“Of course; those fits of passion are killing her,” said the cook to herself, as she prepared the broth, pale as Juliana herself. “One must put up with one’s mistress,” she said aloud. “You should take nourishing food, and not allow yourself to get excited.”
Luiza, dressed in a white morning-gown, here opened the door and asked what was the cause of this noise.
“It is Juliana, who does not feel well.”
“A pain in the heart,” murmured Juliana, biting her pale lips with her yellow teeth. “If the senhora does not need me,” she added, rising with difficulty, “I will go to see the doctor.”
“Yes, do so,” returned Luiza, going downstairs again.
Juliana took her broth slowly, as if she had hardly strength enough to lift the spoon to her lips. Joanna consoled her in low tones. And then, the Senhora Juliana was too easily excited. When one’s health was poor, there was nothing worse than to allow one’s self to get excited.
“The thing is, that you do not know what all this may end in,” said Juliana, lowering her voice and lifting her eyebrows. “This cannot last; she is dressing herself now as if she were going out. She crumpled up a number of collars and threw them on the floor, saying that everything I iron is a disgrace to look at, and that I know how to do nothing. I say this is too much!”
“One must have patience. Every one has his cross to bear.”
Juliana gave a sickly smile, rose with a groan of pain, gathered up the soiled clothes, and went upstairs. A few moments afterwards she left the house, her hands covered with black gloves, her face of a yellow hue, and showing dark circles under the eyes. But on turning the corner of the street she paused in front of the tobacconist’s, as if undecided what to do. The walk to the doctor’s house was so long! Her knees were bending under her, but—to spend three tostões[6] in a carriage!
“Pst! pst!” some one called to her from the other side of the street.