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 persisteDans son naïf épithalame.Allez, rien n'est meilleur à l'âmeQue de faire une âme 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?"I left the alcove."What is the matter?"She answered in a low voice:"The child is much worse. Come quickly, signor.""Juliana, I am going out for a moment. Cristina will stay with you. I will return immediately."I left the room and ran into Raymond's room."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 youthere?""Yes.""Tell me all."I bent over her, and we spoke in low tones:"It is very serious.""Very serious?""Yes, very serious.""Is he dying?""Who knows? Perhaps."With a sudden movement, she disengaged her arms and threw them around my neck. My cheek pressed against hers; and I felt her tremble, I felt the leanness of her poor, sickly bosom. And, while she embraced me, I had before my mind the sinister vision of the distant room; I saw the child with his faded, lifeless, opaque eyes and livid lips; I saw my mother's tears flowing. There was no joy in that embrace. My heart was oppressed; and my soul, bent thus over the obscure abyss of that other soul, felt helpless andalone.XLIX.By night-time Raymond was dead. All the indications of acute poisoning by carbonic acid appeared on the little body that had become a corpse. The little face was livid and leaden; the nose was pinched; the lips had taken on a dark blue color; a glimpse of the opaque whiteness could be caught beneath the still half-closed eyelids; on one thigh, near the groin, was a reddish spot. It seemed as if decomposition had already set in, so lamentable was the appearance of that infantile flesh, which, a few hours before, all rosy and tender, had been caressed by my mother's fingers.In my ears resounded the cries, the sobs, the distracted words ejaculated by my mother, while Federico and the women led her out of the room."Nobody must touch him! Let no one touch him! I want to wash him myself, I wish to dress him myself."Then silence followed. The cries had ceased. At moments could be heard a slamming of doors. I was there alone. The doctor had been in the room, too, but I was now alone. Some extraordinary change was taking place within me; but I did not yet know exactly what it was."Come," said the doctor gently, touching me on the shoulder. "Come, leave the room."I was docile; I obeyed. I walked slowly along the corridor, when I felt another touch. It was Federico; he embraced me. I did not cry; I did not feel any strong emotion; I did not understand his words. Yet I heard when he named Juliana's name."Take me to Juliana's room," I said to him.I put my arm beneath his; I let myself be conducted like a blind man.When we were in front of the door, I said: "Leave me." He pressed my hand and left me. I entered alone.L.In the night the silence of the house was sepulchral. A light burned in the corridor. I walked toward that light like a somnambulist. Some extraordinary change was taking place within me; but I did not yet know exactly what it was.I stopped, warned by a sort of instinct. A door was open; a light filtered through the drawn curtains. I crossed the threshold, parted the portières, and advanced.The cradle was in the centre of the room, between four lighted candles and draped with white. My brother was seated on one side, Giovanni di Scordio on the other, holding the vigil. The old man's presence caused me no surprise. It seemed to me natural that he should be there. I asked nothing; I said nothing. I believe that I smiled faintly at them when they looked at me. I do not know if my lips really smiled; but I had intended they should, as if to say: "Do not grieve about me, do not try to console me; you see I am calm. We must be resigned."I made several steps; I went and placed myself at the foot of the cradle between the two candles. To the foot of this cradle I bore a fearful, humble, feeble soul, totally freed from its previous passions. My brother and the old man had not left their places; and yet I felt alone.The little dead body was clothed in white: in the same robe in which it was baptized, it seemed to me. Only the face and the hands were uncovered. The little mouth, whose wailings had so often aroused my hate, was now motionless beneath a mysterious seal. The silence that reigned over this mouth also reigned in me, reigned about me. And I looked, looked.Then, in the silence, there arose a great light in the centre of my soul.I understood. That which neither my brother's words nor the old man's smile had been sufficient to reveal to me, the little dumb mouth of the Innocent revealed to me in a second.I understood. And then I was assailed by a terrible