She came to the determination, at last, to refuse to see Bazilio again; she would write, entreating him to go away, and not to seek to see her again. She repeated to herself the words she would make use of,—serious, cold, dry. She would not address him as “My dear Cousin Bazilio,” but simply, “Cousin Bazilio.” What would he say when he received her letter? Doubtless he would shed tears, poor boy! She pictured him to herself, alone in his room at the hotel, pale and unhappy; and then, carried away by her feelings, she recalled the emotion revealed in his subjugating glance, the persuasive sound of his voice, and her memory lingered over these recollections with a sensation of pleasure, like that produced by the contact of the hand with the soft plumage of some rare bird. She shook her head with impatience, as if these thoughts were the stings of importunate insects. She wanted to think only of Jorge; but other thoughts assailed her, and she said to herself that she was very unhappy. She desired, without knowing why, to be with Jorge, to ask counsel of Leopoldina, to fly far away, wherever chance might lead her. Alas! how unfortunate she was! From the depths of her indolent nature arose an undefined anger against Jorge, against Bazilio, against feeling, against duty, against every one and everything that caused her thus to suffer and distress herself. Good Heavens! why could they not leave her in peace?
After dinner she seated herself again at the window, to read anew Jorge’s letter, recalling, as she did so, the beauties of his mind and person. She found arguments, some based on her happiness, others sentimental, for loving and esteeming him. All this had happened because he was absent. If he had only been at her side! But he was so far away from her, and he had been away so long! Notwithstanding all these reflections, the fact of his absence gave her a sensation of liberty; the thought of being able to do as she wished filled her heart at times with an intense happiness, as if she were intoxicated by a sudden breath of freedom. But of what use was it to her to be free and alone? All that she might do, feel, possess, appeared before her in distant perspective, then vanished suddenly. It was like a door opened and shut quickly, giving her a glimpse, as by a lightning-flash, of something marvellous and undefined, that moved and fascinated her. Oh, she must be mad!
Night fell. She went out to the balcony and opened the window. The night was warm and dark, and the atmosphere, charged with electricity, announced a coming storm. Luiza drew her breath with difficulty, as she sat gazing at the horizon, forming plans and cherishing desires, without knowing clearly what they were. The young man at the baker’s shop was playing the “Fado;” its sounds, softened by distance, filled her soul with a sweetness resembling that of a warm breeze, and a melancholy like that of a sigh. She leaned her weary head upon her hand. A thousand thoughts rushed through her mind, like tongues of flame running over the paper they consume. She thought of her mother, of the new hat Madame François had sent her, of the kind of weather it was now in Cintra, of long summer evenings passed under the shade of the trees.
She closed the window and remained sitting in her room motionless, thinking of Jorge, resolving to write to him and ask him to come home. But these remorseful feelings disappeared, little by little, like a veil torn down the middle, behind which appeared with luminous intensity the image of her cousin Bazilio. His travels had improved his appearance; the pangs of absence had silvered his hair. He had suffered so much on her account, he had said. And after all, what harm was there in it? He had sworn that his love should be a pure one, locked up forever in the inmost recesses of his breast. Why should she not see him again,—the poor fellow who had come from Paris only to be near her for a week or a fortnight, at least so he had told her? Was it indeed necessary that she should say to him, “Go away, and come back no more”?
“When does the senhora want her tea?” asked Juliana, opening the door.
Luiza exhaled a profound sigh, and saying she would not take tea, told Juliana to prepare the night-lamp.
Ten o’clock struck. Juliana, according to her custom, was taking her tea in the kitchen. The fire was going out, and the copper saucepans gleamed in the light of the kerosene lamp.
“To-day there is certainly something the matter with her, Joanna,” said Juliana, seating herself; “she is angry; she sighs. There is something serious.”
The eyes of Joanna, who sat at the opposite side of the table, her arms resting upon it, her face in her hands, were closing with sleep.
“You are always disposed to see evil in everything,” she said.