"Why don't you dine with me this evening?" she asked me.
"I can't eat anything just now; I don't feel very well. You eat a little, please."
In spite of my efforts, I could not succeed in entirely dissimulating the anxiety that devoured me. Several times she looked at me, with the manifest intention of penetrating my thoughts. Then, all at once, she became gloomy, taciturn. She scarcely touched anything, scarcely moistened her lips. Then I summoned all my courage, in order to withdraw. I feigned having heard the roll of a carriage. I listened. I said:
"No doubt Federico has returned. I must see him at once. You will excuse me if I go downstairs a moment? Cristina will stay with you."
I saw her face change, as if she was about to burst into sobs. But without waiting for her consent, I left hastily; and I took care to order Cristina to remain until my return.
Once outside, I was compelled to stop to conquer the suffocation of anguish. I thought: "If I cannot manage to control my nervousness all is lost." I listened intently, but heard nothing except the murmur of my arteries. I walked along the corridor as far as the stairway without meeting any one. The house was silent. I thought: "They are all in the chapel already, even the servants. There is nothing to fear." I waited another two or three minutes, to recover myself. Vague ideas passed through my head, insignificant, foreign to the deed I was about to perform. I mechanically counted the rails of the banister.
"It is surely Anna who is with him. Raymond's room is not far from the chapel. The music will proclaim the beginning of the nine days' prayer."
I walked toward the door. As I reached it I heard the prelude of the bagpipes. I entered without hesitation. I had guessed correctly.
Anna was standing near her chair, in so eager an attitude that I immediately guessed that she had sprung to her feet on hearing the bagpipes of her mountains, the prelude of the ancient pastoral.
"Is he asleep?" I asked.