Every afternoon, when the families went out for their after-dinner walks (people dined early in those days), Mateus would station himself at the center window, elegantly clothed in white against a dark background. He would remain there in a majestic pose for three or four hours, until it was dark. One may reasonably infer an intention on Mateus’s part to be admired and envied, although he confessed no such purpose to anyone, not even to Father Lopes. His good friend the druggist nevertheless drew the inference and communicated it to Bacamarte. The alienist suggested that, as the saddler’s house was of stone, he might have been suffering from petrophilia, an illness that the doctor had discovered and had been studying for some time. This continual gazing at the house . . .

“No, Doctor,” interrupted Crispim Soares vigorously.

“No?”

“Pardon me, but perhaps you don’t know . . . ” And he told the alienist what the saddler did every afternoon.

Simão Bacamarte’s eyes lighted up with scientific voluptuousness. He questioned Crispim at some length, and the answers he received were apparently satisfactory, even pleasant, to him. But there was no suggestion of a sinister intent in the alienist’s face or manner—quite the contrary—as he asked the druggist’s arm for a little stroll in the afternoon sun. It was the first time he had bestowed this honor on his confidant. Crispim, stunned and trembling, accepted the invitation. Just then, two or three people came to see the doctor. Crispim silently consigned them to all the devils. They were delaying the walk; Bacamarte might even take it into his head to invite one of them in Crispim’s stead. What impatience! What anxiety! Finally the visitors left and the two men set out on their walk. The alienist chose the direction of Mateus’s house. He strolled by the window five or six times, slowly, stopping now and then and observing the saddler’s physical attitude and facial expression. Poor Mateus noticed only that he was an object of the curiosity or admiration of the most important figure in Itaguai. He intensified the nobility of his expression, the stateliness of his pose. . . . Alas! he was merely helping to condemn himself. The next day he was committed.

“The Green House is a private prison,” said an unsuccessful doctor.