In a large house across the street a ball was taking place, and the dancing had started. Joaninha was watching; Rangel watched too. Through the windows they could see the couples passing to and fro, swaying to the music, the ladies in their silks and laces, the gentlemen refined and elegant, some wearing medals. From time to time there was a flash of diamonds, swift and fleeting, amid the swirl of the dance. Couples talking, epaulets gleaming, men bowing, fans beckoning; all this could be glimpsed through the windows, which did not reveal the entire ballroom, but the rest could be imagined. He, at least, knew all of it, and described everything to the clerk’s daughter. The demons of grandeur, which had seemed to be lying dormant, started once again to perform their prancing pantomimes in our friend’s heart, and, lo and behold, began to seduce the young lady’s heart too.

“I know someone who would be entirely at home over there,” murmured Rangel.

“Why, you, of course,” replied Joaninha, without a hint of guile.

Rangel smiled, flattered, and didn’t know what to say. He looked at the footmen and liveried coachmen in the street, huddled in groups or leaning against the sides of the carriages. He began pointing out the various carriages to Joaninha: this one’s the Marquis of Olinda’s, that one belongs to the Viscount of Maranguape, and look, here comes another one, turning into the street from Rua da Lapa. It pulls up opposite: the footman jumps down, opens the carriage door, removes his hat, and stands at attention. From inside the carriage emerges a bald pate, a head, a man, two medals, then a richly dressed lady; they step into the entrance hall and ascend the grand staircase, carpeted and adorned with two large vases at its foot.

“Joaninha, Senhor Rangel . . .”

That blasted game! And just as he was formulating in his head some knowing comment regarding the couple ascending the stairs, from which he would have slipped naturally into giving her the letter . . . Rangel obeyed the summons and sat down opposite the young lady. Dona Adelaide, who had taken charge of the game, was collecting names; each person was to be a flower. Of course, Uncle Rufino, ever the jester, chose for himself the pumpkin flower. Rangel, wishing to avoid such trivialities, weighed up the potential of each flower and, when the lady of the house asked him for his, answered slowly and softly:

“Jasmine, senhora.”

“What a shame Calisto isn’t here!” sighed the court clerk.

“Did he actually say he was coming?”

“He did; indeed, he came to the office yesterday for the sole purpose of telling me he would be arriving late, but that he would definitely make it; he had to stop by first at some jolly down in Rua da Carioca.”

“Room for two?” boomed a voice from the hallway.

“Thank goodness for that! Here he is, the man himself!”