Jorge touched the burning hand of Luiza, and drew the bedclothes around her; then he pressed his lips to her hair, and went softly and closed the window-blinds. Walking up and down in his study a short time afterwards, Julião’s words recurred to him. “These fevers are sometimes caused by an annoyance.” He thought of the case of the merchant, and recalled Luiza’s inexplicable state of depression and weakness which had lately caused him so much anxiety. Bah, nonsense! Anxiety? what source of anxiety could she have? She had been so happy while they were at Sebastião’s that Juliana’s death could not be the cause. Besides, he had but little faith in fevers caused by anxiety. Julião’s knowledge of medicine was mostly theoretical, and it occurred to him that perhaps it would be well to call in old Dr. Caminha. As he put his hand into his pocket it came in contact with a letter,—the one given him by the postman for Luiza. He examined it again with curiosity; the envelope was an ordinary one, such as is to be found in cafés and restaurants; the handwriting, which was that of a man, was not familiar to him. It bore a French postmark. He felt an impulse to open it, but he restrained himself, and throwing it on the table, began to roll a cigarette. He returned to the bedroom. Luiza continued to doze: the sleeve of her nightgown had fallen back, and disclosed to view her beautifully modelled arm; her face was brilliantly flushed; her long lashes rested motionless on her cheek; an escaping curl fell over her forehead; and with her feverishly bright color she seemed to Jorge more beautiful than ever. The thought came to his mind, he knew not why, that others might find her equally beautiful, and that they might even tell her so if she gave them the opportunity. Why should she receive a letter from France? He returned to his study; the letter lying there before him on the table irritated him; he tried to read, but after a few moments threw away the book impatiently. He began to walk up and down the room, nervously twisting the lining of his pockets between his fingers. He took up the letter and tried to read its contents through the semi-transparent envelope, and unconsciously his fingers began to tear one of its corners. This was dishonorable, he felt. But curiosity, which was strong within him, suggested, with persuasive voice, many and various reasons for opening it. She was sick, and it might be something urgent, perhaps a legacy. Besides, she had no secrets from him, and least of all in France. His scruples were puerile. He could tell her he had opened it by mistake. And if the letter should contain the secret of the anxiety of Julião’s theory, then it was his duty to open it in order that she might be the sooner restored to health. Without his own volition he found the letter open in his hand. He devoured it at a glance, but he failed to master its contents at once. The letters danced before his eyes. Approaching the window he read slowly:—
MY DEAR LUIZA,—It would take too long to explain to you how and why I found myself the day before yesterday in Nice, on my way to Paris, which I reached this morning, and where I received your letter. Judging by the number of stamps upon it, it must have travelled all over Europe in search of me. As it is now nearly two months and a half since you wrote it, I suppose that you will have already settled with that woman, and do not need the money; but if this should not be the case, send me a telegram and you shall receive it two days afterwards. I see by your letter that you do not believe that my departure was caused by business, and in this you do me an injustice. My departure ought not to have deprived you of your illusions regarding love, as you say it did, for in truth I did not know how much I loved you until I had left Lisbon; and not a day passes that I do not think of our meetings. What happy mornings! Do you ever pass the house now? Do you remember our lunch? I have time to say no more. Perhaps I shall soon return to Lisbon, when I hope once more to see you, for without you Lisbon would be a desert to me. Receive an ardent kiss from your
BAZILIO.
Jorge slowly folded the letter, threw it upon the table, and said aloud,—
“Excellent!”
He mechanically filled his pipe with tobacco, took a few turns up and down the floor with wandering gaze and quivering lip, threw his pipe suddenly across the room, breaking a pane of glass in the window, shook his clenched fist violently in the air, buried his face in his arms upon the table, moving his head from side to side and biting his sleeves with rage, and burst into a passion of sobs, stamping his feet like a madman upon the floor. Then he rose abruptly, took up the letter, and was about to go with it into Luiza’s room; but he was restrained by the recollection of Julião’s words: “Keep her quiet; no conversation, nothing to excite her.” He locked the letter in a drawer and put the key in his pocket. Standing thus, his nerves quivering, his eyes bloodshot, thoughts flashed through his brain like flashes of lightning through the tempest—of killing her, of abandoning her, of blowing his brains out!
Marianna knocked lightly at the study door, and told him the senhora was calling for him. The blood rushed to his head, he looked stupidly at Marianna, his eyelids nervously twitching, as he answered hoarsely,—
“I will go directly.”
On passing by the oval looking-glass in the parlor he was surprised to see that he seemed to have grown suddenly aged. Entering the bedroom, he passed a wet towel over his face, smoothed his hair, and went to the alcove. When his glance fell on Luiza, her large eyes dilated by fever, he was obliged to catch hold of the rail of the bed to overcome the sensation he felt that the walls were oscillating around him like a vessel with the motion of the sea. He looked at her with a smile, however. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Badly,” she murmured faintly, beckoning him to her side with a gesture full of weariness.