"Are you not up yet, Tullio? May I come in?"
"Come in, Federico."
He entered.
"Do you know it is after nine o'clock?"
"I fell asleep very late, and I was very tired."
"How do you feel?"
"So, so."
"Mother is up. She told me that Juliana is feeling quite well. Shall I
open your window? It is a wonderful day."
He opened the window. A wave of fresh air filled the room; the curtains
swelled like two sails; outside could be seen the azure of the sky.
"Do you see?"
The bright light doubtless disclosed the signs of my distress on my
face; for he added:
"Were you ill, too, last night?"
"I think I was a little feverish."
Federico looked at me with his clear blue eyes; and, at that moment, it
seemed to me that I bore on my soul the entire burden of future lies and
dissimulations. Oh! if he had known!
But, as usual, his presence put to flight the cowardice that commenced
to crush me down. A false energy, like that communicated by a drop of
cordial, restored my self-command to me. I thought: "How would he have
acted in my place?" My past, my education, the very essence of my
nature, contradicted every probability of a similar occurrence; but, at
least, this much was certain: in case of a misfortune, similar or
dissimilar, he would have displayed the conduct of a strong and
forgiving man, he would have heroically faced the pain, he would have
preferred to sacrifice himself rather than to sacrifice the other.
"Let me feel," said he, approaching.
He touched my forehead with his open palm, and felt my pulse.
"It has left you, it seems to me. But how unsteady your pulse is!"
"Let me get up, Federico; it is late."
"To-day, after noon, I am going to the Assoro woods. If you wish to
come, I will have Orlando saddled for you. Do you remember the woods?
How unfortunate that Juliana is not well! Otherwise we would have taken
her with us. She could see the ricks on fire."
When he mentioned Juliana it seemed as if his voice became more
affectionate, softer, and, so to speak, more fraternal. Oh! if he had
known!
"Good-by, Tullio. I am going to work. When will you begin to help me?"
"This very day, to-morrow, whenever you wish."
He began to laugh.
"What enthusiasm! But that's enough; I will see you at work. Good-by,
Tullio."
He went out with his light and free step, for he was always stimulated
by the precept inscribed on the sun-dial: _Hora est benefaciendi_.
*XIII.*
It was ten o'clock when I left my room. On that April morning, the
bright light that inundated the Badiola by the open windows and
balconies made me timid. How could I wear my mask in such a light?
Before entering Juliana's apartment, I wished to see my mother.
"You rose late," she said, on seeing me. "How are you?"
"Very well."
"You are pale."
"I think I had a little fever in the night. But it is gone now."
"Have you seen Juliana?"
"Not yet."
"She wished to get up, the dear girl! She said that she no longer feels
ill; but her face..."
"I am going to her."
"You must not neglect to write to the doctor. Do not listen to Juliana.
Write this very day."
"Did you tell her ... that I _know_?"
"Yes, I told her that you _know_."
"I am going, mother."
I left her in front of her great walnut-wood closets perfumed with
orris, in which two women were piling the beautiful washed linen, the
pride of the Hermils. Maria, in the piano-room, was taking her lesson
from Miss Edith, and the chromatic scales, rapid and even, succeeded one
another. Pietro passed, the most faithful of the servants,
white-haired, somewhat bent, bearing a tray of glasses that resounded
because his arms trembled with age. The entire Badiola, bathed in air
and light, had an aspect of tranquil joy. There was an atmosphere of
goodness shed throughout--like the subtle and inextinguishable smile of
the gods Lares.
Never before had that sensation, that smile, penetrated to my soul so
deeply. And that great peace, that great goodness, enveloped the
ignoble secret which Juliana and I were condemned to keep without dying
of it!
"And now?" I thought, at the height of my anguish, wandering in the
corridor as a lost stranger might have done, incapable of directing my
steps toward the dreaded place, as if my body refused obedience to the
impulsions imposed upon it by my will. "And now? She knows that I know
the truth. Between us, henceforth, all dissimulation is useless.
