Vítor left Genoveva’s house like a general joyfully leaving the battlefield at nightfall after a victory. All kinds of emotions crowded in on him, offering him sweet consolation: he had been witty and eloquent; he had demonstrated to Genoveva that he could return her scorn in rather gentler kind; he had humiliated Dâmaso, crushed him and confounded him … and he had secured both the portrait and a reason for future visits. He had avenged himself, he had shown his strength and had gained a strategic advantage. ‘I’m another Bismarck!’ he thought, scything through the air with his stick.
Life had never seemed so good, and he felt he was intelligent and strong enough to devise further intrigues, to triumph at parties, to succeed by sheer talent. Waves of ambition swept over him. He rather fancied himself as a poltician. After all, why should he make himself wretched and tie himself to such a woman? He must work, concentrate on his career, become a deputy, a minister; and he could imagine himself walking through the Chiado clutching a document case or treading the carpeted corridors of a ministry with a minister’s portfolio under one arm, the sleeve of which would be embroidered with gold.
He was walking so fast that, outside the post office, he collided with a man whose overcoat was pulled tightly around him.
‘Senhor João Marinho!’
‘Silva, my friend!’
And withdrawing into the shelter of the post office doorway, their talk immediately turned to Genoveva. Marinho had not been back to her house since the soirée; he was embarrassed about it really, but he hadn’t had a moment to himself; then he uttered his usual formulaic words of praise: She was a most distinguished person, none too virtuous, but who cares! If everyone were virtuous, what a dull place the world would be! And he laughed at his own wickedness.
‘Don’t you agree, Silva?’ Then he went on: She was, of course, out of place in Lisbon. She should be in Paris. She’s got spirit and refinement and she’s a marvellous hostess. And her clothes, what could one say? And she knows about carriages too! He had even heard Cora Tear say … good old Cora … the ‘Mary Magdalene of the Debauch’. That’s what he used to call her. He was the one who gave her that name. Once, he even said it to the Prince of Orange. And his Highness actually laughed.
And he himself burst out laughing, stamping his foot. Then he calmed down again and rolled his eyes. He had completely forgotten what he was saying; he did sometimes suffer these lapses of memory.
‘It was something about Cora.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he almost yelled. ‘Cora. Cora said of her: Elle est trés futée, cette petite Portugaise! I knew her well. And Monsieur de Molineux was a funny old chap … But what suppers! That’s all over with now though … Paris without an empire isn’t worth a thing.’ And he shook his head sadly, as if he could see laid out before him the ruins of France.
But Vítor, seized by a sudden idea, said familiarly:
‘Marinho, do you fancy having supper with me at the Central?’
‘My dear chap, I’d love to. We can have a private room; they’ve got a delicious Mouton-Rothschild, and very cheap; we can order a couple of bottles … Would six o’clock suit you?’
‘Six at the Casa Havanesa.’
‘Au revoir!’
And for no apparent reason, Marinho’s whole face convulsed with laughter. He moved off, his overcoat flapping in the wind.
Vítor thought the supper an excellent idea. A well-fed, well-oiled Marinho was bound to tell him everything he knew about Genoveva. Vítor would thus clear up certain obscure points; he would at last have a proper idea as to the identity of that ‘adventuress’. He wanted to know about her past, about her lovers, about wild Paris nights; he would beat Marinho’s memories like someone beating woods to drive out a hare.
He went straight to Camilo Cerrão’s fourth-floor apartment to warn him that Genoveva was expecting them the following day at two o’clock.
Camilo’s beautiful wife, his ‘female’, came to open the door. She blushed slightly when she saw him and said that Camilo wasn’t in.
‘Could I leave him a note then?’
Joana showed him into the studio, and Vítor observed her while she was looking for pen and ink. It was winter, and yet either out of habit or poverty, or because she disdained comfort, she was wearing a grubby, faded dressing gown over her nightdress, revealing every movement of her magnificent body; she was clearly wearing no under-bodice, and her breasts were worthy of Praxiteles’ Aphrodite. Shut up in that fourth-floor apartment, she had lost her fresh village complexion; her hands, though, were rough and red from plebeian work; there was a statuesque beauty about her shoulders, hips and arms; one sensed the warm blood circulating beneath soft, milky skin. What most troubled Vítor, though, was that faded dressing gown, which clung to her body and, when she moved, revealed her almost as if she were naked. She seemed taller in the low-ceilinged room; amidst the artistic debris of paintings, sketches and plaster statues, she looked like a living statue dressed as a cook, with her angular profile, solid Roman head, round, firm chin, and dark, startled eyes, velvety and thick-lashed.
