“She is sick, Jorge,” Sebastião said timidly.
Jorge did not answer. He walked up and down the room in silence for some time, while Sebastião gazed intently at the flame of the candle. Jorge put the letter back into the drawer, and taking the candlestick in his hand, said in accents of resigned and melancholy lassitude,—
“Let us go and take tea, Sebastião.”
They did not again allude to the letter.
That night Jorge slept profoundly, and on the following morning he rose with a countenance impassible, and of a ghastly serenity.
After an uncertain course of three days the disease defined itself; it was intermittent fever. She lost flesh rapidly, but Julião continued tranquil. Jorge passed the days at her bedside. Donna Felicidade came to see her almost every morning, seated herself at the foot of the bed, and remained there silent, an aged look upon her face. The hopes she had placed on the woman of Tuy, so suddenly dashed to the ground, had thrown her existence off its balance, like an edifice from beneath which part of the foundation has been suddenly removed; she was falling into decay, and gave signs of animation only when, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, she saw the counsellor entering to inquire after “our beautiful invalid.” Keeping his hat in his hand, and refraining, through modesty, from entering the alcove, he would utter some profound observation, such as: “Health is a blessing which we fully appreciate only when we have lost it;” or, “Sickness is the test of friendship.” And he would end thus: “Soon, dear Jorge, the carmine of health will again color the cheeks of your virtuous spouse.”
At night Jorge slept on a mattress on the floor, but he closed his eyes for only an hour or two at the most. During the rest of the night he tried to read, but he never got beyond the first few lines; the book lay beside him, and with his head between his hands, his thoughts reverted continually to the same question: How had it happened? He put together in logical sequence certain facts. He saw Bazilio arrive in Lisbon, visit Luiza, fall in love with her, send her flowers, follow her, take every opportunity of seeing her, write to her—and then? He comprehended that the money was for Juliana. Did she demand it? Had she surprised them? Had she letters of theirs in her possession? In this painful reconstruction of details there were gaps, like dark gulfs, in which his tortured soul was submerged. He recalled the days since his return from Alemtejo, her tenderness, her caresses. Why did she seek to deceive him?
One night he searched her drawers, taking the precautions of a thief to avoid detection while he did so; he looked in her pockets, in the boxes in which she kept her collars and her laces; he went to the very bottom of her sandal-wood trunk,—nothing, not even a withered flower! At other times he moved the articles of furniture in the bedroom and the parlor from their places, as if they could reveal the details of her perfidy to him. Where had they sat? Did he kneel at her feet here on the carpet? Above all, the view of the sofa irritated him. At last he came to hate it. He began also to hate the house, as if the roof that had sheltered them and the floor that had supported their weight had been conscious accomplices in their crime. But what most tortured him was the words, “our meetings,” “those happy mornings.”
Meantime Luiza slept tranquilly. By the end of the week the fever had disappeared, but she was very weak; on the day she rose for the first time she fainted twice; she required help for several days to dress herself, and then to reach the lounge, and she insisted, with the capriciousness of a child, on Jorge remaining at her side. It seemed as if she absorbed life at his eyes and health from his touch. She made him read the paper in the morning, and do his writing, seated beside her. He submitted to all her exactions, and these acts of tyranny were like caresses to a wound, for he loved her tenderly. Unconsciously he would feel sudden thrills of happiness. He surprised himself saying tender words to her, laughing with her, oblivious of what had taken place. Reclining on the lounge, Luiza, tranquil and happy, looked over old volumes of the “Illustração franceza,” which the counsellor had sent her, and in which, as he said, she might acquire useful information concerning historical events, at the same time that she enjoyed the engravings. Or she tasted silently, her head resting on the cushions, the happiness of returning health, of seeing herself free from the tyranny of that woman and the bitterness of the past. One of her pleasures was to see Marianna enter with her breakfast on a tray; her appetite was returning, and she sipped with delight the glass of Port wine prescribed for her by Julião. If Jorge were not there she would enter, with a sense of contentment, into long chats with Marianna while she ate her jelly. At other times she would silently form plans, her eyes fixed on the ceiling; she would go for a few weeks to the country to re-establish her health and on her return she would set to work to embroider strips of cashmere to cover anew the parlor furniture; for she wanted to occupy herself with household matters, and to live quietly. Jorge would not go back to Alemtejo, he would not leave Lisbon again. Thus life would for the future be easy and sweet.
At times she thought Jorge preoccupied. What was the matter with him? He gave her as an excuse for his evident dejection fatigue and sleepless nights. She told him if he were to fall sick it must be when she was strong and able to nurse him; but he was not going to fall sick, was he? She made him sit down beside her; she passed her hand through his hair, gazing at him tenderly, for with returning strength her pleasure in the sweetness of life returned. Jorge was conscious that he still loved her, and this consciousness augmented his unhappiness.