Necessity imposes upon us to face one another, to speak of the frightful
thing. But it is impossible that this meeting should take place this
morning. The consequences of it cannot be foreseen; and now, more than
ever, it is necessary, absolutely necessary, that not one of our actions
should seem singular or inexplicable, neither to my mother nor to my
brother, nor to anyone else in this house. My agitation of last
evening, my uneasiness, my grief, can be explained by the preoccupation
of the peril of Juliana's condition; but logically, in others' eyes,
such preoccupation should make me more tender toward her, more zealous,
more eager than ever. To-day, my prudence must be extreme. To-day, I
must avoid a scene with Juliana, cost what it may. To-day, I must avoid
any occasion of remaining with her _en tete-a-tete_. But I must also
find, without delay, means to make her understand the feeling that
determined my attitude in regard to her, the intention that directs my
conduct. And if she persists in the will to kill herself? If she had
only deferred its execution a few hours? If she were already watching
for an opportune moment?"
That fear cut short my loitering, and forced me to action. I resembled
one of those Oriental soldiers who are forced into battle by blows of a
cudgel.
I directed my steps toward the piano-room. On seeing me, Maria
interrupted her scales and ran toward me, light and joyous, as toward a
liberator. She had the grace, the agility, the lightness, of winged
creatures. I raised her in my arms to kiss her.
"Will you take me out?" she asked. "I am tired. Miss Edith has kept me
here for an hour. I cannot stand any more. Take me out with you. Let
us go for a walk before breakfast."
"Where?"
"Wherever you like."
"Let us go, then, and see mamma first."
"Yes; yesterday you were at the Lilacs, and we had to stay at the
Badiola. It was you, you alone, who would not consent. Mamma was quite
willing. Naughty papa! We should like to go there. Tell me how you
amused yourselves."
The child prattled on like a bird, delightfully. The ceaseless chatter
kept company with my anguish, while we were going toward Juliana's
apartment. I hesitated; but Maria knocked at the door, crying:
"Mamma!"
Without suspecting my presence, Juliana came to open the door herself.
She saw me. She started violently, as if she had seen a phantom, a
spectre, some terrifying thing.
"Is it you?" she stammered, in a voice so low that I scarcely heard her.
And, while she spoke, her lips blanched. After the start, she became
suddenly more rigid than a Hermes.
And there, on the threshold, we looked at each other, read each other's
faces; for an instant, even our souls were fixed upon each other. All
about us disappeared; between us, all was said, all was understood,
everything was decided, in the space of one second.
What happened next? I do not know, I cannot remember. I remember that,
for some time, I had an intermittent consciousness, so to speak, of what
happened, with a succession of short eclipses. It was, it seemed to me,
a phenomenon analogous to that which results from the enfeeblement of
the voluntary attention in the case of certain patients. I lost the
faculty of being attentive; I no longer saw, I no longer seized the
sense of words, I no longer understood. Then, a moment later, I
recovered that faculty, examined the things and persons about me, I
became attentive and conscious.
Juliana was seated, and held Natalia on her knees. I, too, had taken a
seat. And Maria ran from her to me, from me to her, incessantly, with
endless prattle, provoking her sister, asking us a number of questions
which we only answered by a nod of the head. That lively chatter broke
our silence. In one of the fragments of the phrases that I noticed,
Maria said to her sister:
"Ah! is it true that you slept with mamma last night?"
"Yes, because I am little."
"Oh! well, to-night it's my turn. Is it not, mamma? Take me in your bed
to-night, mamma."
Juliana did not smile. She remained silent, and seemed absorbed. She
had on her knees Natalia, whose shoulders were turned toward her, and
whose arms were around her waist; her joined hands rested in the little
girl's lap, whiter than the little white dress on which they reposed,
taper, painful, so painful that they themselves revealed to me an
immensity of sorrow. Juliana remained bent, and, as Natalia's head
brushed her mouth, she seemed to press her lips to the child's curls; in
such a manner that, when I glanced at her, I could not see the
expression of her eyes, but saw only her lowered eyelids, somewhat
reddened, and I was constantly agitated internally by this, as if
through them I could distinguish the fixity of the pupils that they
covered.
Was she waiting for me to say something? Were inexpressible words
rising to those hidden lips?
When finally, by an effort, I conquered the condition of inertia in
which extraordinary alternations of lucidity and darkness had succeeded
each other, I said, in a tone of voice that I would have used, I
believe, in continuing a conversation already begun, by adding new words
to words already spoken--I said slowly:
"Mother wants me to send for Doctor Vebesti. I have promised to write.
I will write."
She did not raise her eyelids; she remained mute. Maria, in her
innocence, looked at her with surprise; then she looked at me, too.