When the coupé stopped at Jorge’s door Senhor Paula came out to the sidewalk, the tobacconist came to her door, and the professor’s servant flattened her nose against the window-pane, all straining their eyes to see. Bazilio rang the bell a little nervously; he waited awhile, bit the end of his cigar, and rang the bell again, this time more loudly.
“The windows are closed, Senhor,” said Pinteos. Bazilio went out into the middle of the street and looked up at the house; the green blinds were closed, and the house wore a deserted aspect.
Bazilio directed himself to Paula.
“Are the people out who live here?” he asked.
“They live here no longer,” answered Paula, lugubriously, caressing his mustache.
Bazilio’s attention was aroused by those funereal tones.
“Where do they live, then?” he asked.
Senhor Paula looked mournfully at Bazilio. “Are you a relative?” he said.
“I am,” replied Bazilio, smiling.
“And—you know nothing?”