IV
It was already evening. Carolinona, although tired after the tumultuous day, must spend several hours in putting the house in order. Finally, having dismissed the waiters and cook and sent her own servant to bed, she retired to her room. And the bed? Certainly she was not going to sleep in that new bed. She went and examined it closely, and first passed her hand gently over the pink silk coverlet; but against the soft, delicate, rose-colored material she suddenly noticed how dark her fat hand looked, disfigured by hard work, with short, rough nails, and instinctively she drew it back, murmuring anew: “What a pity!” She stooped down to examine the embroidery of the sheet, but no longer noticed the beauty of the bed; she was thinking of herself, thinking that if she had been pretty this ridiculous marriage would not have occurred; if she had been pretty she would have been married long ago. And yet, how many of her former friends, certainly not prettier than she, had married, and now had homes of their own, position, while she—as a joke—married, and no wife! “Fate!”
She started, looked around; saw in a corner, rolled up, the mattress of her bed, the iron framework leaning against the wall. She stood for a moment perplexed whether or not to call the servant to help her. What should she do? She moved toward the corner where stood the mattress, but passing before the mirror of her wardrobe, she caught sight of herself and paused. From the attentive examination of herself in the mirror there arose in her a lively dislike for the task of making up her bed. No, she would not do it! She would sleep in the armchair. So much the worse for her that at her age, to amuse others, she had lent herself to such folly, ridicule, mockery.
But immediately the instinctive need for excusing herself called up the reasons that had led her to be persuaded; namely, her fear of being bound to that other crazy man, who wished to become her husband by force; the pitying promise which she had allowed her lips to utter that day in the hospital because of having listened to that fool Martinelli. “Bah!” she thought. “And when that crazy man comes out of the hospital furious, he, my husband, will defend me, recognizing the reason for which I consented to play the buffoon.”
She began to unfasten her gown. Suddenly she stopped; it was useless, since she was to sleep sitting in the chair. Another lie this, unearthed to prevent herself from acknowledging a foolish hope which she knew could not be realized even in a dream. She extinguished the lamp, she seated herself in the armchair. Through the silence that reigned in the street below she listened intently, unconsciously. Where was he at this hour? Perhaps in some café with his friends. And she imagined the room of a café, illuminated, and saw them all, her boarders, seated there at little tables, and he was laughing, laughing, and answering witticisms. Certainly her name was in every one’s mouth, and derided. What did it matter to her? She waited for the noisy reunion to come to an end that she might see him alone. Where would he go? Home? Or would he perhaps—perhaps go elsewhere? At this thought she paused, as before an unexpected abyss, taken aback. Why, yes, yes! Was he not absolutely free?
And she was seated there in the armchair. Oh, fool, oh, madwoman! And she found sleep impossible.