“All right, it’s over,” I said finally; “but explain one thing to me—why did you ask me if I was afraid of being beaten?”
“No reason at all,” Capitu replied, after some hesitation. “Why bring that up again?”
“Tell me though. Was it because of the seminary?”
“Yes; I’ve heard they beat the boys there … No? I don’t believe it either.”
I was satisfied with the explanation; there could be no other. If, as I think, Capitu was not telling the truth, one has to admit that she could not tell it, lying is like one of those maids who are quick to reply to visitors that “Madam’s gone out,” when madam doesn’t wish to speak to anyone. Such complicity gives a peculiar pleasure; sharing the sin makes people more equal, to say nothing of the pleasure of seeing the faces of those who have been deceived, and their backs as they go down the steps … Truth had not gone out, it was at home, in Capitu’s heart, half asleep over its own repentance. And I didn’t leave sad or angry; I thought the maid delightful, alluring, better than the mistress.
The swallows now flew by in the opposite direction, or perhaps they weren’t the same ones. We, however, were the same; there we were, sharing our illusions and our fears, and already beginning to share our memories.