“My dear Jorge, I shall go to-morrow to ask a cup of tea from your charming wife.” He almost always added, “Do our beautiful works progress?—Yes? I am delighted to hear it. If you should see the Minister, present my respects to him.” And he would then take his leave, threading with measured step the dirty passage-ways.
Five years ago Donna Felicidade had become enamoured of him. They bantered her occasionally, on account of this sentiment, at Jorge’s. Luiza thought it very amusing. They saw her fresh color, her rounded cheeks, and they did not suspect that this concentrated passion that burned in secrecy and silence in her bosom, fed anew from week to week, was destroying her bodily health like an illness, and demoralizing her nature like a vice. She had once been in love with an officer of the Lancers, whose likeness she still kept. Later, she conceived a sudden attachment for a young baker of the neighborhood, whom she had the pain of seeing marry before her very eyes. She then devoted herself entirely to a little dog, Bilró. A servant whom she had discharged revenged herself by giving the little animal black pudding to eat. Bilró had an attack of indigestion, of which he died; but he still reigned, stuffed with straw, in his mistress’s dining-room. Donna Felicidade, at fifty years, was still unmarried. One day the counsellor made his appearance, and kindled anew her dormant affections. Senhor Accacio became her craze; she admired his countenance, the gravity of his manner; she opened her eyes wide with admiration at his eloquence; nor was she blind to the fact that he would be a good parti. The counsellor came to be the object of her hopes, her desires, her ambition. The indifference of the counsellor irritated her,—not a glance, not a sigh, not the least indication that her love was requited. He was for her solemn, glacial, courteous; but at the least demonstration of her affection for him he would rise and withdraw with severe and modest demeanor. One day she fancied that the counsellor cast an admiring glance from behind his dark spectacles at the superabundance of her charms. Suddenly she felt herself endowed with a greater facility of expression; she felt her voice capable of more tender accents, and she said to him softly,—
“Accacio!”
But he extinguished her ardor by a gesture, and then said gravely,—
“Senhora, the snows that have accumulated upon the head end at last by settling on the heart. It is useless, Senhora.”
The martyrdom of Donna Felicidade, then, was a secret one. That her affection was unrequited was known, but not so the pangs she suffered.
They were speaking of Alemtejo, of Evora, and its sources of wealth, of the chapel of relics, when the counsellor entered, carrying on his arm his overcoat, which he placed on a chair in a corner of the room, first carefully folding it. Then with measured and dignified step he approached Luiza and pressed her hands in his.
“I see you are in the enjoyment of your usual perfect health, Senhora,” he said, in sonorous accents. “Jorge told me yesterday. That is well, very well!”
The counsellor was tall and thin; he was dressed in black, his neck imprisoned in a high stiff collar. The lower part of his face was narrow; his head, which was bald and polished, was slightly flattened on the crown. He dyed the little hair he still possessed, which formed a fringe above his neck, and this hand, black and shining, heightened by contrast the lustrousness of the bald cranium above. But he left in its natural color his gray mustache, which drooped over the corners of his mouth. His beard was full, his complexion pale. He always wore dark-colored spectacles. His enormous ears projected from either side of his head like the fans of a windmill. He had been Director-in-Chief of the Department of Home Government, and whenever he spoke of the king he mechanically took off his hat and bent his head. His every gesture, even to the taking of snuff, was measured. He made use of none but the choicest words, and uttered the simplest phrases with a certain air of dignity. In speaking of public persons he had a habit of saying “Our Garrett,” or “Our Herculano,” as the case might be. He had been something of an author, too, and was never without some apt quotation at his command. He had no family, and lived on a third floor in Ferregial Street, with a housekeeper who was at the same time a companion; and he devoted his time to the study of political economy. He had written a work on “The Reproductive Principles of the Science of Wealth and its Distribution, according to the best Authorities,” with the supplementary title, “Reading for Wakeful Hours.” It was only a few months since he had published the “History of all the Ministers of State, from the illustrious Marquis of Pombal to those of our own Times, with the Dates of their Deaths and Births carefully verified.”
“Were you ever in Alemtejo, Counsellor?” Luiza asked him.