“Mendez, then; he is a respectable man; he belongs to the Guard.”
He asked Sebastião to hand him the inkstand, wrote an order, read it over twice, put strokes to the dried it at the flame of the lamp, and folding it with solemnity, said,—
“Second division.”
“Thanks, Vicente. It is a great service. I am much obliged to you. Wrap yourself up well and do not forget the sulphur-water; it is to be had at the pharmacy of Azevedo, Rua de S. Roque—with half a litre of boiled milk. Thanks. Have you any commands?”
“No; give something to Mendez. He is a person of respectability; he belongs to the Guard.” And putting on his eye-glasses he again became absorbed in the “Homem dos tres calções.”
Half an hour afterwards Sebastião, followed by Mendez, who walked with military step, his arms slightly bending outward like a bow, was on his way to Jorge’s house. He had formed no plan of action. He reflected naturally that Juliana, on seeing a policeman enter the house at that hour, would be frightened, would think at once of Limoeiro and the coast of Africa, and would deliver up the letters and beg for mercy. And afterwards? He thought vaguely of paying her passage to Brazil, or giving her five hundred thousand reis to establish herself in some distant province. He would consider about it,—the chief thing was to frighten her.
In effect, when Juliana opened the door, and saw a policeman standing behind Sebastião, she grew livid, and exclaimed,—
“Ave Maria! What is the matter?”
She had a blank shawl around her shoulders, and the lamp she carried in her hand projected on the wall the shadow of her repulsive profile.
“Senhora Juliana,” said Sebastião, quietly, “do me the favor to light the parlor.”