Valeria pricked up her ears.—“What
sort of a dream?” inquired Fabio.
“I seemed,” replied Muzio, without taking
his eyes from Valeria, “to see myself enter
a spacious apartment with a vaulted ceiling, decorated
in Oriental style. Carved pillars supported the
vault; the walls were covered with tiles, and although
there were no windows nor candles, yet the whole room
was filled with a rosy light, just as though it had
all been built of transparent stone. In the corners
Chinese incense-burners were smoking; on the floor
lay cushions of brocade, along a narrow rug.
I entered through a door hung with a curtain, and from
another door directly opposite a woman whom I had
once loved made her appearance. And she seemed
to me so beautiful that I became all aflame with my
love of days gone by....”
Muzio broke off significantly. Valeria sat motionless,
only paling slowly ... and her breathing grew more
profound.
“Then,” pursued Muzio, “I woke up
and played that song.”
“But who was the woman?” said Fabio.
“Who was she? The wife of an East Indian.
I met her in the city of Delhi.... She is no
longer among the living. She is dead.”
“And her husband?” asked Fabio, without
himself knowing why he did so.
“Her husband is dead also, they say. I
soon lost sight of them.”
“Strange!” remarked Fabio.—“My
wife also had a remarkable dream last night—which
she did not relate to me,” added Fabio.
But at this point Valeria rose and left the room.
Immediately after breakfast Muzio also went away,
asserting that he was obliged to go to Ferrara on
business, and that he should not return before evening.
Several weeks before Muzio’s return Fabio had
begun a portrait of his wife, depicting her with the
attributes of Saint Cecilia.—He had made
noteworthy progress in his art; the famous Luini, the
pupil of Leonardo da Vinci, had come to him in Ferrara,
and aiding him with his own advice, had also imparted
to him the precepts of his great master. The
portrait was almost finished; it only remained for
him to complete the face by a few strokes of the brush,
and then Fabio might feel justly proud of his work.
When Muzio departed to Ferrara, Fabio betook himself
to his studio, where Valeria was generally awaiting
him; but he did not find her there; he called to her—she
did not respond. A secret uneasiness took possession
of Fabio; he set out in quest of her. She was
not in the house; Fabio ran into the garden—and
there, in one of the most remote alleys, he descried
Valeria. With head bowed upon her breast, and
hands clasped on her knees, she was sitting on a bench,
and behind her, standing out against the dark green
of a cypress, a marble satyr, with face distorted
in a malicious smile, was applying his pointed lips
to his reed-pipes. Valeria was visibly delighted
at her husband’s appearance, and in reply to
