Bazilio twisted his mustache in silence. He saw before him in fancy Luiza’s parlor, and the horrible countenance of Juliana, with her enormous head-dress. Were they indeed quarrelling at this moment? How vulgar the whole thing was! Decidedly he ought to go away.
“But what pretext shall I make use of for leaving Lisbon?” he resumed.
“A telegram. There is nothing like a telegram! Telegraph to your agent in Paris, Lachardie, or Lachardette, or whatever his name may be, and tell him to send you the following despatch: ‘Come; business is going badly,’ etc. It is the best way.”
“I shall do so at once,” said Bazilio, rising with decision.
“And we shall set out to-morrow?” asked Reynaldo.
“Yes, to-morrow.”
“For Madrid?”
“Very well; for Madrid.”
“Delightful!” exclaimed the other, standing up in the bath-tub; and shaking the water from his person with a slight shudder, he stepped out, enveloped in his Turkish bath-robe. His servant William entered noiselessly, and kneeling down took one of the viscount’s feet in his hands, dried it with extreme care, and proceeded to draw on, with respectful tenderness, the black silk stocking with its embroidered initials.
On the following day, a little before twelve, Joanna knocked discreetly at the door of Luiza’s room, and announced in a low voice (since Luiza’s fainting-fit Joanna had always spoken to her in a low voice, as if she were a convalescent), “The cousin of the senhora is in the parlor.”