“At the Central Hotel; but I beg that you will not trouble yourself.”
The counsellor declared that nothing ever prevented him from fulfilling his duty, and he would fulfil it now. He had but little influence, as Luiza knew; but if Bazilio needed anything,—the address of any one, a presentation in official quarters, permission to visit any public establishment,—he placed himself at his orders.
“Rua do Ferregial de Cima, No. 3, third floor,” he said, pressing Bazilio’s hand. “The humble abode of a hermit.” And turning to Luiza he continued, “When you write to our traveller, present to him my sincere good-wishes for the success of his enterprise. Your servant.”
And with grave and stately air he left the room.
“At least this one is cleaner,” murmured Bazilio, with his cigar in the corner of his mouth. Then, seating himself at the piano, he let his fingers run over the keys. Luiza drew near.
“Sing something for me,” she said.
Bazilio looked at her fixedly.
Luiza colored and smiled confusedly; through the light and transparent material of her dress could be seen the creamy contours of her neck and arms; in her eyes, on her lips, in the snowy whiteness of her teeth, glowed the ardor of a luxuriant vitality.
Bazilio said to her in a voice low and full of emotion,—
“You are more beautiful than ever, Luiza.”