“Yes, my dear fellow; I don’t know how the deuce she discovered something very serious about you—”
“What? I assure you—”
“Something that I discovered also,—that a rival has already taken secure possession of the heart she aspired to occupy. She has just told me so!” And laughing heartily he turned down the street of Alecrim, calling out “Good-by, good-by.” The counsellor remained standing with folded arms, petrified with astonishment.
“Unhappy lady! What a fatal passion!” he murmured, caressing his mustache with a satisfied air.
He had still to copy the obituary, and he went home. He seated himself at the table with a rug around his knees, and the cares of the author made him forget before long the anxieties of the man. In the august silence of his sancta sanctorum his pen ran over the paper in the flowing and beautiful characters of his official handwriting until eleven o’clock. He was just finishing, when the door creaked on its hinges, and Adelaide, with a shawl around her shoulders, said,—
“Do you not intend to go to bed to-night?”
“I am going, Adelaide, I am going.”
He began to read over in a low voice what he had written; it seemed to him that the end was not sufficiently affecting; he desired to conclude it with a prolonged exclamation of sorrow. He reflected, his elbows resting on the table, his head between his hands, the fingers of which were spread wide apart. Adelaide approached him slowly and laid her hand upon his head. Her touch seemed to have the effect of making his thought flash out like a spark, for he took the pen and added,—
“Weep! weep! As for me, my sorrow chokes me!”
He rubbed his hands together with a feeling of pride, and repeated aloud in mournful accents,—