"I took Natalia to Signora, who wished to see her; but I had to leave
her there. It was impossible to make her go back to her own bed. She
cried so hard that Signora consented to keep her with her. Let us hope
that Maria will not waken up."
"Ah! so then..."
My heart beat so violently that I could not speak connectedly.
"Then Natalia is sleeping with her mother."
"Yes, signor."
"And Maria--let us go and see Maria."
Emotion choked me. That night, at least, Juliana was safe. It was
impossible that she should think of dying, with her little girl by her
side. By a miracle, the affectionate caprice of the child had saved the
mother. "May God bless her!" Before looking at Maria, who was
sleeping, I looked at the empty bed, that still retained the impress of
the child's figure. I felt strange desires to kiss the pillow, to feel
if the depression were still warm. Edith's presence embarrassed me. I
turned toward Maria. I bent over her, holding my breath; I looked at
her for a long time, I sought one by one the known resemblances she bore
toward me, I almost counted the delicate veins that could be seen on her
temple, cheek, and neck. She was sleeping on one side, her head thrown
back, so as to display the whole of the neck beneath the raised chin.
The teeth, fine as grains of pure rice, disclosed their whiteness
through the half-closed mouth. The eyelashes, long like those of her
mother, shed a shadow over the hollows of the eyes, that extended even
to the cheek bones. The delicacy of a precious flower, an extreme
finesse, distinguished these infantile traits, in which I _felt_ my
blood, refined, flow.
Had I ever, since the birth of these two creatures, felt for them a
sensation so deep, so sweet, so sad?
I could scarcely tear myself away from there. I would have liked to sit
down between the two little beds, and rest my head on the edge of the
empty one, to await thus the _morrow_.
"Good night, Edith," I said, as I left.
My voice trembled, but it no longer trembled in the same manner.
As soon as I reached my room, I threw myself again face down on the bed.
And, at last, I burst into distracted sobs.
*XII.*
When I awoke from the heavy and, so to speak, brute slumber that, at
some moment during the night, had suddenly overwhelmed me, I could
scarcely regain an exact idea of the reality.
But soon my mind, freed from the nocturnal exaltations, stood face to
face with the cold, naked, implacable reality. What were my recent
anguishes in comparison with the fright that invaded me then? One must
live! And that had the same effect on me as if someone had presented me
with a deep cup, saying: "If you wish to drink, if you wish to live
to-day, you must drain into this cup, even to the last drop, the blood
of your heart." A repugnance, a disgust, an indefinable repulsion,
assailed the inmost part of my being. And yet I must live; I must,
to-day too, accept life. But, above all, I must _act_.
The comparison that I made, to myself, between this actual awakening and
that which I had dreamed and hoped for, the evening before at the
Lilacs, contributed also to revolt me. "It is impossible," I thought,
"that I can accept such a situation; it is impossible that I should
rise, dress myself, leave this room, see Juliana again, speak to her,
continue to dissimulate before my mother; that I should wait for a
suitable moment for a definite understanding between us, that in this
interview I should establish the conditions of our future relations.
That is impossible. But what then? Destroy with one blow, and
radically, all that was suffering in me. Deliver myself--free myself.
_There is nothing else to be done_." And, on considering the facility
of the act, on imagining the rapidity of its execution, the explosion of
the firearm, the immediate effect of the ball, the darkness that would
follow, I felt through my entire body a singular, agonized thrill,
mingled, however, with a sensation of solace, almost of sweetness.
"_There is nothing else to be done_." And, in spite of the torment that
the anxiety of knowing gave me, I thought with relief that I should have
nothing to know, that that anxiety even would instantaneously
cease--that, in short, all would be at an end.