“Do not expect a Lucullian banquet,” the counsellor said gayly, as he conducted his guests to the dining-room. “It will be nothing more than the modest repast of a humble philosopher.”
Alves Coutinho, however, went into ecstasies over the abundance of the sweetmeats; there was cream, lightly browned; a plate of egg-paste, and a rice pudding ornamented with the initials of the counsellor in powdered cinnamon.
“I don’t know if the soup pleases you,” the counsellor said, as they took their seats. “For my part, I adore macaroni.”
“You like macaroni?” said Alves.
“Very much, dear Alves; it reminds me of Italy,—a country I have always desired to see,” he added. “I have been told its ruins are remarkable, and that its constitution is a very liberal one.”
“Liberal!” repeated Julião. In his opinion, if Italy were liberal, she would have long ago kicked out the Pope, the Sacred College, and the Jesuits.
The counsellor, with a benevolent air, asked his friend Zuzarte’s indulgence for the “Head of the Church.”
“Not that I uphold the Syllabus,” he said, “not that I desire to see the Jesuits enthroned in the bosom of the family. But the venerable prisoner of the Vatican,” he added gravely, “the Vicar of Jesus Christ—Help yourself to rice, my dear Sebastião!”
The Senhora Philomena here placed before the host a dish containing a leg of roast veal. Animated by a sense of his duty, he grasped the carving knife and fork with solemnity, and proceeded, with contracted brow, as if he were engaged in the most important operation in the universe, to carve thin slices from the joint. Meantime Julião, resting his elbows on the table, asked,—
“Is the ministry going to fall, or not?”