Antonio was in there, in the oppressive heat of that house decked with furs—voluptuous, feline, like the lair of a tigress. It was all so horrible that, even in her insensate dream, Regina could not think of it. Only she saw the Princess dressed in black velvet, her thick neck roped with pearls, her hands small and sparkling. And the small, sparkling hands were caressing Antonio's beautiful head. And he was silent; he had got used to these caresses.
This idea sufficed to produce in Regina an explosion of grief, which quickly brought on reaction. She awoke from her delirium; thought she saw all the folly of her doubt. None of it was true; none! Such things only happened in novels. It was impossible that Antonio should penetrate furtively into the old woman's house; impossible that his wife should wait outside in the shadow of the corner, to make him a comedy-scene when he came out. Ridiculous!
So the slow day wore on in what seemed physical anguish, more or less acute according to moments, which often completely disappeared, but left the memory of pain and the dread of its return.
Outside the feast of the sun continued, of the blue sky, of happy birds. Now and then a passing carriage broke the silence of the street with a torrent of noise. Then all was quiet again, save that in the distance the continuous rumble of the city ebbed and flowed like the swelling of the sea in an immense shell.
About two Caterina woke up and began to cry. Regina heard this tearless, causeless weeping, and went to the nursery. It was papered with white, and, against this shining background, the bronzed and heavy figure of the nurse with the baby, naked and pink in her hands, woke a new feeling in Regina. She seemed looking at a picture which signified something. But now everything had acquired for her a signification of reproach. That figure of a peasant mother, dark, rough, sweet, like a primitive Madonna, reminded her of what she ought to have been herself. She didn't even know how to be a mother like the meanest of peasants! She was nothing. A parasite—nothing but a parasite!
The nurse was dressing the child and talking to her in a "little language." "Pecchè quetto pianto? (What's all this crying about?) What's the matter? Is little madam cold? Well, we'll put on her lovely little shift, and then her lovely little socks, and then her lovely little shoosies. Look! Look! What lovely little shoosies! Go in, little foot! What? little foot won't go in? Oho, Mr. Foot, that's all very fine, but in you go!"
Caterina, in her chemise, rosy and fat, with her hair ruffled, cried still; but she looked with interest at her white shoes and stuck out her foot.
"There's one gone in! Now the other. Let's see if this Mr. Foot is as naughty as the other Mr. Foot. Up with him! No, this is good Mr. Foot, and we'll give him a big kiss. Up!"
Caterina laughed. Her eyes, with their bluish whites, her whole face, her whole little figure, seemed illuminated. Regina took her in her arms, danced her up and down, pressed her to her heart, made her play, played and laughed with her. "My little, little one! My scagarottina."[7]