The counsellor declared that he never went to the Passeio on Sunday. He could well understand that it might be very agreeable, but the crowd made him sea-sick. He had noticed—and in saying this his voice assumed the tone of a revelation—that many persons gathered together in one place were apt to cause vertigo in men of literary habits. Besides, his health was not very good, and he was overwhelmed with work. He was writing a book, and drinking the waters of Vichy.
“You may smoke,” said Luiza, abruptly to Bazilio, with a smile. “Do you want a light?”
She rose with joyful alacrity to get a match. She wore a fresh morning-gown of light-colored and semi-transparent material. Her hair looked brighter and her complexion clearer than usual.
Bazilio puffed out the smoke from his cigar, and said, settling himself on the sofa,—
“The Passeio on Sunday is simply a piece of stupidity!”
“Do not be so severe, Senhor Brito,” said the counsellor, after a moment’s reflection. “Formerly, indeed, it was a very agreeable resort. For one thing, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that can take the place of military music; then, there is the price of admission to be considered: I have studied the question closely. Low prices favor the agglomeration of the inferior classes. Far be it from my thoughts to look with contempt upon that part of the population. The liberality of my ideas is well known. I appeal to this lady; but it must be admitted that it is always preferable to meet select society. For my part, I assure you I do not go to the Passeio even when there are fireworks. On those nights I go, indeed, to enjoy the spectacle, but I remain outside the railings. Not from economy, assuredly not,—without being rich I can yet allow myself this expense,—but I fear that some accident might happen. I could give you an instance of an individual whose name I have forgotten, whose skull was pierced by a rocket. To go no further, a spark might fall on one’s head, or on a new suit. And it is well to be prudent,” he added in conclusion, passing over his lips his neatly folded handkerchief of India silk.
Then they spoke of the season. There were a great many people in Cintra. Lisbon was so hot in summer! The counsellor declared that Lisbon would be a city of no real importance until the opening of the Chambers and of the S. Carlos.
“What were you playing when I came in?” Bazilio asked Luiza.
“If you were having music,” said the counsellor at once, “I beg you will continue. For eighteen years I have been a constant subscriber to the S. Carlos.”
“Are you a musician?” said Bazilio.