at she is in the city, perhaps
not far away even. I myself have visited many houses under pretext of
renting them. She will fare better with me a hundred times; where she
is, whole legions of poor people dwell. Besides, I shall spare nothing
for her sake. Thou writest that I have chosen well. I have chosen
suffering and sorrow. We shall go first to those houses which are in
the city, then beyond the gates. Hope looks for something every morning,
otherwise life would be impossible. Thou sayest that one should know how
to love. I knew how to talk of love to Lygia. But now I only yearn; I do
nothing but wait for Chilo. Life to me is unendurable in my own house.
Farewell!"

Chapter XVI

BUT Chilo did not appear for some time, and Vinicius knew not at last
what to think of his absence. In vain he repeated to himself that
searching, if continued to a certain and successful issue, must be
gradual. His blood and impulsive nature rebelled against the voice
of judgment. To do nothing, to wait, to sit with folded arms, was so
repulsive to him that he could not be reconciled to it in any way. To
search the alleys of the city in the dark garb of a slave, through this
alone, that it was useless, seemed to him merely a mask for his own
inefficiency, and could give no satisfaction. His freedmen, persons
of experience, whom he commanded to search independently, turned out
a hundred times less expert than Chilo. Meanwhile there rose in him,
besides his love for Lygia, the stubbornness of a player resolved to
win. Vinicius had been always a person of this kind. From earliest youth
he had accomplished what he desired with the passionateness of one who
does not understand failure, or the need of yielding something. For a
time military discipline had put his self-will within bounds, but also
it had engrafted into him the conviction that every command of his to
subordinates must be fulfilled; his prolonged stay in the Orient, among
people pliant and inured to slavish obedience, confirmed in him the
faith that for his "I wish" there were no limits. At present his vanity,
too, was wounded painfully. There was, besides, in Lygia's
opposition and resistance, and in her flight itself, which was to him
incomprehensible, a kind of riddle. In trying to solve this riddle he
racked his head terribly. He felt that Acte had told the truth, and that
Lygia was not indifferent. But if this were true, why had she preferred
wandering and misery to h