“Ah, my cousin Bazilio,” said Luiza, blushing. “Show him in. And, by the way, if Senhor Sebastião, or any other visitor, should call, admit him.”
The gentleman, then, was a cousin. These visits had lost all their interest for Juliana. Her malicious curiosity, swelled out to its fullest proportions, suffered a momentary collapse, like a sail when the wind has fallen. He was her cousin!
She went slowly upstairs to the kitchen.
“I have news to tell you, Senhora Joanna,” she said. “The petit-maître is a cousin,—Cousin Bazilio, it seems. Bazilio! It turns out that we have a cousin at last; how nice!”
“Why, who should the man be but a relative?” said Joanna, with indifference.
Juliana did not answer. She looked to see if the irons were hot, as she had a quantity of clothes to iron, and while waiting for them she sat down at the window. The sky was gray, and the atmosphere charged with moisture and electricity; from time to time a slight breeze agitated the foliage without. “He is her cousin!” she thought, “and he comes only when the husband has gone away. How likely that is! When he goes she remains preoccupied; she sighs; she looks disconsolate. All that is the result of family affection!”
Her eyes glittered with malignant joy. And the irons, were they hot? she asked Joanna.
The bell rang softly.
“There it goes again! This is a dog’s life! To-day is a reception-day, it seems.”
She went down and opened the door. When she saw Julião standing before her, a book under his arm, she gave a little cry of surprise.