“Will you come?” he said abruptly, taking both her hands in his.
She turned red.
“Perhaps. We shall see on Sunday.”
Their eyes met. Luiza grew confused, and went to open the windows in order to let in the light, and thus take away from their interview its air of intimacy. Then she sat down on a chair beside the piano, afraid of the obscurity, afraid of herself, and asked Bazilio to sing something; for she feared equally to speak or to be silent.
Bazilio sang the sensual and touching music of the “Medjé” of Gounod. Those ardent notes affected her like the atmosphere of a night charged with electricity. When Bazilio left her she remained seated, motionless, bending forward, exhausted, languid, as after a fever.
Sebastião spent the three following days in Almada, at the villa of Rosegal, to which business had called him. On the morning after his return he was seated, at about ten o’clock, at the door of his dining-room, which opened into the garden, waiting for his breakfast, and caressing his cat Rolim, the friend and confidant of the illustrious Vicencia, enveloped in fur like a bishop, and ungrateful as a despot. The morning wore on, and the sun fell full upon the little garden. The water of the fountain flowed in wavering ripples, reflecting the leaves of the grape-vine. Within their cages two canaries were singing with all the power of their little throats. Aunt Joanna, who had just placed the breakfast, smoking hot, upon the table, approached him, and said in her husky voice,—
“Gertrudes was here yesterday, and she spoke in such a way! And what nonsense she talked!”
“And what about, Aunt Joanna?” asked Sebastião.
“About a young man who, according to her, goes to see Luiza every day.”
Sebastião rose as if moved by a spring.