"See now, how liable our judgments are to be led astray, and how
full of sense that Russian proverb is which says: 'It takes more
than one day to compass a man!' Yesterday you had such a
sentimental pathetic air, when I permitted myself to administer a
little correction to my serf, that I took you in all simplicity for
a philanthropist. I retract it now. You are one of those tyrants
who are only moved for the victims of another. Pure professional
jealousy! But," continued he, "there is one thing which astonishes
me still more, and that is, that you Gilbert, you could for an
instant believe--"
He checked himself, bent forward towards Gilbert, and looked at him
scrutinizingly, making a shade of his two bony hands extended over
his enormous eyebrows; then taking him by the arm, he led him to
the embrasure of the window, and as if he had made a sudden change
in his person which rendered him irrecognizable:
"Nothing could be better than your throwing the scoundrel
downstairs," said he, "and if he is not quite dead, I shall drive
him from here without pity; but that you should have believed that
I, Count Leminof-- Oh! it is too much, I dream-- No, you are not
the Gilbert that I know, the Gilbert I love, though I conceal it
from myself--"
And taking him by both hands, he added:
"This man was silly enough to tell you that I was your master, and
you replied to him with the Mirabeau tone: 'Go and tell your
master--' My dear Gilbert, in the name of reason, I ask you to
remember that the true is never the opposite of the false; it is
another thing, that is all; but to which I add, that in answering
as you did, you have cruelly compromised yourself. We should never
contradict a fool; it is running the risk of being like him."
Gilbert blushed. He did not try to amend anything, but readily
changing his tactics, he said, smiling:
"I implore you, sir, not to drive this man away. I want him to
stay to remind me occasionally that I am liable to lose my senses."
But what were his feelings when the Count, having sent for this
valet de chambre, said to him:
"You have not done this on your own responsibility--you received
orders. Who gave them?"
Fritz answered, stammering:
"Do please forgive me, your excellency! It was M. Stephane who,
yesterday evening, made me a present of two Russian crowns on
condition that every morning for a week I should say to M. Saville,
'good-morning, comrade.'"
A flash of joy shone in the Count's eyes. He turned towards
Gilbert, and pressing his hand, said to him:
"For this once I thank you cordially for having addressed your
complaints to me. The affair is more serious than I had thought.
There is a malignant abscess there, which must be lanced once for
all."
This surgical comparison made Gilbert shudder; he cursed his hasty
passion and his stupidity. Why had he not suspected the real
culprit? Why was it necessary for him to justify the hatred which
Stephane had avowed towards him?
"And how happens it, sir," resumed Count Kostia, with less of anger
in his tone, "that you have an opportunity of holding secret
conversations with my son in the evening? When did you enter his
service? Do you not know that you are to receive neither orders,
messages, nor communications of any kind from him?"
Fritz, who in his heart blessed the admirable invention of
lightning rods, explained as well as he could, that the evening
before, in going up to his excellency's room, he had met Ivan on
the staircase, going down to the grand hall to find a cap which his
young master had forgotten. Apparently he had neglected to close
the wicket, for Fritz, in going out through the gallery, had found
Stephane, who, approaching him stealthily, had given him his little
lesson in a mysterious tone, and as Ivan returned at this moment
without the cap he said:
"Dost thou not see, imbecile, that it's on my head," and he drew
the cap from his pocket and proudly put it on his head, while he
ran to his rooms laughing.
When he had finished his story, Fritz was profuse in his
protestations of repentance, servile and tearful; the Count cut him
short, declaring to him, that at the request of Gilbert he
consented to pardon him; but that at the first complaint brought
against him, he would give him but two hours to pack. When he had
gone out, M. Leminof pulled another bell which communicated with
the room of Ivan, who presently appeared.
"Knowest thou, my son," said the Count to him in German, "that thou
hast been very negligent for some time? Thy mind fails, thy sight
is feeble. Thou art growing old, my poor friend. Thou art like an
old bloodhound in his decline, without teeth and without scent, who
knows neither how to hunt the prey nor how to catch it. Thou must
be on the retired list. I have already thought of the office I
shall give thee in exchange. . . . Oh! do not deceive thyself. It
is in vain to shrug thy shoulders, my son; thou art wrong in
believing thyself necessary. By paying well I shall easily find
one who will be worth as much--"
Ivan's eyes flashed.