‘Don’t worry if there’s no pen,’ said Vítor, ‘I’ll use a pencil.’
She walked over to the window, and when he turned round, Vítor saw that she was staring at him with her superb, dark eyes. His heart beat faster; he was shaken by a gust of pagan sensuality. The silence in the studio, the battered chaise, aroused in him a brutish desire, and his hand trembled as he wrote.
‘Right,’ he said when he had finished. ‘I’ll leave the note here for him.’
She looked down. Vítor did not leave; he slowly drew on his gloves; he was slightly pale and felt embarrassed, troubled, fumbling for something to say.
‘It’s a lovely day,’ he said at last.
‘Yes, it is.’
She had a soft, musical voice. Vítor began studying the walls, as if interested in the sketches. He went over to the easel on which stood a painting of a sunset, the paint thickly and clumsily applied; in it a tree trunk lay fallen near a hut.
‘This is nice,’ he said, turning to her and indicating the canvas.
She remained by the window, where her magnificent breasts were outlined against the rather dim, murky light. She had her hands clasped in front of her.
Vítor had to force himself not to touch her, not to lay his hands on her, such was the magnetic attraction of her splendid body.
‘You won’t forget to give him the note, will you?’
‘No, sir.’
Vítor looked for his notebook; he had dropped it on the chaise, but couldn’t find it, and was looking all around him. She helped him look, and they both saw it, caught between the chaise and the wall. As they stooped to pick it up, his chest brushed her shoulder. He felt a delicious, animal warmth on his skin, like a firm caress. When Joana stood up, her face was scarlet; she looked timid, frightened, and her eyes now seemed more sombre.
Vítor held out his hand to her:
‘Good afternoon, madam.’
‘Goodbye.’
Her hand grasped Vítor’s and lay, soft, dead and rough as a washerwoman’s in his hand.
Out in the street again, Vítor took a deep breath. He felt as if he had just escaped from an oven charged with an unhealthy, heavily sensual atmosphere. That woman made him uneasy, the way sultry, stormy weather did. He swore never to be left alone with her again, because, if he did, he couldn’t answer for his behaviour.
But he couldn’t forget her strong, robust, pagan beauty and, above all, how the touch of that body had filled him with a sense of melting, delicious, intoxicating warmth.
‘God, what a terrifying creature!’
By six o’clock, however, he had forgotten all about her and was walking spryly down Rua do Alecrim with Marinho, on their way to the Hotel Central for supper. As soon as they arrived, Marinho summoned the maître d’hotel, with whom he had a discreet, thoughtful discussion, then joined Vítor in the library, where Vítor was leafing through a book of caricatures by Gavarni.
‘The supper menu looks delicious, but we have to wait half an hour.’ Then, seeing what Vítor was reading, he exclaimed: ‘Oh, I love Gavarni, he’s so amusing!’ To pass the half hour before supper, he suggested they go upstairs to see a special friend of his, the Baron de Markstein, a diplomat, who was rather poorly. And when Vítor hesitated, he added:
‘Don’t worry, I’ll introduce you. He’s an excellent person, a good client of mine. A real gentleman.’
Out of indolence and inertia, Vítor let himself be dragged up to the diplomat’s blue silk-lined room. The Baron came mincing in, wearing a floral dressing gown which he held wrapped about him with his left hand, while, with his right hand, he kept doffing a Turkish fez and bowing repeatedly. He had a black silk scarf about his neck and wore a vague expression of foolish melancholy on his pale, thin face. He shook Marinho’s hand warmly, invited Vítor to sit down, offered them cigars in a faint voice, and apologised, explaining that he had caught a cold last Sunday coming home from the Marquis’ house. He had even had to have a tooth out.
