"No, no!" he muttered.
He took the pose again, but less gracefully than before. Strange thoughts whirled through his brain, and made his heart throb.—"When did you come home?"—"I was in the garden for an hour."—Was it possible—but no, no, it was impossible, it was chance! But if he had met her alone in the garden, alone, late at night—what would he have said, what would he have done?
His eyes swam—he pressed his hands, which he should have held to his brow, to his eyes.
"What is the matter?" exclaimed Ferdinande.
His hand dropped; his eyes, which were fixed upon her, were aflame.
"What is the matter with me?" he muttered. "What is the matter with me?—Ho—non lo so neppur io: una febbre che mi divora, ho, che il sangue mi abbrucia, che il cervello mi si spezza; ho in fine, che non ne posso più, che sono stanco di questa vita!"
Ferdinande had tried to resist the outbreak, but without success. She shook from head to foot; from his flaming eyes a spark had shot into her own heart, and her voice trembled as she now replied with as much composure as she could command, "You know I do not understand you when you speak so wildly and fast."
"You did understand me," muttered the youth.
"I understood nothing but what I could see without all that—that 'a fever consumes you, that your blood chokes you, that your brain is about to burst, that you are tired of this life'—in German; that 'you sat too late at your club last night, and raved too much about fair Italy, and drank too much fiery Italian wine.'"