desire to confess my crime, to publish my secret, to declare in the presence of those two men: "It was I who assassinated him!"They both looked at me; and I perceived that they were both uneasy concerning me and my attitude before the corpse, that they were both waiting with anguish the end of my silence. Then I said:"Do you know who killed this innocent?"In the silence my voice was so strangely sonorous that it was unrecognizable to me; it seemed to me that that voice was not my own. And a sudden terror froze my blood, stiffened my tongue, clouded my sight. And I began to tremble. And I felt that my brother was supporting me, was holding my head. In my ears was such a strong buzzing that his words reached me indistinctly, in fragments. I understood that he thought my mind was deranged by a violent attack of fever and that he was trying to lead me out. I let him take me away.He led me to my room, supporting me. Terror still controlled me. At the sight of a single candle that was burning on the table, I shuddered; I could not remember having left it lit."Undress yourself and go to bed," said Federico to me, stroking me with his hands tenderly.He made me sit down on my bed and felt my forehead again."Listen. Your fever is increasing. Begin to undress. Come, come."With a tenderness that recalled that of my mother, he assisted me to undress. He helped me to get into bed. Seated at my bedside, he felt my forehead from time to time, to judge of my fever; and as he saw that I still trembled, he asked:"Are you very cold? Does not your shivering cease at all? Shall I cover you more? Are you thirsty?"Shivering, I thought: "Suppose I had spoken! Suppose I had had the strength to keep on! Was it I, positively I, who, with my own lips, spoke those words? Was it absolutely I? And suppose Federico, on thinking them over, on deeply reflecting, began to suspect? I asked: 'Do you know who killed this innocent?' Nothing more. But had I not the aspect of an assassin about to confess? On thinking it over, Federico could not fail to ask himself: 'What did he want to say? Against whom did he direct that strange accusation?' My excitement will seem equivocal. The doctor ... He must think: 'Perhaps he alluded to the doctor.' He must have some new proof of my exaltation, he must continue to believe my mind deranged by fever, in a condition of intermittent delirium." While I reasoned thus, rapid and clear visions passed through my mind, with evidence of real and tangible things. "I am feverish, and very strongly so. What if true delirium should set in, what if I unconsciously revealed my secret?"I watched over myself with frightful anguish.I said: "The doctor, the doctor—did not know..."My brother bent over me, felt my forehead again uneasily, emitted a sigh."Do not worry, Tullio. Be quiet."And he went and wrung out a linen in cold water, and applied it to my burning head.The procession of rapid and clear visions continued. I saw again the baby's agony with terrible intensity. He was agonizing in his cradle. His face was ashen, so pallid that the milk crusts above the eyebrows appeared yellow. The lower lip, depressed, was invisible. From time to time he raised his eyelids, that were lightly tinted with violet, and one would have thought that the irides were adherent because they followed the ascending movement and lost themselves beneath, leaving a view only of the opaque whites. From time to time the choking death rattle was interrupted. At one time the doctor said, as if to make a supreme attempt:"Quick! Quick! Let us take the cradle near the open window. Room! room! The little one needs air. Make room."My brother and I carried the cradle, which seemed like a coffin. But, in the daylight, the spectacle was still more frightful, beneath that cold, white light reflected by the snow.My mother cried:"He is dying! Look, look: he is dying! Feel: his pulse has stopped!"And the doctor said:"No, no. He breathes. As long as there is a sigh, there is some hope."And between the livid lips of the dying child he introduced a spoonful of ether. After a few seconds, the child opened his eyes, turned up his pupils, and gave a feeble wail. A slight change took place in his color. His nostrils quivered.The doctor said:"Don't you see? He breathes. We must hope, even to the end."He agitated the air above the cradle with a fan; then with his finger he depressed the baby's chin in order to unclose his lips, to open the mouth. The tongue, clove to the palate, fell down like a clapper; and I caught a glimpse of the thread-like mucus that stretched between the palate and the tongue, the whitish matter accumulated in the throat. A convulsive movement raised towards the