On returning to the hotel he said to the servant, “When the Viscount Reynaldo returns, say to him that I am in my room.”
This was a room on the second story, its windows overlooking the river. Arrived there, he drank a glass of brandy and threw himself on the sofa. On the table beside him were his buvard with his monogram in silver, surmounted by a count’s coronet, some French novels, the “Manuel du Chasseur,” some numbers of “Figaro,” a likeness of Luiza, and an engraving of a horse.
Lighting a cigar, he began to reflect, with a feeling of horror, on his situation. This was all that was wanting,—that he should return to Paris with such an encumbrance! To let a woman interfere with the course of his well-ordered existence, merely because a letter had been stolen from her, and she was afraid of her husband! What a pretension! The whole adventure, from the very beginning, was a mistake. It had been the idea of an enamoured bourgeois to trouble the peace of his cousin of the Patriarchal. He should have gone to Lisbon, arranged his affairs there, remaining quietly at the Central Hotel, taken the steamer back to France, and sent his country to the devil. His affairs had been settled for some time, and he, like the idiot he was, still remained in Lisbon, spending a fortune in carriages to make visits to the street of Santa Barbara, for a woman like a thousand others. It was true that while he remained in Lisbon there was something pleasant and exciting, like a chapter from a novel, in the affair, with its mixture of illicit passion and family ties betrayed. But he was tired of the episode now; the best thing he could do was to leave Lisbon without seeing Luiza again.
He had made his fortune in a speculation in Paraguay, the success of which had led to the formation of a company of Brazilian capitalists; but Bazilio and a number of French engineers desired to buy up the Brazilian shares, which they found an obstacle in the way of their ambitious designs. In order to form another company in Paris, and give a more daring turn to the business, Bazilio had come to Lisbon to negotiate with some Brazilian shareholders there, and had dexterously managed to buy up their shares. The prolongation of this amorous episode threatened to prove a disturbing element in his practical affairs, and now that the matter began to assume an ugly aspect, it was expedient that he should put an end to it at once.
The door opened, and Reynaldo entered, wearing blue glasses and looking very tired. He was furious. He had just come from Bemfica, expiring, absolutely expiring with this heat, which was only fit for a country inhabited by negroes! He had had the stupid idea of going to see an aunt of his, who had obliged him to listen to a long sermon, as if he had been at church. A school-boy’s idea it was to go see her; for if there was anything he especially detested it was a display of family tenderness.
“What did you want to see me for?” he said in conclusion. “I am going to remain in the bath till dinner-time.”
“Do you know what has happened to me?” responded Bazilio, rising.
“What has happened?”
“Guess; the most stupid thing you can imagine.”
“The husband has found you out?”