I went up to Juliana's room. She was waiting for me. Cristina was laying the small table.
"Where have you been so long?" asked the poor invalid, with a shade of reproach in her voice.
"I was downstairs with Maria and Natalia. I went to the chapel."
"Yes, to-night the nine days' prayers begin," she murmured sadly, with a discouraged air.
"Perhaps you will hear the music here?"
She remained pensive for several minutes. I thought she looked very sad, one of those languishing sadnesses which indicate that the heart is swollen with tears, that the eyes desire to weep.
"Of what are you thinking?" I asked.
"I am thinking of my first Christmas at the Badiola. Do you remember it?"
She was full of affection; and she solicited my tenderness, abandoned herself to me to be caressed, that I might soothe her heart and drink her tears. But I thought anxiously: "I must take care not to favor this disposition and permit myself to be circumvented. Time passes. If I give way, I shall not be able to leave her. If she cries, I shall not be able to go away. I must control myself. Time is passing. Who will stay with Raymond? Surely it will not be my mother. It will be the nurse, no doubt. All the others will be in the chapel. I will keep Cristina here. There will not be the slightest danger. The occasion is as favorable as it can be. In twenty minutes I must be free."
I avoided exciting the invalid; I feigned not to understand her; I did not reply to her effusions; I sought to turn her attention to material things. I acted in such a manner that Cristina did not leave us alone as on other evenings. I busied myself with the dinner with excessive zeal.