"Where were you, Tullio?"
"I was out. I took a walk."
"Juliana is waiting for you."
"When do the nine days' prayers begin?"
"At six o'clock."
It was a quarter-past five. I had before me three-quarters of an hour.
I must pay attention.
"I will go to her, mother."
After a few steps I called her back.
"Has not Federico returned?"
"No."
I went up to Juliana's room. She was waiting for me. Cristina was
laying the small table.
"Where have you been so long?" asked the poor invalid, with a shade of
reproach in her voice.
"I was downstairs with Maria and Natalia. I went to the chapel."
"Yes, to-night the nine days' prayers begin," she murmured sadly, with a
discouraged air.
"Perhaps you will hear the music here?"
She remained pensive for several minutes. I thought she looked very
sad, one of those languishing sadnesses which indicate that the heart is
swollen with tears, that the eyes desire to weep.
"Of what are you thinking?" I asked.
"I am thinking of my first Christmas at the Badiola. Do you remember
it?"
She was full of affection; and she solicited my tenderness, abandoned
herself to me to be caressed, that I might soothe her heart and drink
her tears. But I thought anxiously: "I must take care not to favor this
disposition and permit myself to be circumvented. Time passes. If I
give way, I shall not be able to leave her. If she cries, I shall not
be able to go away. I must control myself. Time is passing. Who will
stay with Raymond? Surely it will not be my mother. It will be the
nurse, no doubt. All the others will be in the chapel. I will keep
Cristina here. There will not be the slightest danger. The occasion is
as favorable as it can be. In twenty minutes I must be free."
I avoided exciting the invalid; I feigned not to understand her; I did
not reply to her effusions; I sought to turn her attention to material
things. I acted in such a manner that Cristina did not leave us alone
as on other evenings. I busied myself with the dinner with excessive
zeal.
"Why don't you dine with me this evening?" she asked me.
"I can't eat anything just now; I don't feel very well. You eat a
little, please."
In spite of my efforts, I could not succeed in entirely dissimulating
the anxiety that devoured me. Several times she looked at me, with the
manifest intention of penetrating my thoughts. Then, all at once, she
became gloomy, taciturn. She scarcely touched anything, scarcely
moistened her lips. Then I summoned all my courage, in order to
withdraw. I feigned having heard the roll of a carriage. I listened.
I said:
"No doubt Federico has returned. I must see him at once. You will
excuse me if I go downstairs a moment? Cristina will stay with you."
I saw her face change, as if she was about to burst into sobs. But
without waiting for her consent, I left hastily; and I took care to
order Cristina to remain until my return.
Once outside, I was compelled to stop to conquer the suffocation of
anguish. I thought: "If I cannot manage to control my nervousness all
is lost." I listened intently, but heard nothing except the murmur of
my arteries. I walked along the corridor as far as the stairway without
meeting any one. The house was silent. I thought: "They are all in the
chapel already, even the servants. There is nothing to fear." I waited
another two or three minutes, to recover myself. Vague ideas passed
through my head, insignificant, foreign to the deed I was about to
perform. I mechanically counted the rails of the banister.
"It is surely Anna who is with him. Raymond's room is not far from the
chapel. The music will proclaim the beginning of the nine days'
prayer."
I walked toward the door. As I reached it I heard the prelude of the
bagpipes. I entered without hesitation. I had guessed correctly.
Anna was standing near her chair, in so eager an attitude that I
immediately guessed that she had sprung to her feet on hearing the
bagpipes of her mountains, the prelude of the ancient pastoral.
"Is he asleep?" I asked.
She nodded her head.
The sounds continued, muffled by the distance, soft as in a dream,
rather shrill, sustained, prolonged. The clear tones of the flageolets
modulated the simple and unforgettable melody to the accompaniment of
the pipes.
"You may go, too," I said to her. "I will stay here. When did he fall
asleep?"
"Just now."
"You can go."
Her eyes sparkled.
"I can go?"
"Yes, I will stay."
I opened the door for her myself and closed it behind her. I ran toward
the cradle on tiptoe; I bent over to have a better view. The Innocent
was asleep in his swaddling-clothes, his little fists closed over his
thumbs. Through the tissue of his eyelids the iris of his gray eyes was
visible. But I felt no blind burst of hate or anger rise from the depth
of my soul. My aversion toward him was less impetuous than in the past.
I no longer felt that impulse which more than once had run through me to
the tips of my hands, and made them ready for any criminal violence, no
matter what. I solely obeyed the impulse of a cold and lucid will; I
had a perfect consciousness of my actions.
I returned to the door, I opened it, assured myself that the corridor
was deserted. I ran to the window. I recalled what I had heard my
mother say; the suspicion crossed my mind that Giovanni di Scordio might
be below on the lawn. I opened the window with infinite precautions. A
blast of icy air came in. I bent over the sill. I saw no one; I heard
only the musical undulations of the nine days' prayers. I drew back,
approached the cradle; I conquered my repugnance by a violent effort,
repressed my anguish. I took the infant up very gently; I held him away
from my heart, that beat tumultuously; I bore him to the window; I
exposed him to the air that was to make him perish.
