Good, kind Conceição! People called her “a saint,” and she did full justice to that title, given how easily she put up with her husband’s neglect. Hers was a very moderate nature, with no extremes, no tearful tantrums, and no great outbursts of hilarity. In this respect, she would have been fine as a Muslim woman and would have been quite happy in a harem, as long as appearances were maintained. May God forgive me if I’m misjudging her, but everything about her was contained and passive. Even her face was average, neither pretty nor ugly. She was what people call “a nice person.” She never spoke ill of anyone and was very forgiving. She wouldn’t have known how to hate anyone, nor, perhaps, how to love them.

On that particular Christmas Eve, the notary went off to the theater. It was around 1861 or 1862. I should have been in Mangaratiba on holiday, but I had stayed until Christmas because I wanted to see what midnight mass was like in the big city. The family retired to bed at the usual time, and I waited in the front room, dressed and ready. From there I could go out into the hallway and leave the house without disturbing anyone. There were three keys to the front door: the notary had one, I would take the second, and the third would remain in the house.

“But Senhor Nogueira, what will you do to fill the time?” Conceição’s mother asked.

“I’ll read, Dona Inácia.”

I had with me a novel, The Three Musketeers, in an old translation published, I think, by the Jornal do Commercio. I sat down at the table in the middle of the room, and by the light of an oil lamp, while the rest of the house was sleeping, I once again climbed onto D’Artagnan’s scrawny horse and set off on an adventure. I was soon completely intoxicated by Dumas. The minutes flew past, as they so rarely do when one is waiting; I heard the clock strike eleven, but barely took any notice, as if it were of no importance. However, the sound of someone stirring in the house roused me from my reading: footsteps in the passageway between the parlor and the dining room. I looked up and, soon afterward, saw Conceição appear in the doorway.

“Still here?” she asked.

“Yes, it’s not yet midnight.”

“Such patience!”

Conceição came into the room, her bedroom slippers flip-flapping. She was wearing a white dressing gown, loosely tied at the waist. She was quite thin and this somehow lent her a romantic air, rather in keeping with my adventure story. I closed the book, and she went and sat on the chair next to mine, near the couch. When I asked if I had unwittingly woken her by making a noise, she immediately said:

“No, not at all. I simply woke up.”