He went to the dining-room; he wandered restlessly through the house. As the light grew stronger the cold increased; the wind rose, whirling along clouds of gray dust. When he returned to the bedroom the barber was putting away his instruments as slowly as he had taken them out. When this was accomplished he took up his shabby hat and went out on tiptoe, murmuring in lugubrious accents,—
“I shall rejoice to hear of the lady’s recovery. God grant that this may be nothing.”
The delirium passed away at the end of an hour, and Luiza fell into a doze, giving utterance to faint moans that broke from her lips like an inward lament for her ruined life.
Jorge told Sebastião that he would like to call in Dr. Caminha. He was an old physician who had attended Jorge’s mother, and he had brought Luiza safely through an attack of pneumonia in the second year after their marriage. Jorge had retained a grateful admiration for that celebrity of by-gone days, and all his hopes were now fixed on him, as if he were some saint who was to perform the miracle of restoring Luiza to health. Julião deigned his consent, for he regarded the old doctor with esteem, and Sebastião hurriedly went for him to his house.
Luiza, roused for an instant from her lethargy, heard them speaking in low tones, and called to Jorge in a faint voice.
“They have cut off my hair,” she said sorrowfully.
“It is for your good,” said Jorge, looking almost as deathlike as herself. “It will soon grow again and be finer than ever.”
She did not answer; two tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.
This must have been her last sensation. The prostration of coma had begun to paralyze her faculties; from time to time her head moved gently on the pillow; she moaned continually, in a gasping voice; her face grew gradually paler, and the noises in the street failed to produce any impression on her senses. At noon Donna Felicidade made her appearance; she was struck dumb at seeing Luiza so ill, when she had come with the intention of carrying her off to the Encarnação, and even to the shops. She took off her hat and installed herself in the house. She caused the alcove to be put in order, had the mustard plasters and the various articles used during Luiza’s illness put away, and arranged the bed, for there was nothing worse for a sick person, she said, than an untidy bedroom; and she bravely strove to inspire Jorge with courage.
A carriage stopped at the door; it was Dr. Caminha at last. He came in, his throat enveloped in a green-and-black check muffler, complaining of the cold, and slowly drawing off his gloves, which he placed methodically inside his hat. He advanced to the alcove with measured step, smoothing down with his hand the few gray hairs brushed flat against his head. Julião remained alone with him in the alcove, while the others waited outside in silence with Jorge, who was pale as wax, with eyes like lighted coals.