Bazilio, his hands in his pockets, jingling together his money and his keys, followed Luiza’s gestures and words with astonishment.
“This could only happen to you!” he exclaimed. “What folly!” And he added, very much excited, “And you are going to run away for this? Why speak of running away? It is a question of money, which is what she wants. Find out how much she asks, and give it to her.”
“No, no!” cried Luiza. “I cannot remain here. This woman might sell the letters, but she would keep the secret in her possession, and she might at any moment reveal it. If Jorge knows it, I am lost. I have not the courage to return home; I should never know a tranquil moment after he came back. We will go to-day,—shall we? Or if not to-day, to-morrow. If he should know it, he would kill me, Bazilio! Say that we will go to-morrow!” And she clung to him, eagerly supplicating him with her eyes to consent. Bazilio gently released himself.
“You are mad, Luiza; you are out of your mind!” he said. “How can you think of such a thing? It would be a terrible scandal, and we should be pursued by the police and by the telegraph. Impossible! This thing of running away is very well for novels. Besides, the matter is not so serious as all that; it is only a question of money.”
Luiza turned pale at his words.
“Besides,” continued Bazilio in great agitation, “it would not suit me to leave Lisbon now, nor you either. The woman who leaves her home loses even her name; she is regarded with contempt. I shall be obliged to return to Brazil, and then where would you remain? Do you want to be on the sea for a month, and then run the risk of taking the yellow fever? And what if your husband should pursue us, and we should be detained at the frontier? Do you think it would be a pleasant thing to return, escorted by the police, and to spend a year in Limoeiro? The matter is very simple; have an understanding with this woman; give her a couple of pounds, which is what she wants, and remain in your house, respected and tranquil, and be a little more prudent for the future; that is all.”
These words laid all Luiza’s hopes in the dust, as the axe lays low the tree. At times a glimpse of the truths they contained flashed across her mind like a gleam of lightning, chilling her like a cold mist. But in Bazilio’s refusal she saw only ingratitude and indifference. After seeing herself sheltered, in imagination, in a secure asylum, far away in Paris, it seemed to her intolerable to return home, hanging down her head, to endure Juliana’s exactions again, and to wait for death; the pleasures she had anticipated seemed to her now more intoxicating than before, and almost indispensable to her. And besides, of what use was it to buy back her letters with money? That woman knew her secret, and would continue to imbitter her existence, and she would have this danger forever hanging over her. She was silent, as though buried in vague meditation, and then suddenly, with flashing eyes,—
“Well, what is your answer?” she said.
“I have already told you, child.”
“You will not?”