To her lips rose one by one the most distant reminiscences of our love,
that, barely evoked by a discreet allusion, were, nevertheless, revived
with an extraordinary intensity, in that place that had seen their
birth, among propitious objects. But the sad disquietude and the frenzy
of life that had taken possession of me in the garden on our first entry
were irritated now to impatience, and suggested to me hyperbolical
visions of the future that I opposed to the phantoms of an importunate
past.
"To-morrow, in two or three days at the latest, we must come back here
to stay, but alone. You see, there is nothing lacking; everything is in
its place. If you wish, we could even remain here to-night. You do not
wish to? Really, you do not wish to?"
By my voice, gesture, look, I sought to tempt her. My knees touched her
knees. But she looked at me fixedly, without answering.
"Remember the _first evening_ here, at the Lilacs! We strolled here
after the _Ave Maria_, and saw the lights at the windows! Ah! you
understand me well.... The lights that illuminate a house for the first
time, _the first evening_! Do you remember? Up to now, you have done
nothing but remember, remember. And yet, you see, all your
recollections are not worth to me one minute of to-day, will not be
worth one minute of to-morrow. Could you possibly doubt the happiness
that awaits you? I have never loved you, Juliana, as much as I love you
at this moment; never, never, do you hear? Never have I been as much
yours as now, Juliana. I will recount to you, I will describe to you my
days, in order that you may understand your miracles. After so much
unhappiness, who could have hoped for anything like this? I will tell
you. At certain times, it seemed to me I had gone back to the period of
my adolescence, to the time of my youth. I felt myself _candid_ as I
did then, good, tender, simple. I remembered nothing more. All, all my
thoughts were of you; all my emotions were centred in you. Sometimes
the sight of a flower, of a little leaf, sufficed to make my soul
overflow, so full it was. And you knew nothing, you perceived nothing,
perhaps. I will tell you. The other day, Saturday, when I entered your
room with the white hawthorns! I was as timid as an amorous boy, and,
internally, I felt as if I were dying with desire to take you in my
arms. Did you perceive it? I will tell you everything; I will make you
laugh. That day, the curtains of the alcove permitted a view of your
bed. I could not remove my eyes from it, I was all trembling. How I
trembled! You cannot understand. Two or three times already, I have
entered your room, alone, by stealth, my heart palpitating; and I have
raised the curtains to look at your bed, to touch your cover, to bury my
face in your pillow, like a fanatical lover. And certain nights, when
all was asleep at the Badiola, I have ventured softly, softly, almost as
far as your door; I thought I heard your breathing. Tell me, tell me,
may I come to you to-night? Do you want me? Tell me, will you expect
me? Can we sleep to-night separated from each other? No, it is not
possible! Your cheek will find on my bosom its accustomed place, here,
do you remember? How light you seemed, when you were sleeping."
"Be quiet, be quiet, Tullio!" she interrupted, supplicatingly, as if my
words pained her.
She added, with a smile:
"You must not talk like that. I told you so just now. I am so weak! I
am only a poor invalid. You make me feel dizzy. I can no longer stand
upright. See to what a state you have reduced me. I am half dead."
She smiled, a weak, tired smile. Her eyelids were slightly reddened;
but, in spite of the heaviness of the lids, the pupils burned with a
febrile ardor, and constantly regarded me with an almost intolerable
fixity, scarcely softened by the shadow of the eyelashes. In her entire
manner there was some constraint, that my eyes could not discern nor my
intelligence define. Had her face ever borne such a mysterious and
disquieting character before? It seemed as if its expression became
from moment to moment more complicated, vague, almost enigmatical. And
I thought: "She is harassed by an internal tempest. She can no longer
clearly distinguish what has taken place in her state. In her, without
doubt, everything is upset. Has not one moment sufficed to change her
existence?" And that profound expression attracted me, excited me ever
more and more. The ardor of her look penetrated even to my marrow with
a devouring fire. I was glad to see her so crushed: I was impatient to
know her mine, to embrace her again, to hear her utter a new cry, to
drink in her entire soul.
"You are not eating," I said, making an effort to dissipate the vapors
that rapidly mounted to my brain.
"Nor are you."
"Take a bite, at least. Do you not recognize this wine?"
"Oh, yes! I recognize it."
"Do you remember?"
And we looked into the depths of each other's eyes, agitated by the
evocation of the memory of our love, over which floated the delicate
vapor of that pale and somewhat bitter wine, her favorite beverage.
"Let us drink together to our happiness!"
We clinked our glasses, and I drank mine at a single draught, but she
did not even moisten her lip, arrested by an insurmountable repugnance.
"Well?"
"I cannot, Tullio."
"Why?"
"I cannot. Do not compel me to. One single drop would, I believe,
suffice to make me ill."
She had become as pale as death.
"Juliana, you are ill!"
"A little. Let us rise. Let us go out on the balcony."
Putting my arm round her, I felt the softness of her waist; for, in my
absence, she had removed her corset. I said to her:
"Would you like to lie down? You can rest, and I will remain near you."
"No, Tullio. You see, I already feel better."
We stopped on the sill of the balcony, with the cypress before us. She
leaned against the side-post, and placed one hand on my shoulder.
From the projection of the architrave, below the cornice, hung a group
of nests. The swallows were coming and going, with incessant activity.
But below, the calm of the garden was so profound, the top of the
cypress was so motionless, that the sounds of the wings, these flights,
these cries, displeased me, tired me. Since, in this tranquil light,
everything hid itself, I sought repose, a long period of silence, in
order to taste in plenitude the suavity of the hour and the isolation.
