“They don’t hurt me, Senhor Counsellor,” responded Ernesto, smiling. “I altered the dénouement,” he continued, “in three hours; and I have just read it over to the director. I have it with me.”
“Read it to us, Senhor Ernesto,” said Donna Felicidade; “read it to us.”
“Yes, read it,” repeated every one.
“It is only the first sketch; I am afraid of boring you,” said Ernesto, who could not conceal his delight. “But, since you desire it—”
And, in the midst of profound silence, he unfolded a roll of blue-ruled paper. “I must claim your indulgence before beginning,” he said, looking around him, “in view of the fact that this is only a sketch. I have not crossed the t’s nor dotted the i’s yet.” And he began to read in a theatrical manner:—
“Agatha—that is the name of the wife, and we are now in the scene in which the husband has discovered everything,—”
“AGATHA (falling on her knees at the feet of Julio). Kill me! kill me! for pity’s sake. Rather death than to feel my heart slowly breaking under the weight of your contempt!”
“JULIO. Have you not torn my heart out of my bosom? Have you had compassion upon me? My God! I who in happier days believed her stainless!”
One of the portières of the parlor was here seen to move slightly; the noise of cups gently striking against one another was heard, and Juliana, in a white apron, entered, bringing in the tea.
“How annoying!” exclaimed Luiza. “After tea we will continue, eh?”