“No, no!” she murmured, resisting. Then, with determination, “I want to get out!” she cried.
She endeavored to open one of the windows, shaking the glass, and bruising her fingers against the hard and dirty strap.
Bazilio begged her to forgive him. What folly! To get angry for a kiss! She was so beautiful! he said; her beauty had turned his head; but he swore he would be more rational in future.
The carriage jolted on towards the suburbs of the city; on either side stretched, motionless in the sunlight, rows of olive-trees of a dusty green; the rays of the sun beat down fiercely on the burnt grass.
Bazilio had opened one of the windows, and the curtain fluttered softly in the breeze. He began to talk to Luiza of himself, of his love for her, of his plans. He had resolved to establish himself in Lisbon, he said. He did not want to marry. He loved her, and his sole desire was to pass his life at her feet. He said he was weary of existence; that all his illusions were destroyed. What could life offer to him now? He had experienced the sensations produced by ephemeral passions, by adventures, by travel; he already felt himself old.
“Not so very old,” said Luiza, with humid eyes.
Ah, yes, he was old! he repeated. All he desired now was to live for her, to repose in the sweetness of familiar intercourse with her; she was all the family he had. He spoke of himself as her relative. He said family ties were the best thing the world had to bestow.
“May I smoke?” he interrupted himself to say, lighting a cigar. “The best thing life can give,” he resumed, “is a profound affection like ours; is it not so? I shall be contented with little,—to see you every day, to converse with you, to possess the certainty of your affection. ‘Eh, Pinteos,’ he called through the door of the carriage, ‘drive out into the country!’”
The driver obeyed. Bazilio raised the curtain, and a fresher atmosphere penetrated into the carriage. The sun shed a brilliant light on the trees, through whose leaves it filtered, casting their glowing shadows on the ground.
“I shall dispose of everything I possess abroad,” continued Bazilio, “and settle down in Lisbon, in a little house in the neighborhood of Buenos Ayres, perhaps. Tell me, would that please you?”