This last good deed of Costa’s persuaded both the credulous and incredulous; no one now doubted the chivalrous sentiments of that worthy citizen. Even the most timid of paupers ventured out in their old slippers and threadbare capes to knock at his door. One worm, however, still gnawed at Costa’s soul: it was the idea of that bystander disliking him. But even this came to an end: three months later, the very same bystander came and asked him for one hundred and twenty cruzados, promising to pay him back two days later. This was all that was left of Costa’s inheritance, but it was also a noble revenge: Costa lent him the money that very instant, and without interest. Unfortunately, time ran out before he was repaid; five months later he was bundled off to the Casa Verde.

One can well imagine the consternation in Itaguaí when people learned what had happened. People spoke of nothing else; it was said that Costa had gone mad over breakfast, others said it was in the middle of the night. Accounts were given of his outbursts, which were either violent, dark, and terrifying, or gentle and even funny, depending on which version you heard. Many people rushed to the Casa Verde, where they found poor Costa looking quite calm, if a little dazed, and talking perfectly lucidly and asking why he had been taken there. Some went to see the alienist. Bacamarte applauded such sentiments of kindness and compassion, but added that science was science, and that he could not leave a madman wandering the streets. The last person to intercede on his behalf (because after what I am about to tell you everyone was too terrified to go anywhere near the doctor) was an unfortunate lady, one of Costa’s cousins. The alienist told her confidentially that this worthy man was not in perfect command of his mental faculties, as could be seen from the way in which he had dissipated his fortune—

“No! Absolutely not!” the good lady said emphatically, interrupting him. “It’s not his fault he spent all the money so quickly.”

“Isn’t it?”