I still remembered what she had said when she returned that first letter to me and I spoke of my love: “You may assume that I love you, too, but I am still a married woman.” It was clear that she cared for me then, and there was no real reason now to believe the contrary, even though she had grown somewhat cool toward me. Lately, I had come to think that she did still love me, out of vanity, perhaps, or fondness or possibly gratitude too; or so it seemed to me. And yet she did not reply to my second letter, either. When she returned from Tijuca, she was less expansive, possibly sadder too. I was the one who had to raise the matter. Her answer: she was not, for the moment, ready to marry again.

“But will you marry one day?” I asked after a short silence.

“By then I’ll be too old.”

“So it won’t be for years?”

“My husband might not be dead.”

I was astonished by this remark.

“But you’re dressed in deep mourning.”

“I read and was told that he was dead, but it might not be true. I’ve seen other certain deaths later proven to be false.”

“If you want absolute certainty,” I said, “I can give it to you.”

Maria Cora turned very pale. Certainty. Certainty about what? She wanted me to tell her everything—everything. The whole situation had become so painful to me that I hesitated no longer, and, having confessed that it had been my intention to tell her nothing and that I had told no one else, either, I promised to do so now, purely in obedience to her request. And I told her about the battle, in all its phases, the risks taken, the words spoken, and, finally, the death of João da Fonseca. She listened in a state of terrible anguish and distress. She nevertheless managed to master her emotions and ask:

“Do you swear that you’re telling the truth?”

“Why would I lie? What I did is enough to prove my sincerity. Tomorrow I will bring you further proof if proof is needed.”

I took her the lock of hair I had cut from the corpse’s head. I also told her—and I admit that my object was to turn her against the memory of her late husband—I told her of Prazeres’s utter despair and grief. I described her and her tears. Maria Cora listened to me with wide, wild eyes. She still felt jealous. When I showed her the lock of hair, she snatched it from me, kissed it, and wept and wept and wept. I felt it was best if I left—for good this time. Days later, I received a response to my letter; she would not marry me.