Luiza went, in fact, shortly afterwards to see Donna Felicidade. A simple sprain was all that was the matter with her; but lying in bed, in the Senhora Silveira’s room, with compresses of arnica on her foot, she thought with terror that she was going to lose her leg; and she spent the day, surrounded by friends, crying, eating Recolhimento peaches, and nibbling azaroles. No sooner did any new visitor arrive than she redoubled her exclamations and her complaints; then followed a minute, circumstantial, and prolix history of the misfortune. Then, when she saw the excitement was beginning to die away, she would raise herself on her elbow to exclaim,—
“Ah, our Lady of Health! this was a miracle; I might have died.”
All the ladies agreed that it was indeed a miracle; they were full of sympathy for her, and went in turn to kneel before the saints to ask their intercession for the alleviation of Senhora Noronha’s suffering.
Luiza’s first visit was a great consolation for Donna Felicidade, who complained greatly of being obliged to remain in bed without hearing of or being able to speak of him. On the succeeding days, as soon as Luiza entered the room, she would call her to her bedside to ask her in low and mysterious accents,—
“Have you seen him? Have you heard from him?”
Her chief trouble was that the counsellor did not know she was ill, and that consequently he could not dedicate to her those compassionate thoughts to which her foot had a right, and which would be a consolation to her heart. But Luiza had not seen him, and Donna Felicidade, throwing herself back in the bed, exhaled bitter sighs.
On two or three occasions Luiza, returning home, had come face to face with Juliana, returning also in great haste by the Moinho de Vento.
“Where do you come from?” she had asked her, on reaching the house.
“From the doctor’s, Senhora,—from the doctor’s.”
She complained of sharp pains, of palpitations, of a want of breath.