“But what is it, man, for Heaven’s sake?”
Senhor Paula scratched his head. “Well, I am sorry to have to tell you of it,—the senhora is dead.”
“What senhora?” asked Bazilio, turning very pale.
“The senhora,—Donna Luiza, the wife of Senhor Carvalho the engineer. Senhor Jorge is at the house of Senhor Sebastião, there at the end of the street. If you want to go there—”
“No,” replied Bazilio, with a quick gesture of the hand, and lips that quivered slightly. “But how did it happen?”
“A fever. It carried her off in a couple of days.”
Bazilio went slowly and with bent head back to the coupé. He glanced once more at the house, then shut the carriage door quickly. Pinteos drove quickly toward the city. Senhor Paula went over to the tobacconist’s.
“It didn’t seem to grieve him much,” he said. “Gentlemen! Canaille!” he muttered.
“Well, I am no relation,” said the tobacconist, “and every night I recite two Pater Nosters for her.”
“And I,” said the coal-vender, sighing.