“It is no one; whoever it was has gone away,” said Luiza.
They were both standing.
“Bazilio, don’t go!” she murmured. Her beautiful eyes had in them an expression of gentle entreaty.
Bazilio put down his hat on the piano, nervously biting his mustache.
“But why do you want to be alone with me?” asked Luiza, in some agitation. “What does it matter to you if visitors come?” The moment she had uttered the words she was sorry for saying them.
With a sudden movement Bazilio passed his arm around the waist of his cousin, and drawing her head towards him, pressed passionate kisses on her eyes and hair.
She freed herself quickly from his embrace, her eyes sparkling, her countenance crimson.
“Forgive me,” he said, with a passionate gesture. “Forgive me; I acted without reflection. But the truth is that I adore you, Luiza.”
He spoke with the sincerity of passion, taking her hands in his with an air of authority, almost as if he had the right to do so.
“No,” he said; “you must listen to me. From the first moment in which I saw you again, I loved you as madly as ever. I never ceased to adore you; but I was poor, as you know, and I desired to make you rich and happy! I could not take you with me to Brazil. That would have been to kill you, my beloved. You cannot picture to yourself what that country is! Therefore I wrote you that letter; but what have I not suffered! What tears have I not shed!”