It was quite morning when he fell asleep. And no wonder! In the blast of that instantaneous summer hurricane, he had almost as instantaneously felt, not that Gemma was lovely, not that he liked her--that he had known before ... but that he almost ... loved her! As suddenly as that blast of wind, had love pounced down upon him. And then this senseless duel! He began to be tormented by mournful forebodings. And even suppose they didn't kill him.... What could come of his love for this girl, another man's betrothed? Even supposing this 'other man' was no danger, that Gemma herself would care for him, or even cared for him already ... What would come of it? How ask what! Such a lovely creature!...
He walked about the room, sat down to the table, took a sheet of paper, traced a few lines on it, and at once blotted them out.... He recalled Gemma's wonderful figure in the dark window, in the starlight, set all a-fluttering by the warm hurricane; he remembered her marble arms, like the arms of the Olympian goddesses, felt their living weight on his shoulders.... Then he took the rose she had thrown him, and it seemed to him that its half-withered petals exhaled a fragrance of her, more delicate than the ordinary scent of the rose.
'And would they kill him straight away or maim him?'
He did not go to bed, and fell asleep in his clothes on the sofa.
Some one slapped him on the shoulder.... He opened his eyes, and saw Pantaleone.
'He sleeps like Alexander of Macedon on the eve of the battle of Babylon!' cried the old man.
'What o'clock is it?' inquired Sanin.
'A quarter to seven; it's a two hours' drive to Hanau, and we must be the first on the field. Russians are always beforehand with their enemies! I have engaged the best carriage in Frankfort!'
Sanin began washing. 'And where are the pistols?'
'That ferroflucto Tedesco will bring the pistols. He'll bring a doctor too.'
Pantaleone was obviously putting a good face on it as he had done the day before; but when he was seated in the carriage with Sanin, when the coachman had cracked his whip and the horses had started off at a gallop, a sudden change came over the old singer and friend of Paduan dragoons. He began to be confused and positively faint-hearted. Something seemed to have given way in him, like a badly built wall.
'What are we doing, my God, Santissima Madonna!' he cried in an unexpectedly high pipe, and he clutched at his head. 'What am I about, old fool, madman, frenetico?'