“But I can’t, Custódio. I simply don’t have that kind of money. Business is bad, and even if it were going really well, I wouldn’t be able to lay my hands on that amount. Who could ever expect five contos from a humble notary?”

“If you really wanted to . . .”

“But I do want to. All I’m saying is that if it were a small amount, proportionate to my means, I would have no hesitation in advancing it. But five contos! Believe me, it’s quite impossible.”

Custódio’s spirits sank. He had climbed up Jacob’s ladder to heaven, but instead of descending like the angels in the biblical dream, he had tumbled down and fallen flat on his face. This was his last hope, and precisely because it had arisen so unexpectedly, he was convinced it would bear fruit, since, like all souls who trust themselves to happenstance, Custódio was a superstitious man. The poor wretch could feel his body being pierced all over by every one of those millions of needles that the factory would undoubtedly produce during its first six months. Speechless, eyes downcast, he waited for the notary to continue, to take pity on him and give him a chance. But, sensing this, the notary remained equally silent, turning his snuff box around and around in his hand, and breathing heavily, with a certain knowing, nasal whistle. Custódio attempted every possible pose, now a beggar, now a general. The notary would not be moved. Custódio stood up.

”In that case,” he said, with just a touch of resentment, “forgive me for bothering you . . .”

“There’s nothing to forgive: it is I who must apologize for not being able to help you, as I would have liked. As I said, had the amount been smaller, much smaller, I would not have hesitated; however . . .”