The house, in effect, began to assume a more cheerful aspect. Juliana exacted a more abundant table, so that she might have her portion without scrimping; and, as she was a good cook, she watched the fire, tasting the various dishes, and teaching Joanna how to make new and choice ones.
“This Joanna is a prodigy,” said Jorge; “she improves every day.”
Juliana, well lodged, well fed, with fine white under-clothing without stint, began to find some savor in life; her nature expanded in the midst of this abundance; and then, judiciously advised by Aunt Victoria, she performed her duties with zeal and skill. She took care of Luiza’s gowns as if they were relics; never had Jorge’s collars been so lustrous. The October sun shone cheerfully into the house, clean and orderly as a convent. Even the cat grew fatter.
In the midst of all this well-being Luiza suffered in secret. How far would Juliana’s tyranny extend? How she hated her! She followed her at times with a glance so vindictive that she almost expected her to turn around suddenly, as if she had received a stab in the back. And she saw her, meantime, contented, singing the “Carta Adorada,” sleeping in a bed as good as hers, strutting about in her clothes, ruling in her house. Good Heavens! was this just? she asked.
At other times she gave way to her anger, she cursed her fate, she writhed in her anguish as in the meshes of a net; but, finding no solution to the problem that tormented her, she fell into a morose melancholy in which her nature became perverted. She followed with joy the growing pallor of Juliana’s countenance, and fixed all her hopes on the aneurism. After all, might it not burst any day? And Jorge, meanwhile, was never tired of praising this woman!
Life weighed heavy upon her. No sooner did Jorge close the street-door behind him in the morning than a feeling of melancholy, blended with an indefinable fear, descended upon her soul like a funereal pall; she did not dress till four or five o’clock in the afternoon. Clad in a loose wrapper, her feet thrust into slippers, her hair in disorder, she wandered listlessly about her room. At times an impulse would suddenly assail her, to fly secretly from home and hide herself in a convent. Her nervous excitement would have impelled her to some melodramatic act, were it not that her love for Jorge retained her with irresistible power at his side. For she loved him now with ardor. She loved him as she had never done before with the irresistible impulses of passion. She was jealous of everything, even of the Department and of the memoir; she interrupted him continually at his work; she would catch his hand eagerly in hers, jealous of every glance, of every word; and his footsteps in the hall made her heart beat, as if they were those of a lover.
At first the remembrance of Bazilio troubled her enjoyment of this affection, imbittering every kiss. But little by little this remembrance faded away, until at last scarcely a trace of it remained. How happy she might be,—if it were not for that traitress!
Yes, she it was, that traitress Juliana, who was happy! At times she would glance around her room smiling, as a miser glances at his treasures; she would unfold and shake out her silk gowns; arrange her wrappers in a row, contemplating them ecstatically; and, opening her bureau-drawers, count and recount her under-garments, with the caressing glance of one well pleased with her possessions. “How many things the senhora has!” she would murmur, suffocating with joy.
“Ah, now, indeed, I am well off,” she said one day to Aunt Victoria.
“I believe it,” responded the latter. “Though you have not succeeded in obtaining a conto de reis, remember you are indebted to my advice for some handsome presents. You should make some return for them besides gratitude,—a fine piece of linen, some handsome jewelry, some money. Make the most of your opportunities, my dear; make the most of your opportunities!”