“Something diabolical,” answered Sebastião, in a low voice.
They stopped in front of a confectioner’s shop. In the glass case behind them was an exhibition of works of art in sugar; on a shelf below, arranged according to their sizes, were some bottles of Malmsey, with their parti-colored labels; here and there were rosy and transparent jellies, bonbons of egg, the very sight of which gave one nausea; in puff-paste moulds floated stale and discolored creams; masses of marmalade were melting in the heat; and on the counter some pies displayed their dried-up crusts. In the midst of them, on a showy pedestal, was coiled a horrible snake of almond paste, displaying a yellow belly that it made one’s stomach sick to look at; his back was covered with arabesques in sugar; his hideous mouth was open; the teeth, of almonds, held an orange between them; two chocolate eyes protruded from the head; and around this repugnant monster the flies buzzed incessantly.
“Let us go into a café,” said Julião. “In the street it rains fire.”
“I am very much disturbed,” began Sebastião.
In the café the faded blue of the paper and the air that entered through the half-open doors tempered the heat of the sun, and produced a still coolness. They seated themselves at the farther end of the apartment. The dazzling fronts of the houses, painted white, blinded the sight. Dirty newspapers lay scattered on the tables around. Behind the counter, covered with bottles, nodded a waiter, fast asleep. In another apartment a bird was singing. From behind a green screen came at intervals the sound of the billiard-balls; from time to time could be heard the voice of a huckster from the street; and then all these noises merged into the sound of carriage-wheels rolling past with accelerated speed. In front of them sat a dirty individual, with the face of a swindler, reading a newspaper. A few gray hairs were plastered over his bald yellow forehead; his gray mustache was sprinkled with the ashes of his cigar; nights spent in dissipation had given a reddish hue to his eyelids and a waxen tint to his shrunken skin. From time to time he lazily turned his head, spit through his eye-teeth, gave a mechanical shake to the newspaper, and then resumed his reading with an air of weariness. When the two friends entered the café and called for sherbets, he saluted them gravely with an inclination of the head.
“But at last what is the matter?” asked Julião when they were seated.
“It is something that concerns our friends,” responded Sebastião, drawing his chair nearer to Julião. “About the cousin—you understand?”
The vivid recollection of the humiliation he had suffered in Luiza’s parlor brought the blood to Julião’s face. But he was intensely proud, and only said, dryly,—
“Yes, I have seen him.”
“Well?”