Marinho expressed his deepest regrets. The Baron gave a sad, resigned shrug, and they both smiled and made comforting noises to each other. Marinho then mentioned the imminent departure – so people said – of the Spanish ambassador. The Baron grew heated and, getting to his feet, declared that nothing had been decided, nothing at all; that something of the sort might well happen, but they were still only at the discussion stage; he could confirm nothing, that would be too dangerous; it was a possibility, but he must abstain from giving any firm opinion; it was an extremely delicate matter, and they must draw no false conclusions from anything he said, for he knew no more than anyone else; he knew only that it was a possibility, but that didn’t mean he knew anything or had been told anything, not at all. He was always very cautious about such things. He raised one hand to his chin and pulled a grim face that dissolved into a smile.
Then, wanting to show Marinho the latest photograph he had had taken of himself, he minced back into his bedroom.
Marinho turned to Vítor and rolled his eyes as if to say: ‘A great man and so deep!’
The Baron returned with his collection of photographs of himself. They showed him in morning clothes, in uniform, dressed for a ball, leaning against a truncated column, in hunting gear, and, lastly, in philosophical pose, studying a map, his cheek resting on his hand. He stood there, his fingers on his chin, awaiting Marinho’s reaction.
‘Admirable!’ said Marinho.
The Baron confided that he had offered one to His Majesty the King. He had hesitated about doing so – it was, after all, a very delicate matter, and he had given it great thought. But since the King had once asked him jokingly if he could have a photograph of him, he had felt that he could … His Majesty, as everyone knew, was kindness itself. Indeed, the King not only deigned to accept his portrait, he reciprocated with one of himself. A great man. He couldn’t have been more pleased than if he had presented him with the Grand Cross. Not that he had ambitions in that direction, he wouldn’t want his words to be misinterpreted … Oh, but the King was so friendly, one couldn’t imagine a kinder, simpler, more affable monarch. He had immediately informed his own government about the honour the King had done him. He hadn’t received a response yet, but he was sure it would make a good impression, oh yes, a very good impression.
Then, turning to Vítor, he said how much he liked Portugal; the climate was divine, the society perfect and the people so extraordinarily kind …
He then offered Marinho one of his photographs, slipped it into an envelope, licked it energetically and with bureaucratic thoroughness, despite his poorly condition, and handed it to him with a bow. And when they made to leave, he came with them to the door, still insisting that he knew nothing about the Spanish ambassador’s withdrawal, that he had merely expressed a personal opinion, that ‘it was a very delicate matter’.
He asked where Vítor lived. He declared that he had rarely met such a knowledgeable young man; he asked if he would see him on Thursday at the Prime Minister’s house and proffered a few words about the Prime Minister’s reputation throughout the rest of Europe; then he stood at the door, bent into an F, muttering words of farewell into his moustache.
‘A very deep man,’ Marinho said, carrying the photograph as carefully as if it were a holy sacrament.
They enjoyed a long, delicious, copious supper. The Mouton-Rothschild was excellent.
Naturally, they spoke about Genoveva, but Marinho who seemed to have caught the Baron’s infectious diplomatic caution, confined himself to vague generalities. He spoke more about Monsieur de Molineux, described his political views, the beautiful mansion he owned on Rue de Lord Byron, his voracious appetite at table, his repellently aged body, his vices …
‘So did she have any lovers during that time?’ asked Vítor. ‘She couldn’t have been contented just with the old man …’
‘Oh, he may have been old,’ said Marinho, chuckling, ‘but he had a lot of experience and great abilities …’ By which he implied that the old man’s knowledge of debauchery made up for his lack of youth.
He almost wept when the waiter came in bearing a perdreau au choux. He checked to see that the little slice of Roquefort he had specified was there, and when he saw it was, his eyes welled up and he looked at the waiter and at Vítor with tender gratitude.
He served himself generously, filled his glass, made sure he had the right knife and enough bread, that the window was properly closed, that the gaslight was working, and then, at peace with the world, he attacked the partridge, saying to Vítor:
‘I’m not one to speak ill of anyone. I’m no gossip, as you know. I see, I hear, I say nothing. That’s my philosophy.’
He wriggled about in his seat, as if someone were tickling him, and said again:
‘That’s my philosophy. But the fact is that, while poor old Molineux was still alive, there was one very good-looking lad, La Rechantraye was his name, who was a frequent visitor to the house. Not that I saw anything myself, you understand …’
But under the influence of the partridge and the Mouton-Rothschild, he admitted that he had seen something.