face the little hands, that had become violet, particularly at the palms, at the folds of the phalanges, and at the nails—hands already cadaverous, and which my mother touched each moment. The little finger of the right hand was always kept apart, away from the other fingers, and trembled lightly. Nothing could be more lamentable.Federico tried to persuade my mother to leave the room. But, bent over Raymond's face, almost touching it, she watched the slightest indications. One of her tears fell on the adored one's head. Quickly she dried it with her handkerchief; but she perceived that, on the head, the fontanels were sunk, depressed."Look, doctor!" she cried with fright.And my eyes fixed themselves on that soft head, dotted with milk crusts, yellowish, like a piece of wax in the midst of which a hollow had been made. All the sutures were visible. The bluish temporal vein was lost beneath the crusts."Look, look!"The vital energy, reawakened for a moment by the artificial means of ether, subsided. The death rattle began to acquire a characteristic sonorousness; the little hands fell along the sides, inert; the chin retracted more; the fontanels became deeper, and no longer pulsated. All at once, the dying child seemed to make an effort. Quickly the doctor raised the head. And there came from the little, violet mouth a small quantity of a whitish liquid. But in the effort made in vomiting the skin of the forehead was stretched, and through the epidermis the brown spots of an effusion could be seen appearing. My mother uttered a cry."Come, come, go with me," repeated my brother, trying to lead her away."No, no, no!"The doctor administered another spoonful of ether. And the agony was prolonged, the torture was prolonged. The little hands rose up again; the fingers stirred vaguely; between the half-closed pupils the irides appeared, then disappeared by a retrograde movement, like two little faded flowers, like two little corollas that closed with a flaccid curling up.Evening fell, and the Innocent was still in agony. On the window-panes shone a light like the glimmer of approaching dawn, due to the whiteness of the snow conflicting with the shadows."He is dead, he is dead!" cried my mother, who no longer heard the death rattle, and who saw a livid spot appear around the nose."No, no! He is breathing."A candle had been lit; one of the women held it, and the little yellow flame flickered at the foot of the cradle. Abruptly my mother uncovered the little body to feel it."He is cold, cold all over!"The limbs were stretched out; the feet were becoming violet. Nothing could be more lamentable than that poor little morsel of dead flesh, lying in front of that darkening window, beneath the light of that candle.But, once more, an indescribable sound, that was neither a wail, nor a cry, nor death rattle, left that little and almost bluish mouth, together with a little whitish froth. And my mother, as if insane, threw herself on the little corpse.Once more I saw all that, with my eyes closed. And when I opened my eyes, I saw it again, with unbelievable intensity."Remove that candle!" I cried to Federico, raising myself on my couch, terrified by the mobility of the little pale flame. "Remove that candle!"Federico took it and placed it behind a folding screen. Then he returned to my bedside, made me lie down again, changed the cloth on my forehead.At moments, in the silence, I heard sighs.LI.The following day, although I was in a state of extreme feebleness and prostration, I wished to be present at the religious benediction, at the funeral procession, at the entire ceremony.The corpse was already enclosed in its little white coffin with a glass lid. A crown of white chrysanthemums was on its forehead; a white chrysanthemum was in its joined hands; but nothing could match the waxy whiteness of those diminutive hands, the nails of which alone were violet.There were present Federico, Giovanni di Scordio, I, and several servants. The four tapers burned and wept. The priest entered, attired in the white stole, followed by assistants who bore the aspergill and the cross. We all knelt. The priest sprinkled the bier with holy water, saying:"Sit nomen Domini."Then he recited the psalm:"Laudate, pueri, Dominum..."Federico and Giovanni di Scordio rose, and took the coffin. Pietro opened the doors in front of them. I followed. Behind me came the priest, the assistants, four servants, with lighted wax tapers. Passing through the silent corridors, we arrived at the chapel, while the priest recited the psalm:"Beati immaculati..."While the bier was being borne into the chapel, the priest murmured:"Hic accipiet benedictionem a Domino."Federico and the old