much I loved you until I had left Lisbon; and not a day passes that I do not think of our meetings. What happy mornings! Do you ever pass the house now? Do you remember our lunch? I have time to say no more. Perhaps I shall soon return to Lisbon, when I hope once more to see you, for without you Lisbon would be a desert to me. Receive an ardent kiss from your
BAZILIO.
Jorge slowly folded the letter, threw it upon the table, and said aloud,—
“Excellent!”
He mechanically filled his pipe with tobacco, took a few turns up and down the floor with wandering gaze and quivering lip, threw his pipe suddenly across the room, breaking a pane of glass in the window, shook his clenched fist violently in the air, buried his face in his arms upon the table, moving his head from side to side and biting his sleeves with rage, and burst into a passion of sobs, stamping his feet like a madman upon the floor. Then he rose abruptly, took up the letter, and was about to go with it into Luiza’s room; but he was restrained by the recollection of Julião’s words: “Keep her quiet; no conversation, nothing to excite her.” He locked the letter in a drawer and put the key in his pocket. Standing thus, his nerves quivering, his eyes bloodshot, thoughts flashed through his brain like flashes of lightning through the tempest—of killing her, of abandoning her, of blowing his brains out!
Marianna knocked lightly at the study door, and told him the senhora was calling for him. The blood rushed to his head, he looked stupidly at Marianna, his eyelids nervously twitching, as he answered hoarsely,—
“I will go directly.”
On passing by the oval looking-glass in the parlor he was surprised to see that he seemed to have grown suddenly aged. Entering the bedroom, he passed a wet towel over his face, smoothed his hair, and went to the alcove. When his glance fell on Luiza, her large eyes dilated byfever, he was obliged to catch hold of the rail of the bed to overcome the sensation he felt that the walls were oscillating around him like a vessel with the motion of the sea. He looked at her with a smile, however. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Badly,” she murmured faintly, beckoning him to her side with a gesture full of weariness.
He sat down beside her without looking at her.
“What is the matter with you?” she said, approaching her face to his. “Don’t grieve,” she added, taking his hand and laying hers upon it on the bed.
Jorge pushed her hand away coldly and rose abruptly to his feet, with set teeth. He felt an impulse of brutal anger, and was about to leave the room, afraid of himself, afraid of committing a crime, when he heard her voice speaking to him in sorrowful accents,—
“What is this, Jorge? What is the matter with you?”
He turned round and saw her half sitting up in bed, her dilated eyes fixed upon him and anguish depicted on her face, down which two tears rolled silently. He fell on his knees beside the bed, caught her hands in his, and broke into sobs.
“What is this?” asked the voice of Julião at the door of the bedroom.
Jorge rose to his feet, very pale.
Julião led him into the parlor, and standing before him with folded arms and a terrible look upon his face,—
“Are you mad?” he said. “You are aware of her condition, and yet youyield to your feelings in this way before her?”
“I could not control myself.”
“You must. Am I trying to break up the fever only in order that you may augment it? Are you mad?”
