Just then an organ in the street began to play the final aria of “Traviata;” night was falling, and the open ground in front began to take on a uniform grayish tint. The façades of the houses were disappearing in shadow. The notes of the “Traviata” brought to Luiza’s mind the “Dame aux Camelias;” they began to speak of the novel, and to interchange opinions concerning it.
“How deeply I was in love with Armand when I was a girl!” said Leopoldina.
“And I with Artagnan!” responded Luiza, ingenuously.
And they both laughed heartily.
“We began early. Early?” Leopoldina continued. “Every woman begins early. At thirteen we are already in love. We are all of us women, and have the same feelings.” And swaying her body to and fro, while she kept time with her foot, she sang to the air of a fado:—
“Love is like a fever
Whose seeds are in the air;
Open but the window,—
It sets the blood on fire.”
“In a word, it is the best thing life can give us. Everything else is a weariness. Is it not so? What do you say?” she added, rising, and clapping Luiza lightly on the shoulder.