"Ah! Tullio, the child is dying," cried my mother in despair, bending
over the cradle. "Look! Look at him!"
I bent over the cradle. A rapid change had taken place, unexpected,
apparently inexplicable, frightful. The little face had become of an
ashen color, the lips had blanched, the eyes were faded, dull, lifeless.
The poor creature seemed to be under the effect of some violent poison.
My mother told me, in a choking voice:
"An hour ago he seemed quite well. He coughed a little, but that was
all. I went out and left Anna in the room. I thought I should find him
still asleep; he seemed sleepy. I returned and found him in this
condition. Touch him: he is almost cold!"
I touched his forehead and his cheek. The temperature, in fact, had
gone down.
"And the doctor?"
"He has not come yet. I have sent for him."
"They should have taken the carriage."
"Yes. Cyriaque has gone."
"Are you sure? There is no time to lose."
This was no simulation on my part. I was sincere. I could not let the
Innocent die like that, without making an attempt to save him. In
presence of his almost cadaveric aspect, although my crime was on the
point of being consummated, pity, remorse, and grief seized my soul.
While waiting for the doctor, I was not less distracted than my mother.
I rang. A servant answered.
"Has Cyriaque gone?"
"Yes, signor."
"On foot?"
"No, signor; in the carriage."
Federico came in, panting.
"What has happened?"
My mother, still bending over the cradle, cried out:
"The baby is dying."
Federico ran up and looked:
"He is choking," he said. "Don't you see? He has stopped breathing."
And he seized the child, took it from the cradle, raised it and shook
it.
"No, no! What are you doing? You will kill him!" cried my mother.
At this moment the door opened, and a voice announced:
"The doctor."
Doctor Jemma entered.
"I was on my way; I met your man. What has happened?"
Without waiting for an answer he went up to my brother, who still held
Raymond in his arms; he took the child, examined him, became serious.
"He must be undressed," he said.
And he put him on the nurse's bed, and helped my mother to remove his
clothes.
The little naked body appeared. It was of the same clayey color as the
face. The limbs hung flaccid, inert. The doctor's fat hand felt the
skin in several places.
"Do something for him, doctor," begged my mother. "Save him!"
But the doctor seemed irresolute. He felt the pulse, put his ear to the
chest, and murmured:
"A spasm of the heart.... Impossible."
He asked:
"When did this change take place? Suddenly?"
My mother tried to tell what she had told me, but she burst into sobs
before she could finish. The doctor decided to try something; he tried
to shock the torpor into which the infant was plunged; he tried to make
him cry, to provoke vomiting, to stimulate a movement of energetic
breathing. My mother stood by watching him, and tears streamed from her
wide-open eyes.
"Has Juliana been told?" asked my brother.
"No, I believe not.... she suspects, perhaps.... Perhaps Cristina....
Stay here, I will run and see, and come back."
I looked at the child as he lay in the doctor's hands; I looked at my
mother. I left the room, and ran to Juliana's room. At the door I
stopped. "What shall I tell her? Shall I tell her the truth?" I
entered; I saw that Cristina was still in the embrasure of the window; I
entered the alcove, the curtains of which were now drawn. Juliana was
huddled up under the covers. As I approached her, I noticed that she
was shaking as if with fever.
"Juliana, it is I."
She turned round and asked in a low voice:
"Were you _there_?"
"Yes."
"Tell me all."