Julião was really indignant. He took an interest in Luiza as his patient, and he wanted to cure her. He felt pleasure, too, in exercising the authority of a person whose presence was necessary in the house which heretofore he had always entered with a certain feeling of dependence. Nor did he forget, on leaving, to offer a cigarette, with apparent carelessness, to Jorge. During the remainder of the day Jorge gave proofs of heroism. He could not remain long at a time by Luiza’s bedside, for his soul was torn by conflicting emotions; but he went there continually; he smiled at her, he drew the bedclothes around her with trembling hand. When she dozed, however, he remained looking at her with a curiosity at once painful and ignoble, as if he wished to surprise in her countenance traces of another’s kisses, or hoped that the fever would draw some name or fact from her unguarded lips. He loved her more since he had known that she was unfaithful to him, but with a perverted love. Then he would shut himself up in his study and pace restlessly up and down like a wild beast in its cage. He re-read the letter an infinite number of times, and the same vile and corroding desire for details continued to torture him. He re-read the letters he had received from her in Alemtejo, trying to discover in their wordsthe symptoms of her coldness, the time of her faithlessness. Then he felt a ferocious hatred towards her. Thoughts of murder passed through his mind,—of strangling her, of giving her chloroform or laudanum. Then he would sit leaning back in his chair motionless, and with turbid gaze, recalling the past, the day of their marriage, certain walks they had taken together, the words he had said to her. At times the thought occurred to him that the letter might be a forgery. Some enemy might have written it and sent it to France. Perhaps Bazilio had known some other “Luiza” in Lisbon, and in directing the letter had written the name of his cousin by mistake. The momentary joy these fancies gave him only made the reality more cruel. But how did it happen? If he only knew the truth he would be more tranquil. He would tear this love from his heart as if it were some foul parasite; as soon as she was well he would take her to a convent, and he himself would go far away to end his days—to Africa or elsewhere. But—who knew the truth? Juliana! She knew it, without a doubt. All those favors to Juliana, the new room, the furniture, the clothes, all were now explained. She had been paying her for her complicity in her crime! She had been her confidante, had carried the letters, had known everything! And the accursed wretch was lying in her grave dead, unable to speak!
Sebastião came in the evening, as was his custom. The lamps were not yet lighted, and Jorge, lighting a candle, called him into his study, and taking the letter from the drawer, said, “Read that!”
Sebastião was struck with astonishment when he saw Jorge’s face by the light. He looked at the letter Jorge handed him, and trembled; and when he saw the signature the cold sweat of agony covered his brow. It seemed to him that the ground swayed beneath him, and that he swayed with it. But he controlled himself, read the letter, and placed it upon the table in silence.
“Sebastião,” said Jorge, “this is my death-blow. Do you know anything of this, Sebastião? You came here, you must know. Tell me the truth!”
Sebastião extended his arms. “What would you have me tell you?” he said. “I know nothing.”
Jorge caught his hands in his, shook them with violence, and looking at him entreatingly,—
“Sebastião,” he said, “for the sake of our friendship, by the soul of your mother, by all the years we have passed together—tell me the truth, Sebastião!”
“I know nothing,” he repeated. “What should I know?”
“You lie!”
“They may hear you!” murmured Sebastião.
There was a pause. Jorge pressed his temples between his hands, strode up and down the study, making the floor tremble with his steps, then suddenly stopping before Sebastião in an attitude of supplication,—
“Tell me, at least, what she did. Did she go out? Did any one come to see her?”
Sebastião responded, with his gaze fixed upon the light,—
“Sometimes, in the beginning, her cousin came to see her, and whenDonna Felicidade was sick she went to see her. Her cousin went away afterwards. I know nothing more.”
Jorge looked at Sebastião fixedly for a moment.
“But what did I ever do to her, Sebastião,—I who adored her? What did I ever do to her that she should treat me thus,—I who adored her?”
He broke into bitter weeping. Sebastião remained standing by the table, overwhelmed.
“It was a passing folly!” he murmured.
“And those allusions,” cried Jorge, turning around with sudden rage and shaking the paper violently,—“those meetings, those happy mornings spent together. She is a vile wretch!”
“She is sick, Jorge,” Sebastião said timidly.
Jorge did not answer. He walked up and down the room in silence for some time, while Sebastião gazed intently at the flame of the candle. Jorge put the letter back into the drawer, and taking the candlestick in his hand, said in accents of resigned and melancholy lassitude,—
“Let us go and take tea, Sebastião.”
They did not again allude to the letter.
That night Jorge slept profoundly, and on the following morning he rose with a countenance impassible, and of a ghastly serenity.