man placed the bier on the little catafalque, in the middle of the chapel. We all knelt. The priest recited other psalms. Then he uttered an invocation that the soul of the Innocent be called to heaven. Then he again sprinkled the bier with holy water. Then he went out, followed by his assistants.We all arose. Everything was ready for the burial. Giovanni di Scordio took the light coffin in his arms, and his eyes were fixed on the glass lid. Federico descended first into the vault, and the old man descended behind him, bearing the coffin. I descended last, with a servant. Nobody spoke.The sepulchral chamber was large, all of gray stone. In the walls were hollowed out niches, some already closed by stone blocks, the others gaping, deep, full of darkness, waiting for their prey. From an arch hung three lamps fed with olive oil, and they burned quietly in the humid and heavy air, with small, thin flames that were never extinguished."Here," said my brother.And he pointed to an open niche, situated beneath another niche already closed by a stone slab. On that stone was engraved the name of Constance, from the gilt letters of whose name came confused flashes of light.Then, to permit us to contemplate once more the dead child, Giovanni di Scordio extended the arms that bore the coffin. And we gave him a last look. Through the crystal lid that little, livid face, those little joined hands, that little robe, and those chrysanthemums, and all those white things appeared infinitely distant, intangible, as if the transparent lid of the coffin in the arms of that grand old man permitted a glimpse through some cleft of a supernatural mystery, terrible yet full of a sad charm.No one spoke. It seemed as if no one breathed.The old man turned toward the mortuary niche, bent over, laid the coffin on the ground, and pushed it slowly toward the end. Then he knelt down, and remained several minutes motionless.In the depths the coffin stood out with a vague whiteness. In the lamplight the hoary head of the old man seemed luminous, thus bent on the border of the Shadow.*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE INTRUDER***
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 persisteDans son naïf épithalame.Allez, rien n'est meilleur à l'âmeQue de faire une âme moins triste.
Accueillez la voix qui persisteDans son naïf épithalame.Allez, rien n'est meilleur à l'âmeQue de faire une âme moins triste.
Accueillez la voix qui persiste
Dans son naïf épithalame.
Allez, rien n'est meilleur à l'âme
Que de faire une âme 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?"
I left the alcove.
"What is the matter?"
She answered in a low voice:
"The child is much worse. Come quickly, signor."
"Juliana, I am going out for a moment. Cristina will stay with you. I will return immediately."
I left the room and ran into Raymond's room.
"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 youthere?"
"Yes."
"Tell me all."
I bent over her, and we spoke in low tones:
"It is very serious."
"Very serious?"
"Yes, very serious."
"Is he dying?"
"Who knows? Perhaps."
With a sudden movement, she disengaged her arms and threw them around my neck. My cheek pressed against hers; and I felt her tremble, I felt the leanness of her poor, sickly bosom. And, while she embraced me, I had before my mind the sinister vision of the distant room; I saw the child with his faded, lifeless, opaque eyes and livid lips; I saw my mother's tears flowing. There was no joy in that embrace. My heart was oppressed; and my soul, bent thus over the obscure abyss of that other soul, felt helpless andalone.
XLIX.
By night-time Raymond was dead. All the indications of acute poisoning by carbonic acid appeared on the little body that had become a corpse. The little face was livid and leaden; the nose was pinched; the lips had taken on a dark blue color; a glimpse of the opaque whiteness could be caught beneath the still half-closed eyelids; on one thigh, near the groin, was a reddish spot. It seemed as if decomposition had already set in, so lamentable was the appearance of that infantile flesh, which, a few hours before, all rosy and tender, had been caressed by my mother's fingers.
In my ears resounded the cries, the sobs, the distracted words ejaculated by my mother, while Federico and the women led her out of the room.
"Nobody must touch him! Let no one touch him! I want to wash him myself, I wish to dress him myself."
Then silence followed. The cries had ceased. At moments could be heard a slamming of doors. I was there alone. The doctor had been in the room, too, but I was now alone. Some extraordinary change was taking place within me; but I did not yet know exactly what it was.