"I do not believe you," replied he, in Russian; "you know very well
that you are not amiable, but that I love you in spite of it, and
when you have spent a hundred thousand roubles, you will not have
secured one to replace me, whose affection for you will be worth a
kopeck."
"Why dost thou speak Russian?" resumed the Count. "Thou knowest
well that I have forbidden it. Apparently thou wishest that no one
but myself may understand the sweet things which thou sayest to me.
Go and cry them upon the roof, if that will give thee pleasure; but
I have never asked thee to love me. I exact only faithful service
on thy part, and I answer for it that thy substitute, when his
young master shall tell him 'go and find my cap, which I have left
in the grand hall,' will answer him coolly: 'I am not blind, my
little father, your cap is in your pocket.'"
Ivan looked at his master attentively, and the expression of his
face appeared to reassure him, for he began to smile.
"Meantime," said the Count, "so long as I keep thee in thy office,
study to satisfy me. Go to thy room and reflect, and at the end of
a quarter of an hour, bring thy little father here to me; I want to
talk with him, and I will permit thee to listen, if that will give
thee pleasure."
As soon as Ivan had gone, Gilbert begged M. Leminof not to pursue
this miserable business. "I have punished Fritz," said he, "with
perhaps undue severity; you yourself have rebuked and threatened
him; I am satisfied."
"Pardon me. In all this Fritz was but an instrument. It would not
be right to allow the real culprit to go unpunished!"
"It is no trouble to me to pardon that culprit," exclaimed Gilbert,
with an animation beyond his control, "he is so unhappy!"
M. Leminof gave Gilbert a haughty and angry look. He strode
through the room several times, his hands behind his back; then,
with the easy tempered air of an absolute prince, who condescends
to some unreasonable fancy of one of his favorites, made Gilbert
sit down, and placing himself by his side:
"My dear sir," said he to him, "your last words show a singular
forgetfulness on your part of our reciprocal agreements. You had
engaged, if you remember, not to take any interest in any one here
but yourself and myself. After that, what difference can it make
to you, whether my son is happy or unhappy? Since, however, you
have raised this question, I consent to an explanation; but let it
be fully understood, that you are never, never, to revive the
subject again. You can readily perceive, that if your society is
agreeable to me, it is because I have the pleasure of forgetting
with you the petty annoyances of domestic life. And now speak
frankly, and tell me what makes you conclude that my son is
unhappy."
Gilbert had a thousand things to reply, but they were difficult to
say. So he hesitated to answer for a moment, and the Count
anticipated him:
"Mon Dieu! I must needs proceed in advance of your accusations, a
concession which I dare to hope you will appreciate. Perhaps you
reproach me with not showing sufficient affection for my son in
daily life. But what can you expect? The Leminofs are not
affectionate. I don't remember ever to have received a single
caress from my father. I have seen him sometimes pat his hounds,
or give sugar to his horse; but I assure you that I never partook
of his sweetmeats or his smiles, and at this hour I thank him for
it. The education which he gave me hardened the affections, and it
is the best service which a father can render his son. Life is a
hard stepmother, my dear Gilbert; how many smiles have you seen
pass over her brazen lips! Besides, I have particular reasons for
not treating Stephane with too much tenderness. He seems to you to
be unhappy, he will be so forever if I do not strive to discipline
his inclinations and to break his intractable disposition. The
child was born under an evil star. At once feeble and violent, he
unites with very ardent passions a deplorable puerility of mind;
incapable of serious thought, the merest trivialities move him to
fever heat, and he talks childish prattle with all the gestures of
great passion. And what is worse, interesting himself greatly in
himself, he thinks it very natural that this interest should be
shared by all the world. Do not imagine that his is a loving heart
that feels a necessity of spending itself on others. He likes to
make his emotions spectacular, and as his impressions are events
for him, he would like to display them, even to the inhabitants of
Sirius. His soul is like a lake swept by a gale of wind that would
drive a man-of-war at the rate of twenty-five knots an hour; and on
this lake Stephane sails his squadrons of nutshells, and he sees
them come, go, tack, run around, and capsize. He keeps his log-
book very accurately, pompously registers all the shipwrecks, and
as these spectacles transport him with admiration, he is indignant
to find that he alone is moved by them. This is what makes him
unhappy; and you will agree with me that it is not my fault. The
regime which I prescribe for my invalid may appear to you a little
severe, but it's the only way by which I can hope to cure him.