"Are the nightingales always there?" I asked, pointing to the top of the
venerable tree.
"Who knows? Perhaps."
"They sing at night. Would you not like to hear them again?"
"But at what time will Federico come back?"
"Let us hope, late."
"Oh, yes! late, very late," she cried, with such warm sincerity of hope
that it caused me a thrill of joy.
"Are you happy?" I asked her, and I sought the answer in her eyes.
"Yes, I am happy," she answered, lowering her eyelids.
"You know that I love only you, that I am yours forever?"
"I know it."
"And you--how do you love me?"
"You will never know how much, my poor Tullio."
As she uttered these words, she left the side-post and leaned her entire
weight on me, with one of those indescribable motions in which she threw
all the sweetness and abandon that the most feminine of creatures could
show to a man.
"How beautiful you are! How beautiful you are!"
Beautiful, in fact, beautiful from languor, beautiful in soft
suppleness, and, how shall I say? so fluid that she made me think of the
possibility of drinking her down in small portions, to quench my thirst
of her. On the pallor of her face the mass of loosened hair seemed on
the point of spreading out like a wave. The eyelashes threw a shadow on
her cheeks, agitating me more than a look would have done.
"Nor will you ever know how much. If I told you the mad thoughts that
are born in me! My happiness is so great that it becomes anguish, it
makes me wish to die."
"Die!" she repeated, very low, with a feeble smile. "Who knows, Tullio,
if you will not see me die before long?"
"Oh! Juliana!"
She turned round to look at me, and added:
"Tell me, what would you do if I were to die suddenly?"
"Child!"
"If, for instance, I were dead to-morrow?"
"Won't you be silent?"
I took her head, and kissed her on the mouth, cheeks, eyes, forehead,
hair, with light and rapid kisses. She did not attempt to stop me; and
even when I ceased, she murmured:
"More!"
"Let us return to our room," I begged her, drawing her away.
She permitted herself to be led.
In our room the balcony was permitted to remain open. And there entered
through it, with the light, the musk-like odor of the tea-roses that
flourished in the vicinity. Against the bright-colored tapestries, the
little blue flowers seemed so faded that they were scarcely
distinguishable. A corner of the garden was reflected in the mirror of
a closet, receding in it like a chimerical landscape. Juliana's gloves,
hat, and bracelet, lying on the table, seemed to have reawakened in this
interior the happy life of long ago, to have shed a renewed intimacy.
"To-morrow, to-morrow, we must return here, not later," I said, burning
with impatience, feeling an ardor and seduction from every one of these
objects. "To-morrow we must sleep here. You wish it, too, do you not?
"To-morrow!"
"To begin to love again, in this house, in that garden, in this
springtime; to begin to love once more as if oblivion had effaced
everything; to seek once more one by one our old-time caresses, and find
in each one a new savor, as if we had never before tasted it; to have
before us days, long days..."
"No, no, Tullio; we must not speak of the future. You know that it is
an evil omen. To-day, to-day--think of to-day, of the present hour."
*IX.*
"I believe I heard the horses' bells," said Juliana, rising. "It's
Federico."
We listened. She must have been mistaken.
"Is it not time?" she asked.
"Yes, it is almost six o'clock."
"Oh, _mio Dio!_"
We listened again. But no sound announced the approach of the carriage.
"It would be better to go and see, Tullio."
I left the room and descended the stairs. I hesitated a little; a cloud
was before my eyes; it seemed to me that a mist rose from my brain.
From the little side door that opened in the surrounding wall, I called
Calisto, whose dwelling was near by. I interrogated him. The carriage
had not been seen yet.
The old man would have liked to detain me in conversation.
"Do you know, Calisto," I said to him, "that probably we will return
here to-morrow to stay?"
He raised his arms in token of his delight.
"Really?"
"Really. We shall have time to chat. When you see the carriage, come
and let me know. Good-night, Calisto."
I left him to reenter the house. The day was waning and the swallows
cried still more loudly. The sky seemed to be alive with them, as the
flocks rapidly cleft the air.
"Well?" asked Juliana, turning from the mirror which she had approached
in order to adjust her hat.
"Nothing."
"Look at me. Is not my hair dishevelled?"
"No."
"But what a face! Just look."
One would have thought that she had stepped from a coffin, she seemed so
exhausted. Great violet rings encircled her eyes.
"And yet I still live," she added, attempting to smile.
"Are you suffering?"
"No, Tullio. But I do not know what ails me. It seems to me that I am
entirely empty, that my head is empty, my veins empty, my heart empty.
You might say I had given you all. You see--I am now a shadow, a shadow
of life."
While pronouncing these words, she smiled in a strange manner; she
smiled a subtle and sibylline smile, that troubled me, that raised up in
me confused inquietudes. I was too enervated, I was too languid, too
much blinded by my intoxication; the activity of my mind had become
indolent, my consciousness became dulled. No sinister suspicion had
penetrated me yet. Meanwhile I looked at her attentively, I examined
her with anxiety, without knowing why.
She turned to the mirror again, and put on her hat; then she approached
the table, and took her bracelet and gloves.
"I am ready," she said. She seemed to be still seeking something, and
added:
"I had a parasol, had I not?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Ah! I must have left it in the alley, on the bench."
"Let us go and look for it together."
"I am too tired."
"Then I will go alone."
"No, send Calisto."
"I will go myself. I will gather you a few lilacs, a bouquet of
musk-roses. Shall I?"
"No, don't pluck the flowers."
"Come, sit down here while waiting. Perhaps Federico will be late."