"Come," said the doctor gently, touching me on the shoulder. "Come, leave the room."
I was docile; I obeyed. I walked slowly along the corridor, when I felt another touch. It was Federico; he embraced me. I did not cry; I did not feel any strong emotion; I did not understand his words. Yet I heard when he named Juliana's name.
"Take me to Juliana's room," I said to him.
I put my arm beneath his; I let myself be conducted like a blind man.
When we were in front of the door, I said: "Leave me." He pressed my hand and left me. I entered alone.
L.
In the night the silence of the house was sepulchral. A light burned in the corridor. I walked toward that light like a somnambulist. Some extraordinary change was taking place within me; but I did not yet know exactly what it was.
I stopped, warned by a sort of instinct. A door was open; a light filtered through the drawn curtains. I crossed the threshold, parted the portières, and advanced.
The cradle was in the centre of the room, between four lighted candles and draped with white. My brother was seated on one side, Giovanni di Scordio on the other, holding the vigil. The old man's presence caused me no surprise. It seemed to me natural that he should be there. I asked nothing; I said nothing. I believe that I smiled faintly at them when they looked at me. I do not know if my lips really smiled; but I had intended they should, as if to say: "Do not grieve about me, do not try to console me; you see I am calm. We must be resigned."
I made several steps; I went and placed myself at the foot of the cradle between the two candles. To the foot of this cradle I bore a fearful, humble, feeble soul, totally freed from its previous passions. My brother and the old man had not left their places; and yet I felt alone.
The little dead body was clothed in white: in the same robe in which it was baptized, it seemed to me. Only the face and the hands were uncovered. The little mouth, whose wailings had so often aroused my hate, was now motionless beneath a mysterious seal. The silence that reigned over this mouth also reigned in me, reigned about me. And I looked, looked.
Then, in the silence, there arose a great light in the centre of my soul.I understood. That which neither my brother's words nor the old man's smile had been sufficient to reveal to me, the little dumb mouth of the Innocent revealed to me in a second.I understood. And then I was assailed by a terrible desire to confess my crime, to publish my secret, to declare in the presence of those two men: "It was I who assassinated him!"
They both looked at me; and I perceived that they were both uneasy concerning me and my attitude before the corpse, that they were both waiting with anguish the end of my silence. Then I said:
"Do you know who killed this innocent?"
In the silence my voice was so strangely sonorous that it was unrecognizable to me; it seemed to me that that voice was not my own. And a sudden terror froze my blood, stiffened my tongue, clouded my sight. And I began to tremble. And I felt that my brother was supporting me, was holding my head. In my ears was such a strong buzzing that his words reached me indistinctly, in fragments. I understood that he thought my mind was deranged by a violent attack of fever and that he was trying to lead me out. I let him take me away.
He led me to my room, supporting me. Terror still controlled me. At the sight of a single candle that was burning on the table, I shuddered; I could not remember having left it lit.
"Undress yourself and go to bed," said Federico to me, stroking me with his hands tenderly.
He made me sit down on my bed and felt my forehead again.
"Listen. Your fever is increasing. Begin to undress. Come, come."
With a tenderness that recalled that of my mother, he assisted me to undress. He helped me to get into bed. Seated at my bedside, he felt my forehead from time to time, to judge of my fever; and as he saw that I still trembled, he asked:
"Are you very cold? Does not your shivering cease at all? Shall I cover you more? Are you thirsty?"
Shivering, I thought: "Suppose I had spoken! Suppose I had had the strength to keep on! Was it I, positively I, who, with my own lips, spoke those words? Was it absolutely I? And suppose Federico, on thinking them over, on deeply reflecting, began to suspect? I asked: 'Do you know who killed this innocent?' Nothing more. But had I not the aspect of an assassin about to confess? On thinking it over, Federico could not fail to ask himself: 'What did he want to say? Against whom did he direct that strange accusation?' My excitement will seem equivocal. The doctor ... He must think: 'Perhaps he alluded to the doctor.' He must have some new proof of my exaltation, he must continue to believe my mind deranged by fever, in a condition of intermittent delirium." While I reasoned thus, rapid and clear visions passed through my mind, with evidence of real and tangible things. "I am feverish, and very strongly so. What if true delirium should set in, what if I unconsciously revealed my secret?"