After an uncertain course of three days the disease defined itself; it was intermittent fever. She lost flesh rapidly, but Julião continued tranquil. Jorge passed the days at her bedside. Donna Felicidade came to see her almost every morning, seated herself at the foot of the bed, and remained there silent, an aged look upon her face. Thehopes she had placed on the woman of Tuy, so suddenly dashed to the ground, had thrown her existence off its balance, like an edifice from beneath which part of the foundation has been suddenly removed; she was falling into decay, and gave signs of animation only when, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, she saw the counsellor entering to inquire after “our beautiful invalid.” Keeping his hat in his hand, and refraining, through modesty, from entering the alcove, he would utter some profound observation, such as: “Health is a blessing which we fully appreciate only when we have lost it;” or, “Sickness is the test of friendship.” And he would end thus: “Soon, dear Jorge, the carmine of health will again color the cheeks of your virtuous spouse.”
At night Jorge slept on a mattress on the floor, but he closed his eyes for only an hour or two at the most. During the rest of the night he tried to read, but he never got beyond the first few lines; the book lay beside him, and with his head between his hands, his thoughts reverted continually to the same question: How had it happened? He put together in logical sequence certain facts. He saw Bazilio arrive in Lisbon, visit Luiza, fall in love with her, send her flowers, follow her, take every opportunity of seeing her, write to her—and then? He comprehended that the money was for Juliana. Did she demand it? Had she surprised them? Had she letters of theirs in her possession? In this painful reconstruction of details there were gaps, like dark gulfs, in which his tortured soul was submerged. He recalled the days since hisreturn from Alemtejo, her tenderness, her caresses. Why did she seek to deceive him?
One night he searched her drawers, taking the precautions of a thief to avoid detection while he did so; he looked in her pockets, in the boxes in which she kept her collars and her laces; he went to the very bottom of her sandal-wood trunk,—nothing, not even a withered flower! At other times he moved the articles of furniture in the bedroom and the parlor from their places, as if they could reveal the details of her perfidy to him. Where had they sat? Did he kneel at her feet here on the carpet? Above all, the view of the sofa irritated him. At last he came to hate it. He began also to hate the house, as if the roof that had sheltered them and the floor that had supported their weight had been conscious accomplices in their crime. But what most tortured him was the words, “our meetings,” “those happy mornings.”
Meantime Luiza slept tranquilly. By the end of the week the fever had disappeared, but she was very weak; on the day she rose for the first time she fainted twice; she required help for several days to dress herself, and then to reach the lounge, and she insisted, with the capriciousness of a child, on Jorge remaining at her side. It seemed as if she absorbed life at his eyes and health from his touch. She made him read the paper in the morning, and do his writing, seated beside her. He submitted to all her exactions, and these acts of tyranny were like caresses to a wound, for he loved her tenderly. Unconsciously he would feel sudden thrills of happiness. He surprised himself sayingtender words to her, laughing with her, oblivious of what had taken place. Reclining on the lounge, Luiza, tranquil and happy, looked over old volumes of the “Illustração franceza,” which the counsellor had sent her, and in which, as he said, she might acquire useful information concerning historical events, at the same time that she enjoyed the engravings. Or she tasted silently, her head resting on the cushions, the happiness of returning health, of seeing herself free from the tyranny of that woman and the bitterness of the past. One of her pleasures was to see Marianna enter with her breakfast on a tray; her appetite was returning, and she sipped with delight the glass of Port wine prescribed for her by Julião. If Jorge were not there she would enter, with a sense of contentment, into long chats with Marianna while she ate her jelly. At other times she would silently form plans, her eyes fixed on the ceiling; she would go for a few weeks to the country to re-establish her health and on her return she would set to work to embroider strips of cashmere to cover anew the parlor furniture; for she wanted to occupy herself with household matters, and to live quietly. Jorge would not go back to Alemtejo, he would not leave Lisbon again. Thus life would for the future be easy and sweet.
At times she thought Jorge preoccupied. What was the matter with him? He gave her as an excuse for his evident dejection fatigue and sleepless nights. She told him if he were to fall sick it must be when she was strong and able to nurse him; but he was not going to fall sick, was he? She made him sit down beside her; she passed herhand through his hair, gazing at him tenderly, for with returning strength her pleasure in the sweetness of life returned. Jorge was conscious that he still loved her, and this consciousness augmented his unhappiness.
