“And where have I the money to do so?” returned Luiza, slowly.
“I have it, of course; that is understood,” he said. “Not much,” he added, “for I am a little in arrears; but—in short—” He hesitated a moment, and then said, “If she asks two hundred thousand reis,[8] she shall have them.”
“And if she refuses?”
“Why should she refuse? If she has stolen your letters it is in order to sell them, not for the pleasure of having your autograph in her possession.”
He could scarcely refrain from speaking angrily to her, as he walked up and down the room with nervous steps. What a silly pretension to want to go to Paris with him to be in his way! And what a piece of stupidity to give a handful of money to a thief! The whole thing—the stolen letter, the servant acting as a spy on her mistress, the false key of the bureau-drawer—appeared to him supremely vulgar. He stopped, and said, to end the matter,—
“Well, then, offer her three hundred thousand reis,[9] if you like; but for Heaven’s sake be more careful in future! I cannot afford to pay three hundred thousand reis every time you choose to be careless.”
Luiza grew livid, as if Bazilio had spat in her face.
“If it is a question of money, I will provide it, Bazilio,” she said.
How she should do so she did not know. What matter? She would beg, work, pawn, but she would not accept money from him.
Bazilio shrugged his shoulders.