When I was on my bed fatigue overcame me almost immediately. I slept
profoundly for hours.
Daylight found me calm, in a state of strange indifference, inexplicable
indifference. Nobody had come to interrupt my sleep; consequently
nothing extraordinary had happened. The events of the evening before
appeared to me unreal and very distant. I felt an enormous blank
between my actual and my former being, between what I was and what I had
been. There was a discontinuity between the past and present periods of
my psychical life.
And I did not make the slightest effort to recover myself, to understand
the strange phenomenon. I felt a repugnance for every kind of activity;
I sought to keep myself in that sort of factitious apathy which covered
the obscure development of all my preceding agitations; I avoided
examining myself, in order not to awaken things that appeared dead, that
seemed no longer to belong to my actual existence. I resembled those
invalids who, having lost all sensibility in half of their body, imagine
they have a corpse beside them.
But Federico came and knocked at my door. What news did he bring? His
presence gave me a shock.
"We did not see one another yesterday evening," he said. "I came back
rather late. How do you feel?"
"Neither well nor ill."
"You had a headache, they told me?"
"Yes, that is why I went to bed early."
"Ah! when shall we see the end of all our anxieties? You are not well,
Juliana is still confined to her bed, and now mother is very much
frightened because Raymond coughed during the night."
"He coughed?"
"Yes. No doubt it is only a slight cold; but mother exaggerates, as
usual."
"Has the doctor been?"
"Not yet. But you seem more disturbed than mother."
"You know where infants are concerned fear is justifiable. A trifle
suffices..."
He looked at me with his limpid, blue eyes, and I feared to meet them.
When he had gone I leaped from my bed. "So, the effects commence," I
thought. "So, there is no more doubt about it. How much longer has he
to live? Perhaps he will not die ... not die! Oh! no, that is
impossible. The air was icy, cut short his respiration." And again I
saw the infant breathing, again I saw his little mouth half-closed, the
dimple in his throat.
*XLVI.*
The doctor said:
"There is no reason whatever for anxiety. It is nothing but a slight
cold. The air-passages are free."
He bent again over Raymond's bare breast, auscultating him.
"There is not the slightest obstruction.
"You can assure yourself by listening," he added, turning toward me.
I placed my ear against that delicate chest and felt its caressing
warmth.
"No..."
I looked at my mother, who was trembling with anxiety on the other side
of the cradle.
The ordinary symptoms of bronchitis were absent. The child was quiet;
at long intervals he coughed lightly; he took the breast as often as
usual; his slumber was deep and regular. Even I, deceived by
appearances, doubted. "My attempt has been useless. It seems that he
must not die. How tenacious his hold on life is!" And I felt the old
rancor against him born in me again--become more acute. His calm and
healthy appearance exasperated me. I had suffered all that anguish
uselessly then. I had exposed myself to all that peril for nothing!
With my anger was mingled a sort of superstitious stupor, caused by the
extraordinary tenacity of that life. "I shall not have the courage to
begin over again. And then? It is I who will be his victim, and I
shall not be able to escape him."
The perverse little phantom, the bilious and sly child, full of
intelligence and evil instincts, reappeared to me; again he fixed his
hard, gray eyes on me with a provocative air. And the terrible scenes
in the darkness of the deserted rooms, the scenes created long ago by my
hostile imagination, presented themselves again, stood out again in
relief, acquired motion, all the characters of reality.
The day was cloudy, and it threatened to snow. Juliana's alcove again
seemed like a refuge. The intruder could not be taken from his room,
could not come and persecute me in the depths of that retreat. I
abandoned myself altogether to my sorrow, without seeking to hide it.
While looking at the poor invalid I thought: "She will not get well; she
will not recover." The strange words of the previous evening recurred
to my memory, troubled me. Without any doubt, the intruder was an
executioner for her as well as for me; without any doubt, he imposed
himself exclusively on her thoughts, and it was from this that she was
dying by degrees. So heavy a weight on so feeble a heart!
With the incoherence of images seen in a dream, once more I saw in mind
divers fragments of my previous life. I recollected another illness, a
convalescence long past. I lingered, recomposing these fragments,
reconstructing that period, so charming and so painful, during which I
had sown the germ of my misfortune. The diffuse whiteness of the light
recalled to my memory that mild afternoon which we had passed, Juliana
and I, reading that book of poetry, bending together over the same page,
following the same line with our eyes. And, on the margin, I saw again
her taper index-finger, the mark of her nail.
Accueillez la voix qui persiste
Dans son naif epithalame.
Allez, rien n'est meilleur a l'ame
Que de faire une ame moins triste.
I had seized her wrist; I slowly bent my head until my lips touched the
hollow of her hand; I murmured: "You ... could you forget?" And she
closed my mouth, pronouncing her great word: "Silence."
I lived that fragment of life over again under the form of a real and
profound sensation. And I continued, continued to relive my past. I
came to the morning when she had risen for the first time--that terrible
morning; I heard her laughing and broken voice; I saw again the gesture
of the offering; I saw her again in the arm-chair after the unexpected
shock; I saw again what had followed. Why could not my soul free itself
from these visions? It was useless to lament; utterly useless. "_It
was too late._"
"Of what are you thinking?" asked Juliana, who, up to then, perhaps,
during my silence, had suffered only on account of my sorrow.
I did not conceal my thoughts from her. And she, in a voice that came
from the depths of her heart, feeble, but more penetrating than a cry,
murmured:
"Oh! I had a heaven for you in my soul."
After a long pause, during which, doubtless, she was driving back to her
heart the tears that did not come, she said: "I cannot console you now,
any more. There is consolation neither for you nor for me; there never
will be ... All is lost."
