“I was writing, and I had an attack of faintness.”
“Ah, I am the one for fainting,” said Donna Felicidade. “It is a real misfortune. The moment least expected I am obliged to catch hold of the furniture to keep from falling; and I am even afraid to go out alone. It all comes from biliousness.”
“Let us go to my room,” said Luiza; “we shall be more comfortable there.”
They traversed the parlor. Juliana was beginning to put it in order. Luiza, in passing, noticed some ashes on the marble of the console, under the oval mirror; it had been left there the night before by his cigar. She wiped it away, and on raising her eyes was frightened to see how pale she was.
The seamstress, dressed in black, with a bright red hat, was waiting, seated on the edge of the sofa, with her disconsolate air, and her bundle resting on her knees. She had come to try on the waist of a gown she was making over. She sat down and basted it, with an expression of sorrowful humility, and a little dry cough; and scarcely had she gone, gliding out like a shadow, when Donna Felicidade began to speak of him,—of the counsellor. She had seen him at the Moinho de Vento. Well, he had not spoken to her. He bowed to her very coldly, markedly so, indeed, and left her so suddenly that one might suppose he was running away from her. She asked Luiza what she thought of that. Ah, this indifference was killing her. And she could not understand it,—no, truly, she could not understand it.
“In short,” she exclaimed, “I know very well what I am. I am no beauty, but neither am I, on the other hand, a scarecrow,—is it not so?”
“It is, indeed,” assented Luiza, absently, her thoughts fixed on the letter.
“Look at me, as I sit here, with my forty years [by her own account, in reality fifty]. I am still worth something. As for my neck and shoulders, they are as good as any one’s.”
Luiza was about to rise, but Donna Felicidade repeated,—
“Yes, as good as any one’s! How many there are who would like to own them!”