On entering the avenue which led to the Castle I saw a great number of
ladies and gentlemen in morning dress standing in groups on the steps of
the entrance or walking about the paths of the park. The court was
filled with peasants in their Sunday attire. The Castle bore a festive
air; everywhere were flowers and wreaths, flags and festoons. The head
servant led me to the room on the ground floor which had been assigned
to me, apologising for not being able to offer me a better one; but
there were so many visitors in the Castle that it had been impossible to
reserve me the room I had occupied during my first visit, which had been
given to the wife of the premier Marshal. My new chamber was, however,
very comfortable; it looked on the park, and was below the Count's
apartment. I dressed myself hastily for the ceremony, and put on my
surplice, but neither the Count nor his betrothed made their appearance.
The Count had gone to fetch her from Dowghielly. They should have come
back a long time before this; but a bride's toilette is not a light
business, and the doctor had warned the guests that as the breakfast
would not take place till after the religious ceremony, those whose
appetites were impatient would do well to fortify themselves at a
sideboard, which was spread with cakes and all kinds of drinks. I
remarked at the time that the delay excited ill-natured remarks; two
mothers of pretty girls invited to the fête did not refrain from
epigrams launched at the bride.
It was past noon when a salvo of cannon and muskets heralded her
arrival, and soon after a state carriage entered the avenue drawn by
four magnificent horses. It was easily seen by the foam which covered
their chests that the delay had not been on their part. There was no one
in the carriage besides the bride, Madam Dowghiello and the Count. He
got out and gave his hand to Madam Dowghiello. Mademoiselle Iwinska,
with a gracefully coquettish gesture, pretended to hide under a shawl to
avoid the curious looks which surrounded her on all sides. But she stood
up in the carriage, and was just about to take the Count's hand when the
wheelers, terrified maybe by the showers of flowers that the peasants
threw at the bride, perhaps also seized with that strange terror which
animals seemed to experience at the sight of Count Szémioth, pranced and
snorted; a wheel struck the column at the foot of the flight of steps,
and for a moment an accident was feared. Mademoiselle Iwinska uttered a
little cry,... but all minds were soon relieved, for the Count snatched
her in his arms and carried her to the top of the steps as easily as
though she had been a clove. We all applauded his presence of mind and
his chivalrously gallant conduct. The peasants yelled terrific hurrahs,
and the blushing bride laughed and trembled simultaneously. The Count,
who was not at all in a hurry to rid himself of his charming burden,
evidently exulted in showing her picture to the surrounding crowd....
Suddenly a tall, pale, thin woman, with disordered dress and dishevelled
hair, and every feature in her face drawn with terror, appeared at the
top of the flight of stairs before anyone could tell from whence she
sprang.
"Look at the bear!" she shrieked in a piercing voice, "look at the
bear!... Get your guns!... He has carried off a woman! Kill him! Fire!
fire!"
It was the Countess. The bride's arrival had attracted everybody to the
entrance and to the courtyard or to the windows of the Castle. Even the
women who kept guard over the poor maniac had forgotten their charge;
she had escaped, and, without being observed by anyone, had come upon us
all. It was a most painful scene. She had to be removed, in spite of her
cries and resistance. Many of the guests knew nothing about the nature
of her illness, and matters had to be explained to them. People
whispered in a low tone for a long time after. All faces looked shocked.
"It is an ill omen," said the superstitious, and their number is great
in Lithuania.
However, Mlle. Iwinska begged for five minutes to settle her toilette
and put on her bridal veil, an operation which lasted a full hour. It
was more than was required to inform the people who did not know of the
Countess's illness of the cause and of its details.
At last the bride reappeared, magnificently attired and covered with
diamonds. Her aunt introduced her to all the guests, and, when the
moment came to go into the chapel, Madam Dowghiello, to my great
astonishment, slapped her niece on the cheek, in the presence of the
whole company, hard enough to make those whose attention was not
otherwise engaged to turn round. The blow was received with perfect
equanimity, and no one seemed surprised; but a man in black wrote
something on a paper which he carried, and several of the persons
present signed their names with the most nonchalant air. Not until after
the ceremony did I find the clue to the riddle. Had I guessed it I
should not have failed to oppose the abominable custom with the whole
weight of my sacred office as a minister of religion. It was to set up a
case for divorce by pretending that the marriage only took place by
reason of the physical force exercised against one of the contracting
parties.
After the religious service I felt it my duty to address a few words to
the young couple, confining myself to putting before them the gravity
and sacredness of the bond by which they had just united themselves;
and, as I still had Mlle. Iwinska's postscript on my mind, I reminded
her that she was now entering a new life, no longer accompanied by
childish pleasures and amusements, but filled with serious duties and
grave trials. I thought that this portion of my sermon produced much
effect upon the bride, as well as on everyone present who understood
German.