He didn’t want to speak ill of anyone, but he was there one day, and he did see … something. It was at a soirée in poor Molineux’s house; there was a conservatory next to the dining room; everyone else was in the gaming room, and he just happened to go into the rather dimly lit conservatory … not that he wished to speak ill of anyone, but … he leaned towards Vítor, he saw Genoveva lying in the young man’s arms, running her fingers through his hair. ‘That’s what I saw!’
Vítor pushed his glass away from him so brusquely that it tipped over, spilling the wine. Marinho immediately dabbed two fingers on the drenched tablecloth and made a mark on his forehead. For good luck, he said.
‘And what happened to the young man?’
‘He’s dead, dead!’ And Marinho’s voice took on a lugubrious tone. ‘He died in the war.’
Vítor felt pleased and rather grateful to the victorious Germans.
Marinho gave a careless shrug, then, spotting a bottle of champagne, he blurted out:
‘The woman has no heart! Just between you and me, not that I’m a gossip, of course, but just between you and me, I think she’s an adventuress.’
And he added:
‘Of the very worst kind.’
He tried the champagne, found it excellent and, leaning back in his chair, declared that he had always had his suspicions about Genoveva.
‘But why?’
‘There’s some mystery there,’ said Marinho, looking very solemn and adding in sepulchral tones: ‘Some hidden tragedy.’
Vítor’s curiosity knew no bounds. He leaned on the table, devouring Marinho with his eyes. But the excellent chap spoke only intermittently, occupied as he now was with his roast beef, eating methodically, smacking his lips and savouring every mouthful. It was only when the waiter brought in the charlotte russe that Marinho drew one hand across his brow, as if to bring clarity and order to his thoughts, and revealed everything:
‘What made me distrust her was this. I knew she was Portuguese. Well, that was easy enough; she had the most diabolical French accent. Not so much now, but then she did. Such open e’s and o’s – awful. Awful! I’m not the suspicious sort, you know that, but I was curious to find out the truth. I wanted to know where she came from, from Lisbon or the provinces. She told me she was from Madeira. What was her family name, I asked. Gomes, she said. Gomes? I said to myself … I just didn’t believe she was from Madeira, not for a moment. I’ve got a good nose for these things.’ And he sniffed his way across the table. ‘I said to myself “You’re not from Madeira, and your name’s not Gomes!” But, what did it matter, one dined superbly at her house and she was very charming. What did I care who she was? None of the other Portuguese in Paris knew her. And then, she’s not young. She must be thirty-nine or forty now, but very well preserved. Have you seen her in a low-cut dress? Oh!’ Marinho threw his arms up in the air. ‘Such a throat, such breasts! It’s enough to drive a man wild.’ And his pupils grew extraordinarily dilated. ‘Well, one day, a Brazilian by the name of Couceiro appears at their house, a friend of … of … oh, I can’t remember now. This memory of mine, really! A vulgar man, who looked like a …’ He searched for the right word, but then announced resolutely: ‘Oh, what the devil, we’re amongst friends … He looked like a thug. And he was!’ He added in sombre tones: ‘No one knew much about him, but there was talk of a murder. He had married the widow of a very wealthy man for whom he worked as a cashier, and he later went bankrupt. He lived in Paris, though, in the most extraordinary luxury. That’s all talk, of course, and in the worst possible taste. Genoveva knew perfectly well what everyone was saying about the Brazilian, but she still received him in her house; after all, what did it matter to her? He was a millionaire, he had gambled and lost; who cared if he had or hadn’t killed someone; such things are of no importance in Paris. Did he have money? Fine, then, “Come here, my dear!” One evening, at supper, Couceiro said in Portuguese to Genoveva: “Do you know Guarda at all?” I was looking straight at her and I saw her …’
The door opened and the waiter came in, saying that the Baron de Markstein had asked if they would mind if he joined them for coffee.
‘Certainly not,’ said Vítor, glancing at Marinho. ‘I mean, certainly he can.’
‘So kind, so kind,’ said Marinho, looking radiant.
‘Go on, Marinho. You were saying … You saw her …’
‘Saw what?’
‘Saw Genoveva when the Brazilian said …’
But the door opened again, and the Baron entered, repeatedly doffing his fez. He begged reassurance that he wasn’t being a nuisance; but he had felt so alone in his room and he knew how kind the Portuguese were, well, it had been proved to him time and again … and he had thought … But they were sure it wasn’t inconvenient. He wasn’t interrupting anything?
