“What an idea!” “What nonsense!” “But why?” “What a curious notion!” resounded on all sides.
“What would you have?” said Ernesto, shrugging his shoulders with a melancholy air. “He says the public do not like that kind of dénouement; that it does not suit the people of Lisbon.”
“In truth, Senhor Ledesma,” said the counsellor, “our public is not accustomed to these scenes of bloodshed.”
“That is true,” assented Donna Felicidade.
“But, Senhor Counsellor,” responded Ernesto, balancing himself on the points of his toes, “in my play there is no blood shed, not a drop; a push of the shoulder, merely.”
Luiza, here calling the attention of Donna Felicidade, said to her aside, with a smile,—
“Try these egg bonbons; they are fresh.”
“Impossible, child, impossible,” she responded, in plaintive accents, placing her hand at the same time upon her stomach.
Meantime the counsellor, his hands on Ernesto’s shoulders, was recommending clemency to the latter, saying in persuasive accents,—
“That gives more gayety to the piece, Senhor Ledesma. The spectator leaves the theatre in a more agreeable frame of mind.”