When alone she formed yet other resolutions. She would see Leopoldina no more; she would attend church regularly; her sickness had given rise within her to a vague feeling of sentimental devotion. When she had the fever she fancied herself at times in some dreadful place, in which, from amidst red flames forms rose, twisting their arms,—black forms that whirled round and round, while groans of agony ascended up to heaven; already the tongues of fire had begun to lick her breast, when suddenly she felt the cool touch of something ineffably sweet; it was the pinions of a luminous angel who caught her in his arms, and she felt herself mounting up, her head resting on the celestial bosom, inundated with a supernatural felicity, and she saw the stars close beside her, and she heard the noise of wings. This left upon her mind a melancholy impression of heaven. She aspired to heaven, and she hoped to gain it by devout attendance at Mass, and by prayers to the Virgin.
One morning she entered the parlor, and for the first time opened the piano. Jorge was standing at the window looking out into the street; she called to him with a smile.
“I have taken a dislike to that sofa,” she said. “We might have it taken away from there, don’t you think so?”
Jorge felt as if a dagger had been thrust into his heart, but he controlled himself, and said,—
“I think so.”
“I should like to have it taken away,” she repeated, as she left the parlor, sweeping the floor with the long train of her morning-gown.
Jorge began to experience a feeling of sombre resignation. When he heard her gayly making plans for the future, and speaking with so contented an air of the happiness in store for her, he almost resolved to destroy the letter and forget everything. There was no doubt but that she had repented of her sin, and she loved him. Why, in cold blood, prepare a life of perpetual unhappiness for them both? But at other times a wave of brutal rage swept over his soul, and he left the room that he might not be tempted to strangle her.
In order to account for his silence and moroseness he began to complain of his health, to say he did not feel well, and her solicitude and the mute questioning of her eyes made him still more unhappy, for he felt that he was loved while he knew he had been betrayed. At last one Sunday Julião gave Luiza permission to sit up a little later than usual, and to do the honors of the house for the evening. It was a happiness to every one to see her once more in the parlor,—a little thin and pale still, but, in the words of the counsellor, “restored to her domestic duties and to the enjoyments of society.” When Julião arrived, at about nine o’clock, he found her “as good as new,” he said. Then, standing in the middle of the parlor, he exclaimed, opening wide his arms,—
“What do you say to the news? Ernesto’s play has achieved a triumphant success.”
He had seen the news in the papers. The “Diario de Noticias” said: “The author was called before the curtain in the midst of the greatest enthusiasm, and received a beautiful laurel-crown.”
Luiza expressed a desire to see the piece.
“Later on, Donna Luiza, later on,” said the counsellor. “It is prudent to avoid every strong emotion for the present. You would not fail to shed tears. I know the goodness of your heart, and that might cause a relapse. Am I not right, friend Julião?”
“Certainly, Counsellor, certainly. I, too, would like to see it, and convince myself with my own eyes—”
The noise of a carriage stopping suddenly at the door cut him short. A moment afterwards the bell rang vigorously.
“I’ll wager it is the author,” said Julião.
Almost at the same moment Ernesto, in evening dress, precipitated himself into the room, his face radiant with happiness; they all arose and embraced him effusively. “A thousand congratulations,—a thousand congratulations!” they cried. And the counsellor, his voice dominating the voices of the others, exclaimed, “Welcome to the illustrious author; welcome!”
Ernesto was suffocating with happiness; he smiled in silence; his nostrils dilated as if to breathe in incense, his bosom swelling with pride; he nodded his head unceasingly, as if mechanically acknowledging the acclamations of the multitude.
“Here I am! here I am!” he said at last.
