“Her hair?” he repeated, catching him by the arm. “No, Julião, no; anything else you wish,—you ought to know what is best. But not her hair,—no, no, for the love of Heaven, no! She is not in danger. Why cut off her hair?”
“The mass of hair interferes with the action of the water.”
“To-morrow, if it must be so, to-morrow. Wait until to-morrow, and I will eternally be grateful to you, Julião.”
Julião consented, against his will; but he caused wet cloths to be kept constantly applied to her head. As Marianna’s hand trembled so as to wet the pillow a great deal, Sebastião seated himself at the head of the bed, and let the water drop slowly on her head from a wet sponge all night. So as to have a constant supply of cold water they filled jugs and set them in the balcony. The delirium abated a little during the night, but her bloodshot eyes had a wild aspect and the pupils looked like small black points.
Jorge, seated at the foot of the bed, his head between his hands, kept his face fixed upon her; he recalled vaguely other nights of vigil when she was ill with pneumonia, and recovered. She was even paler then, with a pallor that imparted a softer aspect to her countenance. They would go to the country when she grew better; he would hire a little house, and would go out there in the omnibus every day after business, and watch her waiting for him at the door in the distance as evening was softly falling. Here a moan fell upon his ear, and he raised his eyes, startled. She seemed to him changed; he fancied she was disappearing before his gaze, in the midst of the feverish atmosphere that filled the alcove, the heavy stillness of the night, and the pungent odor of the mustard. He sighed, and returned to his former immobility.
Joanna was praying upstairs. The candles that had burned with a dull flame were going out. At last a faint light threw the shadows of the leaden setting of the window-panes on the white curtains. Day was dawning. Jorge stood up, and going over to the window looked out. The rain had ceased, and the pavements were beginning to dry; the light was gray and misty. Silence reigned over everything. A forgotten towel moved slowly in the cold wind on the balcony of the Azevedos.
Jorge went into the alcove. Luiza was muttering in a gasping voice. She was vaguely conscious of the mustard plasters, but the pain in her head had not abated. She began to toss about in bed, and shortly afterwards the delirium returned. Julião ordered her hair to be cut off at once.
Sebastião went to the Rua da Escola for a hair-cutter, who came at once, the collar of his coat turned up about his ears, and looking half frozen. With fingers greasy with pomade he took slowly out from a little leathern bag the razors and the scissors.
Jorge went into the parlor; he felt as if, with those beautiful locks that were falling one by one under the sharp steel, the edifice of his happiness were falling to the ground stone by stone. With his head clasped between his hands he recalled to mind certain fashions in which she had worn her hair, certain shades it was wont to take in the light. He went back, irresistibly drawn to the alcove; he listened to the metallic sound of the scissors, and his glance fell on a little cup on the table filled with soap-suds, and in which rested a well-worn shaving-brush. He called to Sebastião in a low voice,—
“Tell him to be quick; I am burning at a slow fire; tell him to be quick!”