I did not for a moment lose my presence of mind; not one of my senses
was dulled. I saw the stars of the sky, scintillating as if, in the
superior regions, a blast of wind had shaken them; I saw the movements,
illusory but terrifying, which the flickering lamp-light threw among the
folds of the curtains; I distinctly heard the refrain of the pastorale,
the distant barking of a dog. A shudder on the part of the infant made
me start. He awoke.
I thought: "Now he is going to cry. How long a time has passed? A
minute, perhaps, or not even a minute. Will so short an impression
suffice to cause his death? Has he received his death-blow?" The infant
waved his arms, twisted his mouth, opened it. It was a little time
before he began to wail, which seemed to me changed, more pitiful, more
quivering; but it was perhaps because it did not resound in the same
medium as usual, and because I had always heard him in a closed place.
That pitiful, quivering wail filled me with fright, caused me a sudden
fright. I ran to the cradle, in which I replaced the child. I returned
to close the window, but before closing it I bent over the sill and
peered out into the dark. I saw nothing but the stars. I closed the
window. Seized as I was by terror, I avoided making any noise. Behind
me, the infant cried, cried louder. "Am I saved?" I ran to the door, I
looked into the corridor, I listened. The corridor was deserted; all
that could be heard was the slow undulation of the music.
"So I am saved. Who could have seen me?" Then I thought again of
Giovanni di Scordio, and, looking at the window, I again felt anxiety.
"But no, there was no one below. I looked twice." I went back to the
cradle, arranged the infant's body, covered him carefully, assured
myself that everything was in its place. Contact with him made me feel
an unconquerable repugnance. He cried, cried. What could I do to quiet
him? I waited.
But the continual wailing in that large, solitary room, that
inarticulate plaint of the ignorant victim, rent me so atrociously that,
incapable of longer resistance, I arose in order to relieve my torture.
I walked out into the corridor; I half-closed the door behind me; I
remained outside on the watch. The child's voice barely reached me,
mingling with the slow undulation of the music. The sounds continued,
muffled by the distance, soft as in a dream, somewhat shrill, sustained,
prolonged. The clear tones of the flageolets modulated the simple
melody to the accompaniment of the pipes. The pastorale filled the
large, peaceful house, reached perhaps even the most distant rooms. Did
Juliana hear it? What did Juliana think, what did she feel? Was she
crying?
I knew not why, but there entered into my soul this certitude: "She is
crying." And the certitude gave birth to an intense vision that
engendered a real and profound sensation. The thoughts and visions that
passed through my brain were incoherent, fragmentary, absurd. The fear
of madness invaded me. I asked myself: "How much time has passed?" And
I noticed that I had entirely lost all notion of time.
The music ceased. I thought: "The prayers are over. Anna will come
upstairs. My mother will come perhaps. Raymond is no longer crying!" I
re-entered the room; I looked about me to assure myself that there
remained no trace of my crime. I approached the cradle, not without a
vague fear of finding the child lifeless. He was sleeping, lying on his
back, his little fists closed over his thumbs. "He is asleep! It is
unbelievable. One would think nothing had happened." What I had done
began to acquire the unreality of a dream. I experienced a sudden blank
of thoughts, an empty interval during those moments of waiting. When I
heard the nurse's heavy step in the corridor, I went forward to meet
her. My mother was not with her. I said to her, without looking in her
face:
"He is still asleep."
And I rapidly withdrew. I was saved!
*XLV.*
From that moment my mind was dazed by a sort of stupid inertia, perhaps
because I was exhausted, incapable of a new effort. My consciousness
lost its terrible lucidity, my attention became relaxed, my curiosity
was no longer equal to the importance of the events that were
developing. In fact, my recollections were confused, scarce, composed of
indistinct images.
In the evening I returned to the alcove. I saw Juliana again; I
remained for some time at her bedside. I felt too fatigued to speak.
Looking straight into her eyes, I asked her:
"Have you been crying?"
She answered:
"No."
But she was sadder than before. She had become white as her
night-dress. I asked her:
"What ails you?"
She answered:
"Nothing. And you?"
"I do not feel well. I have a headache!"
An immense lassitude overwhelmed me; every limb weighed me down. I
leaned my head on a corner of the pillow; I remained several minutes in
that position, beneath the weight of an indefinable sorrow. I felt a
shock on hearing Juliana's voice saying:
"You are hiding something from me."
"No, no. Why?"
"Because I _feel_ that you are hiding something from me."
"No, no; you are mistaken."
"I am mistaken."
She relapsed into silence. I leaned my head again on the corner of the
pillow. Several minutes later she said to me suddenly:
"You go and see _him_ often."