Her face was suddenly tired.
"Look what I've got here," said I quickly, and produced a bottle of champagne from my coat pocket. "Now for our own little celebration."
I brought glasses and filled them.
She smiled again and drank.
"To us both, Pat."
"Yes, my darling, to our lovely life."
How queer it all was—this room, the stillness and our misery.
And beyond the door did not life stretch away unending, with forests, rivers and strong breath?
On the other side of the white mountains was not March already knocking restless on the awakening earth?
"Are you staying with me the night, Robby?"
"Yes, let's go to bed.
Let's get as near together as human beings can, and put our glasses on the bedcover and drink."
Drink. . . .
Golden-brown skin. . . .
Waiting. . . .
Lying awake. . . .
Stillness and the light wheezing of Pat's chest. . . .
Chapter XXVIII
The fohn blew and it thawed.
A babbling muggy warmth filled the valley.
The snow became soft and dripped from the roofs.
The temperature curves mounted.
Pat had to stay in bed.
The doctor came every few hours.
His expression grew ever more anxious.
One day as I was sitting at lunch, Antonio came and sat beside me. "Rita is dead," said he.
"Rita?
You mean the Russian surely?"
"No, Rita, the Spanish girl."
"But it is impossible," said I and felt my blood freeze.
Rita had been far less sick than Pat.
"More surprising things than that are possible here," replied Antonio gloomily. "She died this morning.
It was pneumonia as well."
"Pneumonia?
That's a different matter," said I relieved.
"Eighteen.
Terrible.
Died so hard."
"And the Russian?"
"Ach, don't ask.
He won't believe she's dead, says she only looks dead.
He's sitting by her bed and they can't get him out of her room."
Antonio left again.
I stared out the window.
Rita was dead; but I just sat arid thought: It isn't Pat, it isn't Pat.
Through the glazed corridor I saw the violinist.
Before I could get up he had arrived.
He looked awful.
"I see you're smoking," said I, only to say something.
He laughed aloud.