“Canaille!” replied Sebastião. And he took his leave.
Luiza followed him with her eyes, and when the door had closed behind him, said to herself,—
“What an outrage! This could happen to no one but me!”
In reality, the interference of Sebastião irritated her as much as the gossip of the neighbors. Her manner of life, her visitors, her domestic arrangements, were discussed, noted, by Sebastião, by Julião, by tutti quanti. At twenty-five she had a mentor. It was amusing! And why, good heavens! Because her cousin and only remaining relative came to see her!
But she paused abruptly. The glances of Bazilio, his ardent words, his kisses, the drive to Lumiar, all came back to her memory. She blushed before herself, but her anger still continued to protest. It was true she felt some tenderness for him, but it was a feeling for which she had no cause to blush,—pure, ideal, platonic,—for never should it be any other. She might feel in the depths of her heart a weakness for him, but she would be always, always a virtuous woman, faithful to her husband. This sense of self-security produced in her a feeling of irritation towards the gossips of the neighborhood. Why should they, only because they saw Bazilio enter her house four or five times at two o’clock in the afternoon, begin to gossip about her, and tear her character to pieces? Sebastião was a ridiculous fellow, with all the timorousness of a hermit. What an idea was his to call Julião into consultation! Julião!—he it was who had instigated him by his bourgeois fears to trouble and annoy her. And why? Through envy, because Bazilio was good-looking, elegant, and rich.
The good qualities of Bazilio presented themselves to her imagination as splendid and as numerous as the attributes of a deity. And he adored her, and desired to be always near her! The love of this man, who had tasted of so many pleasures and scorned the affection of so many women, seemed to her the glorious confirmation of her beauty and her irresistible charms. The very pleasure she felt in his adoration of her made her fear to lose it. She feared to see it diminish; she desired to see it rather always increasing, floating around her like a cloud of incense. Could she bear to part from Bazilio? But, on the other hand, if her friends or the neighbors made her the subject of gossip or remark, Jorge might come to know of it. This thought struck a chill to her heart. After all, Sebastião was evidently right. In a small neighborhood, consisting of a dozen houses or so, this handsome and elegant young man visited her every day in the absence of her husband. The matter looked serious. What ought she to do? The bell rang loudly, and a moment later Leopoldina entered. She was furious with the coachman, who had wanted to make her pay double fare because he had been detained on the way. The scoundrel! And how warm it was! She took off her hat and gloves and held up her hands, moving them gently that the blood might flow from them and thus leave them whiter. She arranged her curls before the looking-glass, her cheeks glowing, her perfectly-fitted figure displayed to advantage.
“What is the matter, child?” she said to Luiza. “You look angry; your face is flushed.”
“Nothing,” answered Luiza; “annoyances with the servants.”
“They are insupportable.”
And Leopoldina recounted the exactions of Justina, her carelessness. But she thought herself very fortunate to be able to keep her, since one has need of that class of people. She shrugged her shoulders and sighed. Then, powdering her face, she added slowly,—