Luiza turned crimson.
“Very well,” she answered; “but there is no need of all this mystery.”
She did not return to the room immediately, however. Presently she tore open the envelope. The letter was written in haste, and with a pencil.
When she had read the letter, which was from Bazilio, she rejoined Donna Felicidade, making an effort to appear composed.
“What is your opinion?” asked the latter, completely absorbed in her idea. “Do you think I ought to send this man to Tuy?”
Luiza shrugged her shoulders; she was seized with a sudden contempt for those plots and magic arts employed in the service of a decrepit love. Beside the poetical superiority of her own romantic intrigue there was to her something repugnant in this senile sentimentalism.
“Follies!” she said, with an accent of profound disdain.
“Oh, my dear, don’t say that to me!” responded Donna Felicidade, disconsolately.
“Very well, then; send him, send him,” said Luiza, impatiently.
“But those seven pieces of silver!” exclaimed Donna Felicidade, almost weeping.