Sebastião had heard that afternoon, he said, on the boat from Almada, that the present situation of things was assured.
“Whether they fall or not,” continued Julião, “whether these go out or others come in—thanks, Counsellor,” he interrupted himself to say, as the counsellor handed him his plate of roast veal—“is a matter of complete indifference to me. They are all a pack of knaves!”
He was disgusted with the country; from the highest to the lowest they were a worthless lot, and he anticipated shortly, by the logic of events, a revolution that would clear away all this rubbish.
“A revolution!” exclaimed Alves Coutinho, looking around him with an uneasy glance.
The counsellor resumed his seat, and said,—
“I have no desire to enter into a political discussion; political discussions serve only to create dissension among friends; but I will recall to the mind of Senhor Zuzarte the excesses of the Commune.”
Julião threw himself back in his chair, and answered tranquilly,—
“The mistake is, Senhor Counsellor, not to kill a few bankers, rich land-owners, and anæmic marquises. That would be the right sort of a clearance to make!” And he made a movement with his knife as if to sharpen it.
The counsellor smiled urbanely, looking on this sanguinary outbreak as a jest.
“The truth is this,” he said; “the country is sincerely attached to the royal family. Am I not right, my dear Sebastião?” he said, directing himself to him as a proprietor and land-owner.