I watched over myself with frightful anguish.
I said: "The doctor, the doctor—did not know..."
My brother bent over me, felt my forehead again uneasily, emitted a sigh.
"Do not worry, Tullio. Be quiet."
And he went and wrung out a linen in cold water, and applied it to my burning head.
The procession of rapid and clear visions continued. I saw again the baby's agony with terrible intensity. He was agonizing in his cradle. His face was ashen, so pallid that the milk crusts above the eyebrows appeared yellow. The lower lip, depressed, was invisible. From time to time he raised his eyelids, that were lightly tinted with violet, and one would have thought that the irides were adherent because they followed the ascending movement and lost themselves beneath, leaving a view only of the opaque whites. From time to time the choking death rattle was interrupted. At one time the doctor said, as if to make a supreme attempt:
"Quick! Quick! Let us take the cradle near the open window. Room! room! The little one needs air. Make room."
My brother and I carried the cradle, which seemed like a coffin. But, in the daylight, the spectacle was still more frightful, beneath that cold, white light reflected by the snow.
My mother cried:
"He is dying! Look, look: he is dying! Feel: his pulse has stopped!"
And the doctor said:
"No, no. He breathes. As long as there is a sigh, there is some hope."
And between the livid lips of the dying child he introduced a spoonful of ether. After a few seconds, the child opened his eyes, turned up his pupils, and gave a feeble wail. A slight change took place in his color. His nostrils quivered.
The doctor said:
"Don't you see? He breathes. We must hope, even to the end."
He agitated the air above the cradle with a fan; then with his finger he depressed the baby's chin in order to unclose his lips, to open the mouth. The tongue, clove to the palate, fell down like a clapper; and I caught a glimpse of the thread-like mucus that stretched between the palate and the tongue, the whitish matter accumulated in the throat. A convulsive movement raised towards the face the little hands, that had become violet, particularly at the palms, at the folds of the phalanges, and at the nails—hands already cadaverous, and which my mother touched each moment. The little finger of the right hand was always kept apart, away from the other fingers, and trembled lightly. Nothing could be more lamentable.
Federico tried to persuade my mother to leave the room. But, bent over Raymond's face, almost touching it, she watched the slightest indications. One of her tears fell on the adored one's head. Quickly she dried it with her handkerchief; but she perceived that, on the head, the fontanels were sunk, depressed.
"Look, doctor!" she cried with fright.
And my eyes fixed themselves on that soft head, dotted with milk crusts, yellowish, like a piece of wax in the midst of which a hollow had been made. All the sutures were visible. The bluish temporal vein was lost beneath the crusts.
"Look, look!"
The vital energy, reawakened for a moment by the artificial means of ether, subsided. The death rattle began to acquire a characteristic sonorousness; the little hands fell along the sides, inert; the chin retracted more; the fontanels became deeper, and no longer pulsated. All at once, the dying child seemed to make an effort. Quickly the doctor raised the head. And there came from the little, violet mouth a small quantity of a whitish liquid. But in the effort made in vomiting the skin of the forehead was stretched, and through the epidermis the brown spots of an effusion could be seen appearing. My mother uttered a cry.
"Come, come, go with me," repeated my brother, trying to lead her away.
"No, no, no!"
The doctor administered another spoonful of ether. And the agony was prolonged, the torture was prolonged. The little hands rose up again; the fingers stirred vaguely; between the half-closed pupils the irides appeared, then disappeared by a retrograde movement, like two little faded flowers, like two little corollas that closed with a flaccid curling up.
Evening fell, and the Innocent was still in agony. On the window-panes shone a light like the glimmer of approaching dawn, due to the whiteness of the snow conflicting with the shadows.