He sat down out of breath, and with an air of friendly fellowship said that the final rehearsals had left him no time to come and see Cousin Luiza. To-night he had been able to steal away for a moment, but he was obliged to be back at the theatre by ten o’clock; he had not yet supped. He recounted his triumph, to its minutest details. At first he had had severe pains in the stomach,—every one had them, even those most accustomed to write for the stage, the most illustrious authors. But no sooner had Campos recited the monologue in the first act (and one must hear him to know how he recited—it was sublime) than the ice was broken. The audience was pleased throughout, but at the end it was something stupendous; calls for the author, thunders of applause; he came before the curtain reluctantly, but—Jesuina on the one hand and Maria Adelaide on the other—it was a frenzy. Savedra, of the “Seculo,” had said to him, “You are our Shakspeare;” Bastos, of the “Verdade,” had added, “You are our Scribe.” There was a supper afterwards, and they had presented him with a wreath.
“And does it fit you?” asked Julião.
“Yes—a little too large.”
The counsellor said with authority,—
“Great authors—the illustrious Tasso, our own Camoens—are represented in their portraits wearing wreaths.”
“Take my advice, Senhor Ledesma,” said Julião, rising, and clapping him on the shoulder, “and have your likeness taken with your wreath on.”
They all laughed, and Ernesto, somewhat annoyed, said, unfolding his perfumed handkerchief,—
“Senhor Zuzarte will have his jest.”
“That is the penalty of fame, my friend. The victorious generals of ancient Borne kept by their side a slave whose business it was to remind them that they were but mortal.”
“I think,” said Luiza, smiling, “that this is an honor for the family.”
Jorge was of the same opinion. He was walking up and down the room, smoking, and he paused to say that he had as much pleasure in the wreath as if it were he himself who was to wear it.
Ernesto turned towards him,—
“Do you know that I pardoned her at last, Cousin Jorge?” he said. “I pardoned the unfaithful wife.”
“Like Christ,” responded Jorge.
“Like Christ,” assented Ernesto, with satisfaction. Donna Felicidade approved of this.
“You did very well; it is more moral,” she said.
“It was Jorge who wanted me to kill her,” said Ernesto, with a fatuous laugh. “Do you remember that night?”
“Yes, yes,” returned Jorge, laughing nervously.
“Our dear Jorge,” said the counsellor gravely, “could not persist in such extreme opinions; and doubtless reflection, and a wider experience of life—”
“Let us change the subject, Counsellor,” interrupted Jorge. And he went into his study abruptly.
Sebastião followed, filled with anxiety. The room was in darkness.
“Will those idiots never be silent? Will they never go away?” Jorgesaid hoarsely, catching Sebastião by the arm.
“Compose yourself.”
“Oh, Sebastião! Sebastião!” he cried, in a voice that had the sound of tears in it.
Luiza called to them from the parlor,—
“What are you plotting together there in the dark?”
Sebastião returned to the parlor, saying,—
“Nothing; we remained inside a moment.” And he added, in a lower voice, “Jorge is tired, and not very well.”
They noticed, when Jorge re-entered the room, that he looked very tired.
“In fact, I do not feel well,” he said. “I am a little out of sorts.”
“And the delicate Donna Luiza needs the repose of her couch,” said the counsellor, rising.
Ernesto, who could remain no longer, placed his carriage—a modest coach—at the disposal of Julião and the counsellor, if they were going towards the city.
While Donna Felicidade was putting on her wraps, the three men went downstairs together. Half-way down Julião stood still, and folding his arms, said,—
“Here I am, between the representatives of the two great movements of our time in Portugal,—Literature,” bowing to Ernesto, “and Constitutionalism,” paying the same tribute of respect to the counsellor.
They both smiled with pleasure at the compliment, saying together,—
“And our friend Zuzarte?”
“I?” he said. And lowering his voice he added. “A few days ago I was a terrible revolutionist; now—”
“Well?”
“I am a friend of order,” he exclaimed gayly.
And they went down the stairs, satisfied with themselves and with their country, to take seats in the carriage of the successful author.