It did not last a
moment. Then he, too, went out, to go to his friend.
Gianluca was gentle, quiet, almost cheerful, on that morning. He had
evidently forgotten that he had opened his eyes and seen Taquisara
standing by his bedside in the night, nor would he have thought anything
of so common an occurrence had it come back to his recollection. He
certainly did not remember having spoken of dying. But he was very weak,
and his face was deadly pale, rather than transparent, as it usually
seemed.
Taquisara had thought of what the doctor had said about his sufferings,
and hesitated before lifting him to carry him to the next room.
"Tell me," he said, "does it hurt you very much when I take you up?"
"It hurts," answered Gianluca, with a smile. "Hurting is relative, you
know. I can bear it very well. There are things that hurt more."
"What? When you try to move alone?"
"Oh no! Imaginary things. You hurt me very little--you are so careful.
What should I have done without you?"
Taquisara had never touched him so tenderly before, though he was
always as gentle as a woman with him. He lifted him, carried him from
his bedroom and laid him in his accustomed chair. The pale head rested
with a sigh upon the brown silk cushion.
"Thank you," he said faintly. "That was better than ever. But I am
better to-day, too."
The Sicilian said nothing, but proceeded to arrange all the invalid's
small belongings near him,--his books, his cigarettes,--for he sometimes
smoked a little,--and the stimulant he took, and a few wild flowers
which Elettra renewed every morning.
Pages:
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459