Volleys of firing and shouts of joy greeted the procession as it came
out of the chapel on its way to the dining-hall. The repast was splendid
and the appetites very keen; at first no other sounds were audible but
the clatter of knives and forks. Soon, however, warmed by champagne and
Hungarian wines, the people began to talk and laugh, and even to shout.
The health of the bride was drunk with enthusiastic cheers. They had
scarcely resumed their seats when an old _pane_ with white moustaches
rose up.
"I am grieved to see," he said in a loud voice, "that our ancient
customs are disappearing. Our forefathers would never have drunk this
toast from glasses of crystal. We drank out of the bride's slipper, and
even out of her boot; for in my time ladies wore red morocco boots. Let
us show, my friends, that we are still true Lithuanians. And you, Madam,
condescend to give me your slipper."
"Come, take it, Monsieur," replied the bride, blushing and stifling a
laugh;... "but I cannot satisfy you with a boot."
The _pane_ did not wait a second bidding; he threw himself gracefully on
his knees, took off a little white satin slipper with a red heel, filled
it with champagne, and drank so quickly and so cleverly that not more
than half fell on his clothes. The slipper was passed round, and all the
men drank out of it, but not without difficulty. The old gentleman
claimed the shoe as a precious relic, and Madam Dowghiello sent for a
maid to repair her niece's disordered toilette.
This toast was followed by many others, and soon the guests became so
noisy that it did not become me to remain with them longer. I escaped
from the table without being noticed and went outside the Castle to get
some fresh air, but there, too, I found a none too edifying spectacle.
The servants and peasants who had had beer and spirits to their hearts'
content were nearly all of them already tipsy. There had been
quarrelling and some heads broken. Here and there drunken men lay
rolling on the grass in a state of stupidity, and the general aspect of
the fete looked much like a field of battle. I should have been
interested to watch the popular dances quite close, but most of them
were led by impudent gipsies, and I did not think il becoming to venture
into such a hubbub. I went back, therefore, to my room and read for
some time; then I undressed and soon fell asleep.
When I awoke the Castle clock was striking three o'clock. It was a fine
night, although the moon was half shrouded by a light mist. I tried to
go to sleep again, but I could not manage it. According to my usual
habit when I could not sleep I thought to take up a book and read, but I
could not find matches within reach. I got up and was going to grope
about the room when a dark body of great bulk passed before my window
and fell with a dull thud into the garden. My first impression was that
it was a man, and I thought possibly it was one of the drunken men, who
had fallen out of the window. I opened mine and looked out, but I could
not see anything. I lighted a candle at last, and, getting back into
bed, I had gone through my glossary again just as they brought me a cup
of tea. Towards eleven o'clock I went to the salon, where I found many
scowling eyes and disconcerted looks. I learnt, in short, that the table
had not been left until a very late hour. Neither the Count nor the
young Countess had yet appeared. At half-past eleven, after many
ill-timed jokes, people began to grumble--at first below their breath,
but soon aloud. Dr. Froeber took upon himself to send the Count's valet
to knock at his master's door. In a quarter of an hour the man came back
looking anxious, and reported to Dr. Froeber that he had knocked more
than a dozen times without getting any answer. Madam Dowghiello, the
doctor and I consulted together. The valet's uneasiness influenced me.
We all three went upstairs with him and found the young Countess's maid
outside the door very scared, declaring that something dreadful had
happened, for Madam's window was wide open. I recollected with horror
that heavy body falling past my window. We knocked loudly; still no
answer. At length the valet brought an iron bar, and we forced the
door.... No! courage fails me to describe the scene which presented
itself to our eyes. The young Countess was stretched dead on her bed,
her face horribly torn, her throat cut open and covered with blood. The
Count had disappeared, and no one has ever heard news of him since.
The doctor examined the young girl's ghastly wound.
"It was not a steel blade," he exclaimed, "which did this wound.... It
was a bite...."
* * * * *
The doctor closed his book, and looked thoughtfully into the fire.
"And is that the end of the story?" asked Adelaide.
"The end," replied the Professor in a melancholy voice.
"But," she continued, "why have you called it '_Lokis_'? Not a single
person in it is so called."
"It is not the name of a man," said the Professor. "Come, Théodore, do
you understand what '_Lokis_' means?"
"Not in the very least."
"If you were thoroughly steeped in the law of transformation from the
Sanskrit into Lithuanian, you would have recognised in _lokis_ the
Sanskrit _arkcha_, or _rikscha_. The Lithuanians call _lokis_ that
animal which the Greeks called [Greek: arktos], the Latins
_ursus_, and the Germans _bär_.
"Now you will understand my motto:
"Miszka su Lokiu,
Abu du tokiu."
"You remember that in the romance of _Renard_ the bear is called _damp
Brun_. The Slavs called it Michel, which becomes Miszka in Lithuanian,
and the surname nearly always replaces the generic name _lokis_. In the
same way the French have forgotten their new Latin word _goupil_, or
_gorpil_, and have substituted _renard_. I could quote you endless other
instances...."
But Adelaide observed that it was late, and we ought to go to bed.