Where would Jorge be to-morrow at this hour? Already in Evora, pacing, sad and lonely, up and down the brick floor of a room in some inn.
“But you will come back as soon as possible?” asked Luiza.
“Assuredly.”
Jorge had hopes of doing a profitable stroke of business with Paco the Spaniard, who worked the mines of Portel, and of bringing back with him to Lisbon some thousands of reis. He could then take a vacation in September. He might take a trip to the North, to Porto, pass by Bussaco, ascend the mountains, drink the water of the fountains springing fresh from the rock under the cool shade of the trees; visit the beach of Espinho, and sit upon the sands, breathing in the pure atmosphere impregnated with ozone, contemplating the sea, of that metallic and brilliant blue peculiar to the ocean in summer, and seeing in the distance, in diminished size, some great steamer sailing southward. And thus they both continued to form plans, enveloped in an atmosphere of supreme content.
“If there were a little one in the house,” said Jorge at last to Luiza, “you would not be so lonely.”
Luiza responded by a sigh. She, too, ardently desired to have a child. She would have named him Carlos Eduardo; she pictured him to herself, now asleep in his cradle, now lying on her lap, his little hand playing with his bare toes, now nursing with his rosy mouth at her breast. A thrill of pleasure passed through her frame at the thought, and she stole her arm around Jorge’s waist. Why should not Heaven grant her this happiness? But she never pictured this child to herself as already grown up, and Jorge as an old man; she saw them both always of the same age: the one always enamoured, young, and vigorous; the other always hanging at her breast, or creeping about, prattling, with fair hair and rosy cheeks. And this existence, full of unalterable sweetness, guarded by an undying tenderness, tranquil and serene as the night around them, she pictured to herself as eternal.
“At what hour does the senhora wish me to call her?” said the harsh voice of Juliana, behind them.
“At seven,” responded Luiza, turning around; “I have told you so already.”
She went in and closed the window. A white butterfly was circling around the room in the light of the tapers. It was a happy omen.
“So you are going to remain without your husband,” said Jorge sadly, holding out his arms.