“What is this?” she cried, frowning, with surprise depicted on her countenance. “Truly this is—”
“Follies, follies,” said Sebastião, turning crimson. Luiza proceeded to read aloud slowly:—
“Know, then, friend Sebastião, that I have made a conquest here. She is not what might be called a princess,—being neither more nor less than the wife of the village shopkeeper. She seems to be desperately in love with your humble servant. God forgive me, but I believe she asks me only a vintem for cigars that are worth a pataco, doing her worthy husband Carlos the double injury of seeking to ruin him in his happiness and in his business.”
“How witty!” she muttered, furious. She went on reading:—
“I am not altogether certain that the Biblical story of the wife of Potiphar will be repeated in my case. I assure you there is some virtue in resisting her, for, shopkeeper as she is, she is extremely pretty, and I sometimes fear that my weak virtue may suffer shipwreck in the end.”
Luiza paused, casting a terrible glance at Sebastião.
“It is only a jest,” he said.
She continued reading:—
“If Luiza were to know of it! And my adventures do not end here. The wife of the delegate throws terrible glances at me. She is from Lisbon,—one of the Camargos who live near Belem. Do you know them? They affect to be dying of weariness in this provincial solitude. She gave an entertainment in my honor, and in my honor, as I believe, she went décoletée. She has a beautiful neck—”
Luiza turned crimson. It was a diabolical jest.