Luiza expressed a desire to see the piece.
“Later on, Donna Luiza, later on,” said the counsellor. “It is prudent to avoid every strong emotion for the present. You would not fail to shed tears. I know the goodness of your heart, and that might cause a relapse. Am I not right, friend Julião?”
“Certainly, Counsellor, certainly. I, too, would like to see it, and convince myself with my own eyes—”
The noise of a carriage stopping suddenly at the door cut him short. A moment afterwards the bell rang vigorously.
“I’ll wager it is the author,” said Julião.
Almost at the same moment Ernesto, in evening dress, precipitated himself into the room, his face radiant with happiness; they all arose and embraced him effusively. “A thousand congratulations,—a thousand congratulations!” they cried. And the counsellor, his voice dominating the voices of the others, exclaimed, “Welcome to the illustrious author; welcome!”
Ernesto was suffocating with happiness; he smiled in silence; his nostrils dilated as if to breathe in incense, his bosom swelling with pride; he nodded his head unceasingly, as if mechanically acknowledging the acclamations of the multitude.
“Here I am! here I am!” he said at last.
He sat down out of breath, and with an air of friendly fellowship said that the final rehearsals had left him no time to come and see Cousin Luiza. To-night he had been able to steal away for a moment, but he was obliged to be back at the theatre by ten o’clock; he had not yet supped. He recounted his triumph, to its minutest details. At first he had had severe pains in the stomach,—every one had them, even those most accustomed to write for the stage, the most illustrious authors. But no sooner had Campos recited the monologue in the first act (and one must hear him to know how he recited—it was sublime) than the ice was broken. The audience was pleased throughout, but at the end it was something stupendous; calls for the author, thunders of applause; he came before the curtain reluctantly, but—Jesuina on the one hand and Maria Adelaide on the other—it was a frenzy. Savedra, of the “Seculo,” had said to him, “You are our Shakspeare;” Bastos, of the “Verdade,” had added, “You are our Scribe.” There was a supper afterwards, and they had presented him with a wreath.
“And does it fit you?” asked Julião.