“It is almost a pity not to let her sleep as long as she may,” thought the maid, as she stood by her, looking down at the flushed face and uneasy attitude of her slumbering mistress.
Finette had no great reason to care much for the overbearing, capricious prima donna, but she could perceive that she was struggling against impending illness, and she felt sorry she should not be at her best on her wedding-day.
“Madam!” said Finette. “Awake! It is nearly eight o’clock, and your bath is ready.”
A shuddering sigh, and then Lucia relapsed into her lethargic state again, though she was evidently suffering from the visitation of some painful dream.
“Madam!” again urged Finette. “It is your wedding-day. Rouse, then. It is a glorious day—the sunshine bright and golden, scarce a cloud in the blue sky.”
She pressed the soft, rounded shoulder of her mistress, and shook her with a firm yet gentle hand. For madam had given imperative orders the preceding night that she must be awakened immediately after eight o’clock, if not before. The entire responsibility of this lay with Finette, for she had no other attendant with her.
A stifled scream broke from the half-parched lips of the sleeper, and she sprang up, throwing her hands forward, as if to defend herself.
“No—no—no!” she shrieked. “No! Ah-h! You shall not take me. I have not done it. Take your hands off——”
“Madam, it is I—Finette. Do not be alarmed. Pray calm yourself. The people in the house will be frightened. You have been dreaming. It is your wedding-day.”
The smooth, reassuring tones brought back the Italian’s scattered senses, and the light of reason to her brilliant, distended eyes. She turned her glance on the young girl standing by, and sank back, shuddering, gasping for breath, almost on the verge of hysterics.