At the foot of the stairs he lighted a cigar.
“The deuce! how lovely she is!” he thought; “and I—what a fool I was,” he added, throwing the match on the floor with violence, “to have almost resolved not to come! She is desirable—the cousin, much more so than formerly; and alone in the house, face to face with ennui, perhaps. It is well worth while.”
On reaching the Patriarchal he hailed a passing cab, entered it, and, his legs stretched out before him, his hat between his knees, gave himself up to reflection, while the hacks trotted on.
“And besides, it would seem that she takes care of her person, which is a rare thing here. Her hands are well cared for, her feet beautiful. To the attack, then!” he exclaimed, after some further thought. “To the attack, like Santiago on the Moors!”
When Luiza had heard the door close behind Bazilio she entered her room, laid her hat on the table, and went to take a look at herself in the glass. How fortunate to have been dressed! If he had chanced to find her in her morning-gown, or with her hair in disorder! She saw that her face was flushed, powdered it with rice-powder, and went over to the window, where she stood with folded arms, looking out at the street below, where the sunshine still fell on the wall opposite. The clock struck four, and Leopoldina would doubtless be dining. What should she do till five? Write to Jorge? But she felt lazy, it was so warm; and besides she had so little to say to him. She began to take off her gown, yawning, from time to time, with a feeling of pleasant languor. It was seven years since she had last seen her cousin Bazilio. He was darker than formerly, more bronzed by the sun; but this was becoming to him.
After dinner she seated herself in a long, low easy-chair beside the window, with an open book upon her knees. The wind had ceased; the atmosphere, still warm, of a deep blue in the more elevated regions of the sky, was motionless; the birds twittered among the branches of the wild fig-tree; and the regular and sonorous blows of a hammer could be heard from a neighboring forge. Little by little the blue of the heavens faded into a uniform whiteness; behind the roofs of the houses opposite stretched bands of a pale orange-color, like careless strokes of a painter’s brush. Then darkness, still, diffused, and warm, covered everything, one bright little star shining tremulously through it. Luiza leaned back in her chair, silent, absorbed, forgetting to call for a light.
“What an interesting life is that of Cousin Bazilio!” she thought. “How much he has seen!” If she too could only pack her trunks and set out in search of new and unknown sights,—the snow upon the mountains, foaming waterfalls! How ardently she longed to visit the countries she had read of in novels,—Scotland with its melancholy lakes; Venice with its tragic palaces; to cast anchor in bays where a silvery and luminous sea dies away upon the limpid sands, and from some fisherman’s hut to behold in the blue distance islands with sonorous names. To go to Paris,—Paris, above all. But no! she would never travel; they were poor. Jorge was very domestic, she an obscure Lisboeta.
What did the Patriarch of Jerusalem look like? Was he an old man with a long white beard, his garments weighed down with gold embroidery, only to be seen amid clouds of incense that ascended to heaven mingling with the strains of solemn music? And the Princess de la Tour d’Auvergne? She was doubtless beautiful, of regal stature, always attended by pages. Perhaps she was enamoured of Bazilio. The night grew darker; other stars appeared in the heavens. But what was the good of travelling, she asked herself,—to have the trouble of packing one’s trunks, to be forced to pass the night uncomfortably at inns, and to nod with sleep in the cold dawn, in jolting diligences? Was it not better to live comfortably in a cosey little house, to permit one’s self a night at the theatre occasionally, to have a tender husband, and to enjoy a good breakfast, listening to the canaries singing on sunny mornings? This was the lot that fate had assigned to her. She was very happy. Then she thought sadly of Jorge. She longed to embrace him, to have him here beside her, to see him in his velvet jacket, smoking his pipe in the study. She had everything she could wish for,—a husband of whom she was proud, and with whom she was happy, who was handsome, had magnificent eyes, was loving and faithful. She would not like a husband who led a sedentary and domestic life, but Jorge’s profession was an interesting one. It required him to descend into the dark recesses of mines; it might even call upon him some day to go armed with his pistols and face a brigade of workmen in insurrection. He was brave; he had ability. Nevertheless, involuntarily she allowed her thoughts to revert to Bazilio, with his white burnoose floating on the breeze in the plains of the Holy Land, or seated in his phaeton in Paris, quietly controlling the fiery horses. And this suggested to her mind the idea of a life different from her present one,—more poetic, more adapted to sentimental episodes.
“Does the senhora desire a light?” asked the tired voice of Juliana at the door.
“You may bring one,” responded Luiza.