“The troubles of life, Senhora,” he said, bowing, “and old age; above all, old age,” he continued, laughing, and striking his cane against the stones of the fountain.
The gas-lights were reflected in wavering brightness in the dark water. The foliage of the trees, of a faded green, that looked artificial, was motionless. Between the two long parallel lines of stunted trees, interspersed with gas-lamps, a compact multitude of dark forms moved along, enveloped in clouds of dust; above the noise made by the crowd the animated strains of the orchestra rose through the heavy air in the lively measures of a waltz. They remained standing by the fountain chatting, and looking at the people as they entered: two young men with curly hair and lavender trousers, smoking with due deliberation their holiday cigars; an officer with breast swelled out and waist tightened in, as if he wore a corset, accompanied by two young ladies with their hair in curls, who showed through the thin fabric of their tasteless gowns, as they walked, every movement of their shoulder-blades; an ecclesiastic with a sallow complexion, and a cigar in his mouth, whose blue spectacles gleamed in the light; two young collegians walking along with a swinging gait, that they might be thought rakes; the melancholy Xavier the poet; a young man in a jacket, a heavy cane in his hand, his hat on the back of his head, and his eyes glittering with the brilliancy of the wine-cup. Bazilio laughed as two little boys, dressed in light blue, with scarlet sashes, lancer’s shakos, Hungarian hoots, and a sleepy air, entered hand in hand with their father, on whose countenance was depicted satisfaction and delight.
Luiza expressed a desire to sit down. A little ragamuffin in a dirty blouse of coarse fabric ran to bring chairs, and they seated themselves beside a family group composed of the mother, the father, and three daughters, who, sitting motionless in their chairs, looked around them with silent melancholy.
“What have you been doing to-day?” Luiza asked Bazilio.
He answered that he had been to see the bull-fight.
“What! do you like that kind of thing?” she said.
Bazilio confessed that he had found it tiresome. If it had not been for the gymnastic feats of Peixinho he should have died of weariness. The bulls were tame, the horsemen unskilful. Ah, the bull-fights in Spain,—they were worth looking at!
Donna Felicidade protested. He should not say such a thing; they were horrible; she had seen one in Badajoz when she was visiting her aunt Francisca de Noronha, who resided in Elvas, and she had fainted. The blood, the intestines of the horses,—pah!
“What would you say, Senhora,” said Bazilio, laughing, “if you saw the cock-fights?”
Donna Felicidade had heard of them, but those diversions seemed to her barbarous and unchristian; and here calling to mind a pleasure the recollection of which brought a smile to her broad countenance, she continued,—