The door opened discreetly, and Juliana said from the threshold,—
“The seamstress is here, Senhora.” Luiza, startled, hid the letter with her hand.
“Let her wait,” she answered.
And she continued writing, when Juliana had gone:
“What a pity it was the letter and not you yourself that came! I am astonished at myself,—to see how, in so short a time, you have taken possession of my heart. But the truth is that I never ceased to love you. Do not judge lightly of me for this; do not think ill of me because I desire your affection. I never ceased to love you, and on seeing you again after that stupid journey to a place so far away, I could not conquer the feeling that impelled me towards you, my adored Bazilio. When that hateful servant came to tell me that you had come to say farewell, I was as if paralyzed; but when I learned that this was not the truth, I cannot tell you how I adored you! If you had asked my life, I would have given it to you, for I love you so much that I myself am amazed at it. But why that piece of deception? Why did you come? I wished to bid you farewell forever, but I could not, adored Bazilio. This feeling is stronger than I am. I always loved you, and now that I am yours, heart and soul, it seems to me that I love you more than ever, if that were possible—”
“Where is she? where is she?” cried a voice in the parlor.
Luiza sprang up from her seat, livid. “It is Jorge!” she thought. She crushed the letter convulsively in her hand, and tried to hide it in her pocket, but there was none in her morning-gown. Without stopping to think, and half distracted, she threw it into the sarcophagus. She remained standing, waiting in suspense, her hands resting on the table.
The portière was raised, and disclosed the blue velvet hat of Donna Felicidade.
“Shut up here? What were you doing? But what is the matter? You are as white as chalk.”
Luiza dropped into the arm-chair, pale and cold, and answered with a languid smile,—