“A partridge at this hour!” exclaimed Donna Felicidade.
“A partridge or anything else,” said Bazilio.
“Whatever it might be, it would give us an indigestion,” she replied.
In the Chiado a youth in a blue blouse followed them with tickets for the lottery; his shrill and doleful accents promising them good fortune in the form of many contos de reis. Donna Felicidade stopped. She felt a momentary temptation; but a group of drunken men came towards them, their hats pushed back from the forehead, gesticulating rudely and stumbling against the passers-by with the evident intention of provoking a quarrel. Luiza took refuge close beside Bazilio, whose arm Donna Felicidade, much frightened, had taken. The group passed on, shouting. Donna Felicidade insisted on taking a carriage immediately, and did nothing, till they reached the Praça do Loreto, but recount, with a voice still trembling from the terror with which the drunken men had inspired her, accidents and affrays with knives, all without loosening for a moment her hold on Bazilio’s arm.
They stopped; and a hackman who was opportunely in the Praça de Camões directed his carriage towards them. The two ladies entered. Luiza turned round to give a parting glance to Bazilio as he stood there motionless, his hat in his hand. Then she settled herself back in the carriage, stretched out her feet on the cushions before her, and, rocked by the trot of the horses, gazed silently from her corner, as they passed them in turn, at the dark houses of the street of S. Roque, the trees of S. Pedro de Alcantara, the narrow façades of the street of the Moinho de Vento, and the sleeping gardens of the Patriarchal.
They passed a group of musicians playing the fado of Vimioso on the guitar, in front of the Polytechnic School. The music penetrated her soul, awakening gently in her heart echoes of past emotions. A sigh escaped her half-closed lips.
“There is a sigh that goes to Alemtejo,” said Donna Felicidade, touching her on the arm.
Luiza felt the blood mount to her face.
When she reached home it was striking eleven. Juliana came to light her in.
“Tea is ready, when the senhora wishes it,” she said.