“The truth is, I went to see Sebastião; I wanted to show him—”
And he interrupted himself to say, dwelling on every word,—
“For I thought it my duty to pay a tribute to the memory of the unhappy lady. It was my duty,—a duty from which nothing could absolve me. And I rejoice to have met you, for I desire to know your conscientious and dispassionate opinion of it.”
Julião coughed, and asked,—
“Is it an obituary?”
“It is an obituary.”
And the counsellor, although he did not consider it altogether proper, on account of his exalted position, to enter a public coffee-house, intimated to Julião that they might rest a little at Tavares’ if there were not many people there, and he would read him his production.
They entered the café. They found no one there, except two old men seated at a table drinking coffee, with their hats on, and leaning on their bamboo canes. The waiter was dozing at the other end of the room. A glaring and intense light filled the narrow apartment.
“There is a propitious silence here,” said the counsellor.
He invited Julião to take some coffee, and drawing from his pocket a sheet of ruled paper, murmured, “Unfortunate lady!” He then bowed to Julião and began:—