And only when they had both said: ‘No, no, of course not’ did he sit down, gesturing and bowing, begging them not to go to any trouble, simply to pretend he wasn’t there; then, stirring his coffee, he asked, as a favour, for any society news. He had been shut in his room for days and he knew nothing about what was going on. Who had gone to the Brazilian minister’s house? Had the King’s reception been well attended? Had so-and-so been there, and so-and-so? How was His Majesty? What was on at the opera? He knew nothing, he felt positively ashamed.
But Marinho knew everything and reported in detail. Vítor, furiously peeling a tangerine, incensed at being interrupted, listened to that conversation about people he did not know, feeling rather humiliated, afraid that, if the Baron were to ask him, he would have to admit his complete lack of aristocratic connections.
To avoid that possibility, he threw in a few comments about the Far East – did they think there would be a war?
The Baron sank his chin into his silk scarf and shrugged: It was hard to say; one couldn’t really venture an opinion; everything was so very complex; but it was a grave situation; not that they should give much weight to his words just because he was a diplomat, he was merely expressing a personal opinion. But the situation was indeed very grave. That is all he could venture to say. Would there or would there not be war, that was the question. Things were looking very serious indeed.
Gazing into his cup, absorbed in thought, his eyebrows raised, he slowly stirred his coffee.
Vítor was talking about the Chancellor of the Empire, Prince Gucharof …
‘A very deep-thinking man,’ the Baron remarked at once.
Vítor mentioned Bismarck.
‘Extremely worried,’ said the Baron, and added that ‘it was all very grave, very grave indeed.’
And he invited them to spend the rest of the evening with him. The minister from France was coming and the Italian attaché; they could have a game of whist. Marinho accepted with alacrity and joy, as long as the stakes were not too high, because otherwise … amongst friends, one didn’t want to lose too much.
The Baron said: ‘Absolutely!’ and expressed his regret that Vítor could not stay.
‘I can’t, I’m afraid. We have visitors at home.’
The Baron bowed and suggested they go up to his room; he had some excellent cognac and cigars … But Vítor, unable to speak privately to Marinho and extract the rest of Genoveva’s story from him, said his goodbyes in the corridor:
‘I’ll come and see you, Marinho.’
‘Oh, yes, do, dear friend, do. An excellent supper, delicious.’
And Marinho contentedly followed the Baron, who turned on the stairs and waved to Vítor, doffing his fez again and again.
Vítor left feeling thwarted. He had a profound need to know the end of the story. He decided that the next day he would go to see Marinho at the Hotel Universal, but then, wandering aimlessly about, he found himself going down Rua do Correio towards São Bento. It had not occurred to him that this would lead him straight past Genoveva’s house. Dâmaso’s coupé was at the door; the lights were on in the living room and in her bedroom. That only upset him more and, feeling sorry for that poor fool Dâmaso for being embroiled with such an adventuress, he strode furiously down the street, his angry thoughts in turmoil, wanting both to beat Genoveva and to bite that marvellous neck of hers, of which Marinho had spoken, filling Vítor’s blood with tremulous, glittering desires.
That evening, Genoveva had, in fact, sent Dâmaso this note:
‘Forgive me, my dear; I was upset; I didn’t know what I was saying today. Please come; I’ve done nothing but cry since you left.’
And Dâmaso, thrilled, had arrived at the gallop.
Genoveva had calmed down since the morning and had reflected upon the inconvenience of quarrelling with Dâmaso; after all, he had the money; whatever she might feel or subsequently decide to do, she must not offend him; if her passion and her self-interest demanded it, she could get rid of him later, but until that time, it was best to seduce him, dazzle him, enslave him, and, note by note, squeeze the last drops of generosity from him. She dressed somewhat provocatively and thus ‘armed’ (as she put it), she awaited the beast.
The moment he came in, breathless, she held out her two hands to him in a gesture full of loving humility, saying:
‘Forgive me. My nerves were bad today.’
She was surprised, however, to find that Dâmaso’s brow remained furrowed; she contained her anger and, placing her hands on his shoulders, murmured:
‘But what can I do? All women suffer with their nerves. I just lost control.’
Still frowning, Dâmaso mumbled:
‘You went too far. You sent me away. I like things clear-cut and I don’t like scenes.’
She curtseyed and moved away.
