She had heard of so many who had died of a sudden pain! She might go afterwards to Juliana’s room, search her trunk, and regain possession of her letter. She would be afraid neither of the silence of death nor of the pallor of the corpse.
“She is easier, Senhora,” said Joanna, returning to the dining-room, “and says she will get up by-and-by. Will the senhora take nothing more?”
“No.”
And she went back again to her room, thinking,—
“Why seek to remedy matters? There is nothing left but to fly.”
She determined to write to Sebastião, but she could get no further than the words, “My Friend.”
Why write? When they saw that night came, and she had not returned, the servants—her enemy—would go tell Sebastião. He was the most intimate friend of the family. What a fright it would give him! He would think some accident had befallen her. He would run to the Encarnação, then to the police station; he would spend the night in anguish; all next day he would wait for news of her, suffering terrible disappointments, until at last he would telegraph to Jorge. And at the same hour, huddled in a corner of the car, listening to the deafening noise of the engine, she would be hurrying on to a new destiny. Yet why should she torment herself? How many there were who would envy her her misfortune! Yes, to give up a cramped existence between four walls, her only occupation to superintend the affairs of the kitchen and to crochet, in order to go with a man young and handsome, and whom she loved, to Paris—to Paris! to live surrounded by luxury, in apartments hung with silk, with a box at the Opera. She was indeed foolish to torment herself; this disaster was almost a piece of good fortune. Without it she would not have had the courage to break away from her bourgeoise existence. Yes, she would fly with Bazilio; she would put an end at once to this state of anxiety. But it was too late now to go to the hotel; she was afraid of the dark streets, of the lateness of the hour, of meeting with some drunken man.
She began to pack the satchel. She put into it some linen, a few handkerchiefs, her nail-brush, the rosary Bazilio had given her, rice-powder, and some jewels that had belonged to her mother. She wished to take with her Bazilio’s letters also. She had put them away in a little sandal-wood box in the bureau-drawer. She took them out, scattered them on her lap, and opened one, from which fell a pressed flower, and then another containing the likeness of Bazilio. It suddenly struck her that they were not all here; there should be seven of them,—two letters and five notes,—the first letter he had written to her, full of his affection for her, and the last, written one day when they had quarrelled. She counted them; there were in fact three wanting,—this first letter and two of the notes. Juliana had stolen these also! She rose, pale with anger. “Infamous creature!” she exclaimed. She felt an impulse to go up to her room and tear the letters from her by force, even if she had to strangle her in order to do so. But what did it matter? Whether Juliana had one letter or three, her misfortune was the same.
She laid out on the sofa, in a state of feverish excitement, the black dress she was to wear, the hat, a cloak. The cuckoo-clock struck ten. She went into her bedroom, and placing the candlestick on the night-table, stood gazing at the large bed with its curtains of white muslin. This was the last time she should sleep in it. The crochet counterpane she herself had made during the first year of her marriage,—there was not a single stitch in it that was not associated with some happy recollection. Jorge had watched her working at it, smiling silently or talking to her in low tones while he twisted the cotton slowly around his fingers. There she had slept every night for three years. In that bed she had gone through an attack of pneumonia. For weeks Jorge bad not taken off his clothes, nursing her, covering her when she threw off the bedclothes, giving her her medicine, making her take nourishing soups, bestowing endearing words upon her that did her so much good. He spoke to her as he would have spoken to a little child. “This will pass,” he would say; “you will soon be better now, and then we will take a little trip into the country.” But while he said it his eyes filled with tears. At other times he would exclaim, “Are you better? Tell me that you are better!” And she desired so ardently to get well that a refreshing wave seemed to sweep over her, calming the fever in her blood. In the first days of her convalescence he helped her to dress; he knelt down to put on her slippers; he assisted her to the sofa, and arranged the cushions for her to lie down upon it; he read to her; he amused her by drawing landscapes for her, by cutting paper soldiers. She depended upon him for everything; she had no one else in the world to care for her in sickness, to mourn for her if she should die. She always went to sleep with his hand between both of hers, for she still felt at night something of the terror she had experienced in the delirious visions of the fever; and poor Jorge, in order not to awaken her, would remain hour after hour with his hand held thus imprisoned. He slept, without undressing, on a mattress beside her bed. Many times she had awakened during the night and surprised him wiping away his tears,—tears of joy because she was spared to him. When the physician, the good Dr. Caminha, had said to him, “She is out of danger; now we must set about reconstructing this organism,” Jorge, poor fellow, had caught the old man’s hands in his and covered them with kisses.
And now when he should come home and learn all! She would be far away in a foreign land hearing a strange tongue; and he there alone in the house, weeping in the embrace of Sebastião. How many souvenirs of her would be there to torture him,—her gowns, her slippers, the articles on her dressing-table, everything in the house! What a sorrowful existence he would lead! He would sleep alone; there would be no one there to awaken him with a kiss, and say to him, laying a hand on his shoulder, “It is late, Jorge.” Everything would be at an end forever between them—forever.