Valeria speedily fell asleep; but Fabio could not get to sleep. In the
nocturnal silence all that he had seen, all that he had felt, presented
itself to him in a still more vivid manner; with still greater
persistence did he ask himself questions, to which, as before, he found
no answer. Was Muzio really a magician? And had he already poisoned
Valeria? She was ill ... but with what malady? While he was engrossed in
painful meditations, with his head propped on his hand and restraining
his hot breathing, the moon again rose in the cloudless sky; and
together with its rays, through the semi-transparent window-panes, in
the direction of the pavilion, there began to stream in--or did Fabio
merely imagine it?--there began to stream in a breath resembling a
faint, perfumed current of air....
Now an importunate, passionate whisper began to make itself heard ...
and at that same moment he noticed that Valeria was beginning to stir
slightly. He started, gazed; she rose, thrust first one foot, then the
other from the bed, and, like a somnambulist, with her dull eyes
strained straight ahead, and her arms extended before her, she advanced
toward the door into the garden! Fabio instantly sprang through the
other door of the bedroom, and briskly running round the corner of the
house, he closed the one which led into the garden.... He had barely
succeeded in grasping the handle when he felt some one trying to open
the door from within, throwing their force against it ... more and more
strongly ... then frightened moans resounded.
* * * * *
"But Muzio cannot have returned from the town, surely," flashed through
Fabio's head, and he darted into the pavilion....
What did he behold?
Coming to meet him, along the path brilliantly flooded with the radiance
of the moonlight, also with arms outstretched and lifeless eyes staring
widely--was Muzio.... Fabio ran up to him, but the other, without
noticing him, walked on, advancing with measured steps, and his
impassive face was smiling in the moonlight like the face of the Malay.
Fabio tried to call him by name ... but at that moment he heard a window
bang in the house behind him.... He glanced round....
In fact, the window of the bedroom was open from top to bottom, and with
one foot thrust across the sill stood Valeria in the window ... and her
arms seemed to be seeking Muzio, her whole being was drawn toward him.
Unspeakable wrath flooded Fabio's breast in a suddenly-invading
torrent.--"Accursed sorcerer!" he yelled fiercely, and seizing Muzio by
the throat with one hand, he fumbled with the other for the dagger in
his belt, and buried its blade to the hilt in his side.
Muzio uttered a piercing shriek, and pressing the palm of his hand to
the wound, fled, stumbling, back to the pavilion.... But at that same
instant, when Fabio stabbed him, Valeria uttered an equally piercing
shriek and fell to the ground like one mowed down.
Fabio rushed to her, raised her up, carried her to the bed, spoke to
her....
For a long time she lay motionless; but at last she opened her eyes,
heaved a deep sigh, convulsively and joyously, like a person who has
just been saved from inevitable death,--caught sight of her husband, and
encircling his neck with her arms, pressed herself to his breast.
"Thou, thou, it is thou," she stammered. Gradually the clasp of her arms
relaxed, her head sank backward, and whispering, with a blissful
smile:--"Thank God, all is over.... But how weary I am!"--she fell into
a profound but not heavy slumber.
X
Fabio sank down beside her bed, and never taking his eyes from her pale,
emaciated, but already tranquil face, he began to reflect upon what had
taken place ... and also upon how he ought to proceed now. What was he
to do? If he had slain Muzio--and when he recalled how deeply the blade
of his dagger had penetrated he could not doubt that he had done
so--then it was impossible to conceal the fact. He must bring it to the
knowledge of the Duke, of the judges ... but how was he to explain, how
was he to narrate such an incomprehensible affair? He, Fabio, had slain
in his own house his relative, his best friend! People would ask, "What
for? For what cause?..." But what if Muzio were not slain?--Fabio had
not the strength to remain any longer in uncertainty, and having made
sure that Valeria was asleep, he cautiously rose from his arm-chair,
left the house, and directed his steps toward the pavilion. All was
silent in it; only in one window was a light visible. With sinking heart
he opened the outer door--(a trace of bloody fingers still clung to it,
and on the sand of the path drops of blood made black patches)--
raversed the first dark chamber ... and halted on the threshold,
petrified with astonishment.
In the centre of the room, on a Persian rug, with a brocade cushion
under his head, covered with a wide scarlet shawl with black figures,
lay Muzio, with all his limbs stiffly extended. His face, yellow as wax,
with closed eyes and lids which had become blue, was turned toward the
ceiling, and no breath was to be detected: he seemed to be dead. At his
feet, also enveloped in a scarlet shawl, knelt the Malay. He held in his
left hand a branch of some unfamiliar plant, resembling a fern, and
bending slightly forward, he was gazing at his master, never taking his
eyes from him. A small torch, thrust into the floor, burned with a
greenish flame, and was the only light in the room. Its flame did not
flicker nor smoke.
The Malay did not stir at Fabio's entrance, but merely darted a glance
at him and turned his eyes again upon Muzio. From time to time he
raised himself a little, and lowered the branch, waving it through the
air,--and his dumb lips slowly parted and moved, as though uttering
inaudible words. Between Muzio and the Malay there lay upon the floor
the dagger with which Fabio had stabbed his friend. The Malay smote the
blood-stained blade with his bough. One minute passed ... then another.
Fabio approached the Malay, and bending toward him, he said in a low
voice: "Is he dead?"--The Malay bowed his head, and disengaging his
right hand from beneath the shawl, pointed imperiously to the door.
Fabio was about to repeat his question, but the imperious hand repeated
its gesture, and Fabio left the room, raging arid marvelling but
submitting.
He found Valeria asleep, as before, with a still more tranquil face. He
did not undress, but seated himself by the window, propped his head on
his hand, and again became immersed in thought. The rising sun found him
still in the same place. Valeria had not wakened.