‘Fine,’ she said icily. ‘Let’s shake hands and let that be an end to it. Our relationship is over. We will be just good friends.’ She affected a slight tremor in her voice. ‘It’s rather cold today, isn’t it?’
Dâmaso was devouring her with sensual eyes; he burst out:
‘You don’t love me, Genoveva!’
She smiled sadly and cast her eyes heavenward as if to ask heaven, her confidante, to bear witness.
‘I don’t love him!’ she said angrily. ‘Who do you take me for? What kind of woman do you think I am? I wouldn’t lie about loving you. But, let’s not talk about this any more. It’s over. What’s on at the Teatro de São Carlos tonight?’
She was sitting in a way that emphasised her delicious curves.
He dropped down on the sofa beside her, almost crushing her feet.
‘Ouch, you’re hurting me!’ she said in heartfelt tones.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to.’ And he sat nearer the edge of the sofa. He took her hand in his plump hands. ‘Just tell me that you love me.’
She sat up, put her arms about his neck and, in a warm voice, her amorous breath brushing his cheek, said:
‘Why else am I in Lisbon? Why? I have friends and acquaintances in Paris who would give anything, money, possessions, their life, to be sitting here with me on this sofa as you are. But why am I here in Lisbon?’ Her voice became passionate and intense. ‘Because of you!’
And she kissed his earlobe. Dâmaso shivered with delight; he put his arms about her and stammered:
‘Do you swear?’
‘I swear, my kitten!’ And she drew him close, touched him, aroused him, kissed him, with caresses that burned and words that intoxicated. ‘I love you so much, you and your chubby cheeks; I can’t resist you. And you know it perfectly well, you rascal; that’s why you take advantage of me. Say you love your little Genoveva. Go on, say it. But say it properly; whisper in my ear; tell me with your mouth …’
Dâmaso was panting, sighing, he had fire in his blood.
‘Mélanie!’ shouted Genoveva in a harsh, resonant voice.
Mélanie came running in and smiled when she saw Dâmaso there; she greeted him, expressing the household’s general delight to have him back, the beloved, the master, the lord.
‘Bring us something to drink, Mélanie.’ Then, turning to Dâmaso: ‘What would you like, my love? Make him something special, Mélanie. Would you like some Turkish coffee?’
Dâmaso hesitated; his face was red and congested. And Genoveva impulsively grasped his head in her hands.
‘Oh, that big head of yours! What have you done to me? Why do I love you so? You’re not particularly handsome or very intelligent … What have you done to me?’ Then in a low voice: ‘Make him a Turkish coffee, Mélanie.’
She next ran to the piano and said in a light, cheery voice:
‘You see? I’m a new woman. You just have to appear, and I’m a new woman.’ And she sang:
Chaque femme a sa toquade,
Sa marotte et son dada!
She broke off and went over to him:
‘You’re my toquade, my marotte, my dada.’
Dâmaso, however, with a look of very bourgeois distrust, muttered:
‘Then why were you making eyes at that idiot, Vítor?’
‘Making eyes?’ asked Genoveva, and she burst out laughing and asked again: ‘Making eyes? At that poppinjay? Why? Well, because he’s handsome.’ Then smiling: ‘But I’ve seen plenty of handsome men, my dear! Who cares about Vítor? Forget about him.’
And Dâmaso said to her:
‘All right, but do one thing for me: let’s go and spend a fortnight in Sintra together.’
That sudden proposal took Genoveva by surprise. She turned round and looked down, the way she did when she wanted to hide her feelings. She asked:
‘To Sintra? But why?’
‘Just for a couple of weeks. It’s fun there. The weather’s beautiful. We can go to my house, if you like; otherwise we can go to the Hotel Lawrence.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Genoveva.
‘You see, you don’t want to leave Lisbon, that’s what it is. Do you think I don’t understand? I can see what’s going on.’
Genoveva shot him a fierce, revealing look. At that moment, she felt nothing but intense hatred for Dâmaso. Instead, she opened her arms wide, and with a sad look, said:
‘There you are, you see. I was so happy and then you go and make a scene with your nonsensical ideas and … No, it’s too much. It’s over. It’s best to finish now.’
And she walked across the room, her handkerchief pressed to her lips, her silk train rustling on the floor.
