Fabio chatting and walking in the distance? Octavio knew at once that this very natural explanation was not sufficient. The solitude and the shadows were filled by invisible beings whom he was disturbing; he had stumbled upon a mystery; and they all seemed to be waiting for him to depart to come out of their hiding-places. Such were the extravagant ideas which whirled through his brain, and which were strengthened by the hour, the place, and a thousand and one details which only those who have been at night in some vast ruin can comprehend.
In passing before a house which he had noticed during the day, and upon which the moon shone full, he saw a portico as perfect as the day it was built, which he had tried in vain to reconstruct in his mind only that afternoon: four columns of the Doric order fluted to the centre, and the shafts enveloped as by a purple drapery, sustained a moulding decorated with colored ornaments, which it seemed as though the decorator had finished yesterday; on the face of the door was a verse by Laconic, accompanied by a Latin inscription. Upon the sill, in mosaics, was the word "have," in Latin letters. The outside walls, painted in yellow and ruby color, were without a crack. The house was of one story; and the tiled roof, of bronze color, cast its profile against the sky.
This strange restoration, made at midnight by an unknown architect, troubled Octavio, who was sure he had seen it that day in hopeless ruin. The mysterious reconstructor had worked very quickly, for the neighboring houses all had the same appearance of perfect repair: all the pillars had their fluting entire; not a stone was missing, not a brick, not a piece of stucco; not a figure was wanting in the pictures which ornamented the walls; and around the fountains he could see laurels, roses, and myrtle growing. History was mistaken: the eruption had not taken place, or else the needle of time had gone backwards twenty centuries upon the dial of eternity.
Octavio, thunderstruck, asked himself if he were sleeping and this a fevered dream; but he was obliged to acknowledge that he was not asleep, nor was he drunk.
A singular change had taken place in the atmosphere: vague rosy tints, mingled with violet, succeeded to the azure light of the moon; the heavens grew light in the east; day was apparently about to dawn. Octavio took out his watch, and touched the spring: it struck twelve times. He listened, and touched it again; and, as before, it struck twelve. It was certainly midnight; but still the light grew brighter, and the moon disappeared,—the sun was up.
Then Octavio, who began to lose all idea of time, was convinced that he was not walking in a dead Pompeii, but in a living Pompeii, youthful, complete, and upon which the torrents of boiling lava had not rushed.
This was proved to him; for a man, clothed in the ancient costume of Pompeii, came out of a neighboring house. This man wore his hair short, and had no beard. A tunic of a brown color, and a gray mantle (the ends of which were held back so as not to retard his movements), constituted his dress. He walked rapidly, and passed by Octavio without seeing him. A basket made of cords hung on his arm, and he went towards the Forum Nundinarium: it was a slave going to market. There could be no mistake.