"Who knows?" I said.
We looked at each other. It was evident that at that instant we were
both thinking of the same thing--of Raymond's possible death.
After hesitating a moment, I alluded to the conversation we had had one
evening beneath the elms:
"Have you prayed?"
My voice trembled greatly.
She answered (I scarcely heard her):
"Yes."
And she shut her eyes, turned on her side, buried her head in the
pillow, gathered herself together, huddled beneath the covers as if
chilled by cold.
*XLVII.*
In the evening, I went to see Raymond. I found him in my mother's arms.
He seemed rather pale, but he was still quiet; he breathed freely. No
suspicious symptom was noticeable.
"He only just woke up," said my mother.
"Does that make you uneasy?"
"Yes, he has never slept so long before."
I looked fixedly at the child. His gray eyes were dull and lifeless.
He incessantly moved his lips, as if chewing. At one moment he vomited a
little curdled milk on his bib.
"Oh! no, no, the child is not well," cried my mother, shaking her head.
"Has he coughed?"
As if in answer to my question, Raymond began to cough.
"Do you hear?"
It was a little, hoarse cough, unaccompanied by any sound of any of the
internal organs. It ceased immediately.
I thought: "We must wait." But in proportion as the fatal presentiment
was resuscitated in me, my aversion toward the intruder diminished, my
irritation subsided. I perceived that my heart remained oppressed and
miserable, incapable of a single joyful transport.
I remember that evening as being the saddest I have ever passed during
the course of my fatal career.
Supposing that Giovanni di Scordio might be in the neighborhood, I left
the house and walked along the walk where my brother and I had met him
the last time. There were signs of a snowstorm in the night air. Under
the row of trees stretched a carpet of leaves. The bare and dry
branches stood out against the sky.
I looked around me in the hope of seeing the old man. I thought of his
tenderness for his godson, of that senile and desolate love, of those
large, callous, and rugged hands which I had seen become ennobled and
tremble on the whiteness of his clothes. I thought: "How he will weep!"
I saw the little dead body in its swaddling-clothes lying in its coffin,
amidst the wreaths of white chrysanthemums, between four lighted
candles, and Giovanni weeping on his knees. "My mother will weep, will
be in despair. The entire house will be in mourning. Christmas will be
funereal. And what will Juliana do when I present myself on the
threshold of the alcove, at the foot of the bed, and announce: 'He is
dead!'"
I had arrived to the end of the avenue. I looked around; I saw no one.
The country was silently disappearing in the darkness; a fire shone red
on the hill, very distant. I retraced my steps, alone. Suddenly
something white trembled before my eyes and disappeared. It was the
first snow.
That evening, while I was at Juliana's bedside, I again heard the
bagpipes continuing the nine days' prayer, _at the same hour_.
*XLVIII.*
The evening passed, the night passed, the following morning passed.
Nothing extraordinary happened. But the doctor, on his visit, did not
conceal the fact that there existed a catarrh of the nasal mucosa and
larger bronchi: a slight indisposition of no gravity whatever.
Nevertheless, I perceived that he tried to dissimulate a certain
uneasiness. He gave various orders, recommended the greatest prudence,
promised to return during the day. My mother had no more rest.
On entering the alcove, I said to Juliana, in a low voice, without
looking her in the face:
"He is getting worse."
And we were silent for a long time. At moments I arose and walked to
the window to watch the snow. I walked about the room, the prey of
unbearable anxiety. Juliana, her head buried in the pillow, was almost
hidden beneath the covers. When I approached she opened her eyes, and
gave me a rapid look, which told me nothing.
"Are you cold?"
"Yes."
But the room was warm. I returned ceaselessly to the window to watch
the snow, and the whitened country on which the flakes continued to fall
slowly. It was two o'clock in the afternoon. What was passing in the
child's room? Nothing very extraordinary, certainly, since they had not
called me. But my anxiety increased so much that I resolved to go to
see. I opened the door.
"Where are you going?" cried Juliana, raising herself on her elbow.
"I am going downstairs for a moment. I will return immediately."
She remained raised on her elbow, very pale.
"Do you not want me to go?" I asked.
"No, stay with me."
She did not let herself sink back on her pillow. A strange fright had
changed her expression; her eyes wandered restlessly, as if pursuing a
moving shadow. I approached her, and laid her down myself, arranged her
in the bed, touched her forehead, asked her gently:
"What ails you, Juliana?"
"I do not know; I am afraid."
"Of what?"
"I do not know. It is not my fault; I am ill; I am like that."
But her eyes, instead of fixing themselves on me, continued to wander.
"What are you seeking? Do you see something?"
"No, nothing."
I touched her forehead again. Its warmth was normal. But my imagination
began to be disturbed.
"You see, I do not leave you; I'll stay with you."
I sat down; I waited. My soul was in that state of anxious suspension
which accompanies the expectation of an approaching event. I was
certain that I should be called. I listened for the slightest sound.
From time to time I heard bells ring in the house. I heard the dull
roll of a carriage on the snow. I said:
"It is probably the doctor."
Juliana did not utter a word. I waited. An interminable length of time
passed. Suddenly I heard a sound of opening doors, a sound of
approaching steps. I sprang to my feet. And, at the same instant,
Juliana raised herself.
"What is the matter?"
I knew what was the matter, I even knew the precise words that the
messenger was going to utter.
Cristina entered. She seemed agitated, but tried to dissimulate it.
Without coming near me, but giving me a significant look, she stammered:
"May I say something to signor?"