"See how heavy he is!"
I was obliged to lift him, to feel that warm and flaccid little body
palpitate between my hands, which were seized by a trembling that was
not due to tenderness.
"The love, the love, the love of his grandmother!" repeated my mother,
tickling the chin of the infant, who did not yet know how to laugh.
The dear gray head, that had already bent over two blessed cradles
before for the same caresses, and much whiter now, bent unconsciously
over another's child, over the intruder. I imagined that she had not
shown herself as tender toward Maria, toward Natalia, toward the true
creatures of my blood.
She wished to swathe him herself. She made the sign of the cross on the
abdomen.
"But you are not yet a Christian!"
And turning toward me, she said:
"The time has come to fix the baptismal day."
*XXXVI.*
Dr. Jemma, chevalier of the Holy Sepulchre of Jerusalem, a handsome,
cheerful old man, brought a bouquet of white chrysanthemums as an
offering to Juliana.
"Oh! my favorite flowers!" said Juliana. "Thank you."
She took the bouquet, gazed on it for a long time, buried her tapering
fingers in it; and there was a sad analogy between her pallor and that
of the autumn flowers. They were chrysanthemums as large as full-blown
roses, tufted, heavy; they had the color of a sickly, bloodless, almost
lifeless skin, the livid whiteness noticeable on the cheeks of beggars
benumbed by cold. A few were imperceptibly veined with violet, others
were slightly tinged with yellow, with exquisite tones.
"Take them," she said to me. "Put them in water."
It was in the morning; it was in November. We had just passed the
anniversary of the fatal day which these flowers recalled.
"_Que ferai-je sans Eurydice?_"
While I was putting the white chrysanthemums into a vase the air from
"Orpheus" sang in my memory. There reappeared in my mind certain
fragments of the singular scene that had taken place the year previous,
and I saw Juliana again in that warm and golden light, in that suave
perfume, in the midst of all those objects bearing the imprint of
feminine grace, to which the phantom of the ancient melody seemed to
impart the palpitation of a secret life, to spread the shadow of I know
not what mystery. Had not these flowers awakened in her also some
remembrance?
A mortal sorrow weighed on my soul--the sorrow of an inconsolable lover.
The Other presented himself before me, and his eyes were as gray as
those of the intruder.
The doctor said to me from the alcove:
"You may open the window. It is well to have the room well aired, to
have plenty of sunlight enter."
"Oh, yes, yes, open it!" cried the invalid.
I opened it. At this moment my mother entered, together with the
wet-nurse, who had Raymond in her arms. I remained between the
curtains, and leaned against the balustrade and looked out on the
landscape. Behind me I heard the familiar voices.
We had arrived at the end of November. Already the summer of the Dead
had passed. A great vacuous light extended over the humid country, over
the noble and peaceful profile of the hillsides. It seemed that through
the confused tops of the olive plants a silvery vapor was circulating.
Here and there several threads of smoke whitened in the sun. The breeze
bore, at intervals, the light rustling of falling leaves. The rest was
only peace and silence.
"Why," I thought, "did she sing that morning? Why, on hearing her, did
I feel so agitated?" She seemed to me another woman. Was she then in
love with him? To what condition of her soul did that unusual effusion
correspond? She sang because she loved. Perhaps I am mistaken. But I
shall never know the truth.
It was no longer the jealous agitation of the senses, but a more noble
affliction that arose from the depths of my soul. I thought: "What
remembrance has she retained of him? Has that remembrance often
tormented her? The son is a living bond. She finds in Raymond
something of the man to whom she has belonged; she will find more
precise resemblances. It is impossible that she should forget Raymond's
father, and perhaps she has him constantly before her eyes. What would
she feel if she knew he were doomed?"
And I stopped to imagine the progress of the paralysis, and to form an
inner picture of that man's condition based on that furnished me by the
recollection of poor Spinelli. I saw him once more seated in his large
red leather armchair, of a clayey pallor, with every line of his visage
drawn, his mouth distorted and gaping, full of saliva and stammering
incomprehensibly. I once more saw the gesture he made every moment to
gather in his handkerchief that ever-flowing saliva which rolled down
the corners of his mouth.
"Tullio!"
It was my mother's voice. I turned and walked toward the alcove.
Juliana lay on her back, dejected and silent.
"It's all arranged. The baptism takes place the day after to-morrow,"
said my mother. "The doctor believes that Juliana must remain in bed
for some time yet."
"How do you think she is, doctor?" I asked.
"It seems to me that there is a slight pause in her progress," replied
he, shaking his fine white head. "I find her very feeble. We must
increase the alimentation, force it a little."
Juliana interrupted him, looking at me the while with a very wan smile:
"He examined my heart."
"Well?" I asked, turning abruptly toward the old man.