"He is dead, he is dead!" cried my mother, who no longer heard the death rattle, and who saw a livid spot appear around the nose.
"No, no! He is breathing."
A candle had been lit; one of the women held it, and the little yellow flame flickered at the foot of the cradle. Abruptly my mother uncovered the little body to feel it.
"He is cold, cold all over!"
The limbs were stretched out; the feet were becoming violet. Nothing could be more lamentable than that poor little morsel of dead flesh, lying in front of that darkening window, beneath the light of that candle.
But, once more, an indescribable sound, that was neither a wail, nor a cry, nor death rattle, left that little and almost bluish mouth, together with a little whitish froth. And my mother, as if insane, threw herself on the little corpse.
Once more I saw all that, with my eyes closed. And when I opened my eyes, I saw it again, with unbelievable intensity.
"Remove that candle!" I cried to Federico, raising myself on my couch, terrified by the mobility of the little pale flame. "Remove that candle!"
Federico took it and placed it behind a folding screen. Then he returned to my bedside, made me lie down again, changed the cloth on my forehead.
At moments, in the silence, I heard sighs.
LI.
The following day, although I was in a state of extreme feebleness and prostration, I wished to be present at the religious benediction, at the funeral procession, at the entire ceremony.
The corpse was already enclosed in its little white coffin with a glass lid. A crown of white chrysanthemums was on its forehead; a white chrysanthemum was in its joined hands; but nothing could match the waxy whiteness of those diminutive hands, the nails of which alone were violet.
There were present Federico, Giovanni di Scordio, I, and several servants. The four tapers burned and wept. The priest entered, attired in the white stole, followed by assistants who bore the aspergill and the cross. We all knelt. The priest sprinkled the bier with holy water, saying:
"Sit nomen Domini."
Then he recited the psalm:
"Laudate, pueri, Dominum..."
Federico and Giovanni di Scordio rose, and took the coffin. Pietro opened the doors in front of them. I followed. Behind me came the priest, the assistants, four servants, with lighted wax tapers. Passing through the silent corridors, we arrived at the chapel, while the priest recited the psalm:
"Beati immaculati..."
While the bier was being borne into the chapel, the priest murmured:
"Hic accipiet benedictionem a Domino."
Federico and the old man placed the bier on the little catafalque, in the middle of the chapel. We all knelt. The priest recited other psalms. Then he uttered an invocation that the soul of the Innocent be called to heaven. Then he again sprinkled the bier with holy water. Then he went out, followed by his assistants.
We all arose. Everything was ready for the burial. Giovanni di Scordio took the light coffin in his arms, and his eyes were fixed on the glass lid. Federico descended first into the vault, and the old man descended behind him, bearing the coffin. I descended last, with a servant. Nobody spoke.
The sepulchral chamber was large, all of gray stone. In the walls were hollowed out niches, some already closed by stone blocks, the others gaping, deep, full of darkness, waiting for their prey. From an arch hung three lamps fed with olive oil, and they burned quietly in the humid and heavy air, with small, thin flames that were never extinguished.
"Here," said my brother.
And he pointed to an open niche, situated beneath another niche already closed by a stone slab. On that stone was engraved the name of Constance, from the gilt letters of whose name came confused flashes of light.
Then, to permit us to contemplate once more the dead child, Giovanni di Scordio extended the arms that bore the coffin. And we gave him a last look. Through the crystal lid that little, livid face, those little joined hands, that little robe, and those chrysanthemums, and all those white things appeared infinitely distant, intangible, as if the transparent lid of the coffin in the arms of that grand old man permitted a glimpse through some cleft of a supernatural mystery, terrible yet full of a sad charm.
No one spoke. It seemed as if no one breathed.
The old man turned toward the mortuary niche, bent over, laid the coffin on the ground, and pushed it slowly toward the end. Then he knelt down, and remained several minutes motionless.
In the depths the coffin stood out with a vague whiteness. In the lamplight the hoary head of the old man seemed luminous, thus bent on the border of the Shadow.
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE INTRUDER***