Obviously, I didn’t leave the government forces at once, I went on to fight a few more battles, but eventually my prime reason for being there prevailed, and I put down my weapons. During the time I was enlisted, I wrote only two letters to Maria Cora, one shortly after taking up that new life, the other after the Battle of Encruzilhada; in that last letter, I said nothing about her husband, nor about his death, nor even that I had seen him. I announced only that the civil war was likely to end soon. In neither of those letters did I make the slightest allusion to my feelings or to the motive for my actions; nevertheless, for anyone who knew about either, the meaning would have been clear. Maria Cora replied only to the first letter, serenely, but not indifferently. It was clear—at least to me—that, although promising nothing, she was grateful, or, if not grateful, admiring. Gratitude and admiration could lead to love.

I did not say—and I still don’t know quite how to say it—that at Encruzilhada, after João da Fonseca had died, I attempted to cut off his head, but I didn’t really want to, and, in the end, I didn’t. My object was quite different, more romantic. Any genuine realists among you must forgive me, but there was a touch of reality in this, too, and I acted in accordance with my state of mind: instead, I cut off a lock of his hair, as the proof of his death that I would take to his widow.

Chapter VI

When I returned to Rio de Janeiro, many months had passed since the Battle of Encruzilhada. However hard I tried to avoid all publicity and to disappear into the shadows, my name had appeared not only in official reports, but also in telegrams and letters. I received various letters of congratulations and inquiry. Please note that I did not return to Rio de Janeiro at once; I preferred to stay in São Paulo and avoid any possible celebrations. One day, when least expected, I took the train to Rio and went straight to the boardinghouse in Catete.