“I remember,” said Jorge, “that you were born in the street of S. José.”
“No. 75, my friend, in the house next to that in which my poor Geraldo lived up to the time of his marriage.”
This “poor Geraldo” was Jorge’s father, and Accacio had been his most intimate friend. They were neighbors, and as Geraldo performed on the flute and Accacio on the violin, they played duets together; both were members of the Philharmonic Society of the street of S. José. Afterwards, when Accacio became a member of the Cabinet, he abandoned the violin, as well from conscientious scruples as through considerations regarding his dignity, and with it all the joyful and tender emotions of the evenings at the Philharmonic. He dedicated himself to statistics, but he always remained faithful to Geraldo, and continued to extend to Jorge the same vigilant friendship. He had been Jorge’s witness on the occasion of his marriage; he went to see him every Sunday; and he never failed to send him, on his saint’s day, his card, and a confection of almond paste in the form of an eel.
“Here I was born,” he repeated, unfolding his India silk handkerchief, “and here I intend to die;” and he blew his nose discreetly.
“It is not yet time to think of that,” said every one.
“The thought of death does not terrify me, my dear Jorge,” he responded in a melancholy accent. “I have even caused my last resting-place, modest but convenient, to be constructed in the Cemetery of the Heights of São João. It is situated on the right of the entrance, in a sheltered situation, beside the tomb, constructed in the form of a mausoleum, of some good friends of mine.”
“Has the Senhor Counsellor already composed his epitaph?” asked Zuzarte, in his incisive and ironical accents.
“No, Senhor Zuzarte, no; I desire no eulogies written on my tomb. If my friends or my fellow-citizens consider that I have done anything worthy of remembrance, they have other means of recording it; such as the press, a necrological article, poetry itself. For my own part, the utmost I desire on the marble that covers me is my name in black letters, with my title of counsellor, the date of my birth and that of my death. I do not object, however,” he added, after a moment of reflection, “to having engraved underneath, in small letters, the words, ‘Pray for him.’”
There was a moment’s silence, interrupted by the opening of the door.
“May I come in?” said a thin treble voice.