“Very well; I will not say it. Come, let us speak no more of the matter. But don’t cry. There! It is all over now.” He kissed her, and putting his arm around her waist, drew her gently away. “There, leave the ironing now. Come. What a child you are!”
Through good-nature and consideration for Luiza’s nerves Jorge did not speak again for some days about the “poor woman.” But he thought about her. And to think of that sickly creature, with one foot in the grave, in his house, irritated him. Since the night she had fainted, when he had seen with astonishment the comforts she enjoyed in her room, owing to the ridiculous indulgence of Luiza, he had found something mysterious and annoying in all this. As he was out during the day, and in his presence Juliana had only smiles and manifestations of affection for Luiza, he thought she had succeeded in insinuating herself into his wife’s confidence, and making herself, in the intimacy existing between mistress and servant, necessary and dear to her. This augmented his antipathy towards her,—an antipathy which he did not take the trouble to disguise. Luiza trembled at times, when she saw him follow Juliana with his angry glance. But what made her suffer most was the manner Jorge had adopted of speaking of the woman in terms of ironical respect; he called her “the illustrious Donna Juliana, my lady and mistress.” If a goblet or a wine-glass were wanting on the table he pretended to be astonished. “What!” he would exclaim, “Donna Juliana, that paragon, to forget anything!” He made use of jests that froze Luiza’s blood with terror.
“How did the philter that she gave you, taste?” he once said. “Was it pleasant?”
Since then she had not ventured, in his presence, to speak with naturalness to Juliana; she dreaded his ambiguous smiles, his asides,—“Go, give her a kiss; I can see in your face that you are dying to do so.” Fearing to awaken his suspicions, and anxious to show her independence, she began to speak to Juliana, when he was by, with abrupt and affected coldness. Juliana, who was very sagacious, and understood the motive of this conduct, bore with it in silence. She felt very ill, and feared being sent to the hospital. All day long she sipped broths or nibbled croquettes or sweet-potato pudding. She kept jelly and Port wine in her room, and she even asked occasionally for chicken broth in the evening.
“I pay for it with the sweat of my brow,” she would say to Joanna. “Since I work like a slave, I may as well have something for it.”
One day, however, when Jorge was more irritated than usual by the sallow countenance of Juliana, and his nerves vibrating from having found neither water nor towel in the bedroom, he lost control over himself, and cried angrily,—
“I am in no humor to put up with this carelessness any longer.”
Luiza hastily began to make excuses for Juliana.
He bit his lip, bowed profoundly, and in a voice trembling with anger said,—
“I beg your pardon; I had forgotten that Juliana’s person is sacred. I will go for the water myself.”