Dâmaso put an arm about her waist and spoke to her over her shoulder:
‘But why are you so against going to Sintra? I’m only asking you this one thing. We would spend two weeks there in the lap of luxury; we could take the caleche, we could eat and drink …’
While he was talking, Genoveva suddenly saw the great advantage in their being alone together; it was an opportunity to ‘fleece’ him thoroughly.
She turned to look at him, her eyes still blazing.
‘All right, my love, if that’s what you want. I’m happy wherever you’re happy. Are there fireplaces in your house?’
‘No, but you can stay at the Lawrence. I’ll expect you tomorrow. I’ve prepared everything in grand style; it’s lovely in Sintra. It’ll be our honeymoon, eh? Am I right?’
‘You’re a saint … and you’re all mine.’
That night, they agreed to leave Rua de São Bento. Dâmaso had rented a furnished apartment in Rua das Flores; he would buy some new furniture too, as well as a carriage, and install her officially as ‘Dâmaso’s mistress’.
The next day, Vítor was impatiently waiting for Camilo Cerrão in order to go to Genoveva’s house. The meeting had been arranged for two o’clock, but it was already a quarter to and Camilo had still not appeared. Vítor was waiting in the living room, nervously putting on his gloves only to take them off again, pacing up and down, constantly going over to the window to look out.
At two o’clock, he sent a messenger to Cerrão’s house. The gentleman was not in. At half past two, in a state of fury, he himself went. A small, tousled boy opened the door and said that Senhor Cerrão had not been seen since the morning. Vítor went down the stairs, cursing Camilo, and went back to his own house to find out if Camilo had arrived in his absence or sent a note. Nothing. He went to the Teatro de Variedades where Camilo worked. He went upstairs to ask if he was there, but he wasn’t. It was three o’clock; they had missed the appointment. He decided that Camilo was a scoundrel unworthy of interest; he would make sure he did not get the commission for the portrait; Camilo would perish in obscurity and poverty. ‘The fool!’ he said, walking back through the Chiado in despair.
He began writing a note to Genoveva and, after tearing up his first few attempts, he decided to adopt a lighter tone.
‘With the absentmindedness of all men of genius, the great artist entirely forgot you had honoured him with an invitation to your house. Artists are like children, whom one must forgive often because they feel things so deeply. However, as soon as I locate him, I will lead him, bound hand and foot, so that he may ask your pardon and contemplate his model.’
The satisfaction he gained from composing the note slightly dissipated his irritation at having missed the appointment. And to distract himself, he went to see Aninhas, where Rosa told him:
‘My mistress is in a terrible state!’
He found Aninhas lying on her bed, her faced bathed in tears. With red eyes and a look of terror on her face, she begged him, for the love of God, not to stay. She was lost. Policarpo had received an anonymous letter informing him of her affair with Vítor; Policarpo was furious; he wanted to leave her and take away her monthly allowance. ‘What will I do, what will I do?’
‘But what did you tell him?’ asked Vítor, frightened.
‘I denied it, of course. I flatly denied it, but the brute wouldn’t believe me. He said he was going to consult a friend and then he left. I’m expecting him any moment.’
She rolled about on the bed, uttering tormented cries.
Vítor was horrified; honour demanded that if Policarpo abandoned her, then he would have to protect her. Looming before him he saw only embarrassment, expense, restriction, dullness. He was touched by her tears, though; he was on the point of consoling her by saying that he would ‘make her happy’. However, he feared making such a positive commitment and said instead:
‘I’d better go then, in case he should arrive.’
Aninhas flung her arms about his neck.
‘What will become of me? I’ve lit a candle to Our Lady of Joy, but who knows? He said he would be back at four o’clock, the brute. Oh, Vítor, if I’m left with nothing, will you help me, my love?’
‘What a question, my dear. Everything will be all right.’
‘Off you go, then. I’ll write and tell you what happens.’
Someone rang the door bell.
Aninhas stared at him, petrified.
‘It’s him! May Our Lady help me! Vítor, I’m lost.’
She was pale and trembling, clinging on to Vítor, who was looking desperately around for some hiding place, some hole, some way out.
Aninhas breathed a sigh of relief; she had recognised the voice of the woman selling fruit. Pressing her hands to her heart, she said:
‘Oh, what a fright! I nearly died. The things I suffer for you, my love.’
Vítor was touched and kissed her tenderly; she accompanied him to the door, calling out to Rosa to be sure to keep the little lamp to Our Lady of Joy filled with oil.