At last, one day, when she was shaking hands with Andrea, who was going out, she fell down in the frightful convulsions to which she had been subject from her childhood. Her arms beat the air, and her head rebounded on the floor. Neither Alberto nor Caterina could do much for her; Andrea grasped her wrists, and felt them stiffen like iron in his hands; her teeth chattered as if from ague, and the pupils of her eyes disappeared under her lids. She stammered unintelligible words, and Andrea, in dismay, almost thought he heard her break into sentences that revealed their secret. Then the convulsions appeared to abate, her muscles relaxed, and her bosom heaved long sighs. She opened her eyes, gazed at the persons round her, but closing them again, in a kind of horror, uttered a piercing cry, and fell into fresh convulsions; struggling, and insensible to the vinegar, the water, and the perfumes with which they drenched her face. Caterina called her, Alberto called her; no answer. When Andrea called her, her face became more livid, and the convulsions redoubled in intensity. With her lace tie torn away from her throat, her dress torn at the bosom, with dishevelled hair, and livid marks on her wrists, she inspired love and terror. When she came to herself, she cried as if her heart would break, as if some one had died. They comforted her, but she kept repeating, “No, no, no,” and continued her lamentations. Then, tired, worn out, with aching bones and joints, incapable of moving away, she fell asleep on the sofa, wrapped up in a shawl. Alberto stayed there until, at midnight, Caterina persuaded him to go to bed, and the two men retired. She sat up near a little table to watch, starting up at the slightest sound. Towards two o’clock Andrea stole in quietly; he was dressed, he had not gone to bed, he had been smoking.
“How is she?” he whispered to his wife.
“Better, I think; she never woke up, she has only sighed two or three times, as if she were oppressed.”
“What horrible convulsions!”
“She used to have them at school, but not so badly.” “Why do you not go to bed?”
“I cannot, Andrea; I cannot leave the poor thing alone.”
“I will sit up.”
“That wouldn’t do, sai.”
“You are right, but they haven’t made my orangeade.”
“The oranges and the sugar must be in the bedroom ... but I had better go and see.... Stay here a moment, I will soon return.”