“To the Central Hotel!”
She was passing through one of those crises of passion that are apt to come to weak minds, in which they are possessed by a fierce delight at the thought of tearing into pieces conventionalities and duties, and in which the soul deliberately seeks evil with thrills of sensual delight. The horses stopped at last, slipping on the stones in front of the hotel. The Senhor Bazilio de Brito was not there, but the Senhor Viscount Reynaldo was, the driver told her, after making inquiry.
“Very well; home then,” she answered.
The driver whipped his horses. Luiza, with feverish irritation, began to heap epithets of abuse upon the counsellor.
“Conceited fool! imbecile!” she cried.
She cursed the day on which she had first met him, or any other friend of her husband. She felt a longing to burst asunder the bonds that bound her, and to act entirely according to her own impulses.
On reaching home she found she had no change to pay the driver.
“Wait here, and I will send it to you,” she said, going up the steps, furious.
“What a crazy woman!” thought the driver.
Joanna, who opened the door for her, drew back in amazement on seeing her mistress so excited. Luiza went directly to her own room. The cuckoo-clock was striking three. Everything was in confusion,—the flower-pots on the floor, the toilet-table covered with an old cloth, clothing lying on the chairs. Juliana, a handkerchief tied around her head, was sweeping, and humming a tune.