Often her poor feet were frozen. I felt them beneath the covers, and they seemed to me like marble. She herself said:
"They are dead."
They were so emaciated and so small that I could almost hold them in my hand. They inspired me with a great pity. I warmed some linen at the fire to put on them, and did not tire of giving them attention. I would have liked to warm them with my breath, to cover them with kisses. With this new pity there mingled the distant recollections of love—recollections of the happy time when, by a habit that almost resembled a vow, I reserved for myself exclusively the privilege of putting on her shoes in the morning and taking them off at night with my own hands, while on my knees before her.
One day, after long vigils, I was so fatigued that an irresistible slumber seized me just at the moment when I had my hands beneath the cover holding the little dead feet in the warm cloth. My head sank forward, and I went to sleep in that attitude.
When I awoke I saw my mother, my brother, and the doctor, who were smiling. I was embarrassed.
"Poor boy! He is tired out," said my mother, stroking my hair with one of her most tender gestures.
Juliana said:
"Take him away, mother! Take him away, Federico!"
"No, no, I am not tired," I repeated; "I am not tired."
The doctor announced his departure. He declared that the invalid was out of danger and on the road to recovery. But it was necessary, by all means possible, to continue to excite the regeneration of blood. His colleague, Jemma de Tussi, with whom he had consulted and found of the same opinion, would continue the same treatment. He had less confidence in remedies than in the rigorous observation of the various hygienic rules and of diet that he had prescribed.