And why should he do otherwise? In his dream they were far away, in a distant land, that might be Italy, there were so many statues in the plazas, so many musical fountains falling into marble basins. It was in an antique garden, in the midst of a classic landscape; rare flowers filled the Florentine vase that rested on the stone balustrade; the peacocks spread out their tails proudly, and she herself walked slowly up and down, the train of her blue velvet dress sweeping the mosaic pavement. It was a landscape, he said, resembling that of San Donato, the villa of Prince Demidoff. Bazilio took pleasure in recalling the names of his illustrious acquaintances, and never forgot to place in their proper light the glories of his travels.
“And you,—did you dream anything?”
Luiza smiled and blushed. No, she had been too much afraid of the storm to sleep. As she spoke, Bazilio noticed the faint circles under her eyes.
“Did you not hear the storm?” she asked.
“I was taking supper at the time in the Gremio.”
“Are you in the habit of taking supper?”
Her cousin smiled sadly. Supper? If a tough beefsteak and a bottle of Collares could be called supper, then—
“And all for you, ungrateful one!” he added.
“For me?”
“For whom else, then, if not for you? What brought me to Lisbon? Why did I leave Paris?”