By the time he had reached his destination, he had told every rosary bead of the comendador’s life, and he entered the house with his right foot first for luck. He had decided that, despite the sadness of the occasion, he would stay there for some time, and luck was on his side. Brito was in the front room, talking to his wife, when he was told that João das Mercês was asking after the two people who had received the last rites. His wife withdrew, and the sacristan entered, apologizing profusely and saying that he would not stay long. He had just been passing and wondered if they had already gone up into heaven or were still in this world. He was, naturally, interested in anything that affected the comendador.

“No, they haven’t died, and may yet live, although I think it highly unlikely that she will survive,” said Brito.

“They both seemed to be in a very bad way.”

“Oh, yes, especially her, because she’s the worst affected by the fever. They fell ill here, in our house, soon after they arrived from Campinas a few days ago.”

“So they were already here?” asked the sacristan, astonished that he had known nothing of their arrival.

“Yes, they arrived nearly two weeks ago. They came with my nephew Carlos, and caught the fever here—”

Brito suddenly broke off, or so it seemed to the sacristan, who adopted the expression of someone eager to know more. Brito, however, sat for a moment biting his lip and staring at the wall, and did not notice the expectant look on the sacristan’s face, and so both sat on in silence. Brito ended up walking the length of the room, and João das Mercês thought to himself that there was clearly more to this than a mere fever. He wondered, at first, if perhaps the doctors had made a wrong diagnosis or prescribed the wrong medicine; or if there was some other concealed illness, which Brito was calling a fever in order to cover up the truth. He kept his eyes fixed on the comendador as he paced up and down the room, treading very softly so as not to disturb anyone else in the house. From within came the occasional faint murmur of conversation, a call, an order, a door opening or closing. None of this would have been of any importance to those with their minds on other things, but our sacristan had but one thought, to find out what he did not already know. At the very least, some information about the patients’ family, their social position, whether they were married or single, some page from their lives; anything was better than nothing, however removed it was from his own little parish.

“Ah!” cried Brito, stopping his pacing.