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.He did not play it, not yet: it would need at least another ten minutes to adjust to the ambient temperature and humidity.He merely gazed dotingly on its wondrous and mysterious finish, its sensual lines.Staring at the violin, Fosco felt a joy, a sense of completion, flood through him.He returned to his comfortable chair, loosened his cravat, undid his waistcoat.The Stormcloud was back where it belonged: in the family seat.He had snatched it from the jaws of oblivion.It had been worth the expense, the extravagant planning, the danger, the lives.It was worth any cost, any struggle.As Fosco stared at it, glowing crimson in the warm reflected firelight, it seemed to him that the instrument was not of this world.Rather, it was the voice-the song-of the better world to come.It was now very warm in the room.He rose, took up a poker, pushed the logs back a little, turned his chair from the fire."La Primavera." The sweet, lively melody coursed through his mind as if he was already playing it.Five more minutes.He removed his cravat and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.A log cracked loudly in the fireplace, startling him; he sat bolt upright, the port sloshing out of his glass and spilling onto his open waistcoat.He sat back slowly, wondering at the sense of unease.Nerves: the affair had taken more of a toll on him than he'd thought.His stomach gave a small lurch, and he set down the glass of port.Perhaps he should have taken something stronger as a digestivo : a drop of Calvados, a grappa, or, even better, one of the excellent herbal digestives produced by the monks at Monte Senario.A most unpleasant sensation of poor digestion now infused his stomach.He rose, lumbered over to the sideboard-how uncharacteristically heavy he felt on his feet!-and took out a small bottle of Amaro Bor-ghini, filled a small glass with the reddish-brown liquid, and returned to the chair.His stomach was protesting vociferously, and he took a swallow, then a second, of the bitter liqueur.And as he did, he heard another sound, like a footfall, at the door.He half rose, but felt weak and sank back.Naturally, there was nobody there.There couldn't be.The servants had all been given a few days off.It was his imagination playing tricks with him.It was the strain of the last few days.He was getting on in years for business such as this.His innards were almost boiling with indigestion and he drained the glass, shifting in his chair, trying to get comfortable.The heat in the room had grown oppressive, but, blast it, there was no one to douse the fire.He fetched a deep, shuddering sigh.He would calm himself, then take out the Stormcloud and restore his previous mood with a leaping rendition of "La Primavera."Only calmness did not come.He felt a strange oppression creep stealthily over him-a pressure that seemed to build slowly, layer on layer, from within.This was not indigestion; he was getting ill.He mopped his brow with a handkerchief, aware that his heart was beating uncomfortably fast.He had caught a chill in the crypts, no doubt, hefting those heavy bricks, brought out by his unwise second visit to those clammy, nitred depths.He would take a holiday; leave tomorrow, in fact.The isle of Capraia, he told himself, would be a perfect spot.He extended a trembling hand toward the glass of amaro , but the liqueur suddenly tasted wrong, like hot pitch and vinegar in his mouth-hot, even, in his hand.Burning hot.He rose with a cry, the glass falling away and dashing to pieces against the floor.Fosco whirled, stumbled, righted himself.Porca miseria, what was happening?He gasped, felt his eyes smart, felt his mouth go dry, his heart accelerate.For a moment, he wondered if he was having a fit of some kind, or perhaps a heart attack.He'd heard heart attacks often began with a feeling just like this: a feeling that something, something, was terribly wrong.But there was no localized pain to his chest or arm.Instead, the terrible oppression within grew, and still grew, until it enveloped him.His very guts seemed to writhe.He looked around frantically, but there was nothing-not the bottle of port, not the violin, not the furniture or the rich tapestries-nothing to give any aid or explanationHis insides felt as if they were crawling, boiling.He felt his mouth twitching, his eyes blinking uncontrollably, grimacing, his fingers jerking.The heat was like being suffocated with a burning blanket.His skin felt as if it was covered with a blanket of bees.Now fear and heat rose within him as one: an unendurable, irresistible heat that had nothing to do with the fire on the hearth-Suddenly he knew.He knew."D'Agosta-!" he choked, but his throat closed up and no more words came outHe whirled toward the closed door of the salotto , staggered forward, fell over the side table with a crash, rose to his knees.His muscles were jerking spasmodically, but with an enormous effort of will, he began to crawl forward."Bastardo-!"It came out like a choked cry.As he did so, his limbs began to take on a life of their own, twitching and jerking with a horrible violence, but he had only a few more feet to go; he gave one superhuman lurch, seized the door handle.It was burning hot, and he felt his skin popping and sizzling, yet he clung tenaciously, heaved, turned-locked.With a suppressed shriek he sank, collapsing at the door, writhing.The heat grew, and grew, like lava spreading itself through his veins.A terrible piercing whine, like the buzz of a monstrous gnat, filled his head [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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