I was fortunate; my mother left us only once, and came in again almost immediately. In the interval, Juliana asked me rapidly:
"What was the matter with you a short time ago? Won't you tell me?"
"Nothing, nothing."
"See how you will spoil my pleasure!"
"No, no ... I'll tell you, I'll tell you ... later. Forget it for the present, please."
My mother came in with Maria and Natalia. But the tone in which Juliana had pronounced those few words sufficed to convince me that she suspected nothing of the truth. Perhaps she supposed that my sorrow arose from a sombre recollection of my ineffaceable and inexpiable past, or supposed that I was tortured by remorse for having done her so much wrong and by the fear of not deserving her full pardon.
The following morning, I was again much agitated. In obedience to her wish I was waiting in an adjoining room, when I heard her call me in her limpid tones:
"Come here, Tullio!"
I entered. She was standing up, and seemed taller, more svelte, more fragile. Robed in a sort of ample and wavy tunic, with long straight folds, she smiled, hesitating, scarcely able to stand, with her arms stretched out as if to maintain her equilibrium, turning by turns toward me and my mother.
My mother looked at her with an inexpressible expression of tenderness, ready to give her support. I, too, stretched out my hands, ready to support her.