Then she thought the hour had come. She returned to her room, and with infinite precaution passed out of it again through the drawing-room, the billiard-room, the dining-room, and the ante-chamber. She shaded the light with her hand, and as she passed through the room her little black shadow grew, as it was projected on the wall, to giant stature. She passed a landing, descended two steps, and entered the kitchen. She rested the light on a marble table, crossed the kitchen on tiptoe, placed a chair against the panelling, and unhooked from the wall, where it hung amid shining saucepans and moulds, a copper brazier, with brass feet fashioned like cat’s claws. It was heavy, and the weight of it nearly threw her down. She placed it on the ground near the hearth; then, stooping over the arched angle where coals were kept, she noiselessly took up some pieces of coke with the tongs and filled the brazier with them one by one. She blew the coal off her fingers, but when she came to raise the brazier she found that it needed the support of her two hands, and that it was not possible to carry the light at the same time. She put it down, and carried the light back to her room. Then, in the dark, she crept back to the kitchen and took the brazier, setting it down before every door, which she closed behind her. She crossed the entire length of the house, carrying the burden that bore her down. She had seen an old newspaper lying in the drawing-room, picked it up, entered her room, and locked the door. When she saw her hands in the lamplight she perceived that the coke had soiled them, and proceeded to wash and dry them carefully. She crossed to the window with the intention of closing the shutters; the stars shone high and bright in the night, and the fountain in the street sang its fresh, eternal melody. She preferred to leave the shutters open, returned to the fireplace, and burned the letter in which Lucia had craved her pity—and the love-letter to Andrea that Matteo had found. She mixed the ashes, as she had done at Naples, so that no trace was left of anything. She took the fur wrap off the bed and laid it on the sofa. Was there anything else to be done? Yes; the keys. She took them out of her pocket and laid them on the mantelshelf, well in sight. That was all she had to do.
Then she placed a chair under the image of the Madonna by the bedside, and, kneeling on the carpet, prayed as she used to pray in her school-days. Her face was buried in her hands; she prayed without looking at the Madonna. She neither wept nor sobbed, nor even sighed. It did not transpire whether she repeated her usual prayers or only told the Virgin her thoughts. It was a long, calm, mute prayer, unbroken by thrill, start, or shiver. Twice she made the sign of the cross, glanced for an instant at the Madonna, and rose. Then she put the chair back in its place. She tore a strip off the newspaper, and folded it in four. This she placed under the door, thereby effectually shutting out the draught. With a small roll of paper she closed the keyhole, from which she had previously withdrawn the key. She tore another strip and placed it under the window. She stopped up a tiny hole that let in the rain-water. She placed her head against the window fastening to feel if there were any draught: no, the two sides closed so accurately that there was none. She looked round, wondering if the air could get in anywhere. No. She drew the brazier into the middle of the room, and, with a strip of paper lighted at the lamp, set fire to two small pieces of coal. She blew the fire to spread it. Then she carried the light to the bedside and unlooped the white curtains, standing a moment absorbed in thought. She turned to look at the brazier; one coal caught fire from another, and the whole mass was gradually becoming incandescent. She felt an increasing weight in her head. Without hesitation she blew out the light, and, drawing the curtains, lay down on the bed, on the place where she had been accustomed to sleep.
The bright winter sun shed its light on a room flooded with a light haze. Behind the white curtains lay a little dead woman. She was dressed in black, her feet outstretched and close together, her head resting on the pillows. She looked like a child, smaller than in life. Her face was of leaden hue. The hair was unruffled, the mouth open as if in the effort to breathe, the lips violet, the chest slightly elevated, and the rest of the body sunken in the bed. The glazed eyes of the little dead woman were wide open, as if in stupefaction at an incredible spectacle; and round the violet fingers of the leaden-hued hands there was twisted part of a broken rosary of lapis-lazuli.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Gnorsi, corruption of Signora si.
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EDITORS NOTE.