“You must. Am I trying to break up the fever only in order that you may augment it? Are you mad?”
Julião was really indignant. He took an interest in Luiza as his patient, and he wanted to cure her. He felt pleasure, too, in exercising the authority of a person whose presence was necessary in the house which heretofore he had always entered with a certain feeling of dependence. Nor did he forget, on leaving, to offer a cigarette, with apparent carelessness, to Jorge. During the remainder of the day Jorge gave proofs of heroism. He could not remain long at a time by Luiza’s bedside, for his soul was torn by conflicting emotions; but he went there continually; he smiled at her, he drew the bedclothes around her with trembling hand. When she dozed, however, he remained looking at her with a curiosity at once painful and ignoble, as if he wished to surprise in her countenance traces of another’s kisses, or hoped that the fever would draw some name or fact from her unguarded lips. He loved her more since he had known that she was unfaithful to him, but with a perverted love. Then he would shut himself up in his study and pace restlessly up and down like a wild beast in its cage. He re-read the letter an infinite number of times, and the same vile and corroding desire for details continued to torture him. He re-read the letters he had received from her in Alemtejo, trying to discover in their words the symptoms of her coldness, the time of her faithlessness. Then he felt a ferocious hatred towards her. Thoughts of murder passed through his mind,—of strangling her, of giving her chloroform or laudanum. Then he would sit leaning back in his chair motionless, and with turbid gaze, recalling the past, the day of their marriage, certain walks they had taken together, the words he had said to her. At times the thought occurred to him that the letter might be a forgery. Some enemy might have written it and sent it to France. Perhaps Bazilio had known some other “Luiza” in Lisbon, and in directing the letter had written the name of his cousin by mistake. The momentary joy these fancies gave him only made the reality more cruel. But how did it happen? If he only knew the truth he would be more tranquil. He would tear this love from his heart as if it were some foul parasite; as soon as she was well he would take her to a convent, and he himself would go far away to end his days—to Africa or elsewhere. But—who knew the truth? Juliana! She knew it, without a doubt. All those favors to Juliana, the new room, the furniture, the clothes, all were now explained. She had been paying her for her complicity in her crime! She had been her confidante, had carried the letters, had known everything! And the accursed wretch was lying in her grave dead, unable to speak!
Sebastião came in the evening, as was his custom. The lamps were not yet lighted, and Jorge, lighting a candle, called him into his study, and taking the letter from the drawer, said, “Read that!”
Sebastião was struck with astonishment when he saw Jorge’s face by the light. He looked at the letter Jorge handed him, and trembled; and when he saw the signature the cold sweat of agony covered his brow. It seemed to him that the ground swayed beneath him, and that he swayed with it. But he controlled himself, read the letter, and placed it upon the table in silence.
“Sebastião,” said Jorge, “this is my death-blow. Do you know anything of this, Sebastião? You came here, you must know. Tell me the truth!”
Sebastião extended his arms. “What would you have me tell you?” he said. “I know nothing.”
Jorge caught his hands in his, shook them with violence, and looking at him entreatingly,—
“Sebastião,” he said, “for the sake of our friendship, by the soul of your mother, by all the years we have passed together—tell me the truth, Sebastião!”
“I know nothing,” he repeated. “What should I know?”
“You lie!”