Leading a regular, uniform life,--and sad enough I admit--he will
gradually become surfeited with his own emotions when the objects
of them are never renewed, and he will end, I hope, by demanding
the diversions of work and study. May he be able some day to
discover that a problem of Euclid is more interesting than the
wreck of a nutshell! Upon that day he will enter upon full
convalescence, and I shall not be the last to rejoice in it."
M. Leminof spoke in a tone so serious and composed, that for a few
moments Gilbert could have imagined him a pedagogue gravely
explaining his maxims of education; but he could not forget that
expression of ferocious joy which was depicted on his face at the
moment when Stephane fled sobbing from the garden, and he
remembered also the somnambulist who, on the preceding night, had
uttered certain broken phrases in regard to a LIVING PORTRAIT and a
BURIED SMILE. These mysterious words, terrible in their obscurity,
had appeared to him to allude to Stephane, and they accorded badly
with the airs of paternal solicitude which M. Leminof had deigned
to affect in the past few minutes. He had a show of reason,
however, in his argument; and the picture which he drew of his son,
if cruelly exaggerated, had still some points of resemblance. Only
Gilbert had reason to think that the Count purposely confounded
cause and effect, and that Stephane's malady was the work of the
physician.
"Will you permit me, sir," answered he, "to tell you all that I
have on my heart?"
"Speak, speak, improve the opportunity: I swear to you it won't
occur again."
And looking at his watch:
"You have still five minutes to talk with me about my son. Hurry;
I will not grant you two seconds more."
"I have heard it said," resumed Gilbert, "that in building bridges
and causeways, the best foundations are those which HUMOR the waves
of the sea. These are foundations with inclined slopes, which,
instead of breaking the waves abruptly, check their movement by
degrees, and abate their force without violence."
"You favor anodynes, Monsieur disciple of Galen," exclaimed M.
Leminof. "Each one according to his temperament. We cannot
reconstruct ourselves. I am a very violent, very passionate man,
and when, for example, a servant offends me I throw him
headforemost downstairs. This happens to me every day."
"Between your son and your valet de chambre, the difference is
great," answered Gilbert, a little piqued.
"Did not your famous revolution proclaim absolute equality between
all men?"
"In the law it is admirable, but not in the heart of a father."
"Good God!" cried the Count, "I do not know that I have a father's
heart for my son; I know only that I think a great deal about him,
and that I strive according to my abilities to correct in him very
grave faults, which threaten to compromise his future welfare. I
know also for a certainty that this whiner enjoys some pleasures of
which many children of his age are deprived, as, for example, a
servant for himself, a horse, and as much money as he wants for his
petty diversions. You are not ignorant of the use which he makes
of this money, neither in regard to the two thalers expended
yesterday to corrupt my valet, nor of the seven crowns with which
he purchased the delightful pleasure, the other day in your
presence, of having his foot kissed by a troop of young rustics.
And at this point, I will tell you that Ivan has reported to me
that, on the same day, Stephane turned up his sleeve to make you
admire a scar which he carried upon one of his wrists. Oblige me
by telling me what blue story he related to you on this subject."
This unexpected question troubled Gilbert a little.
"To conceal nothing from you," answered he hesitatingly, "he told
me, that for an escapade which he had made, he had been condemned
to pass a fortnight in a dungeon in irons."
"And you believed it!" cried the Count, shrugging his shoulders.
"The truth is, that, for a fortnight, I compelled my son to pass
one hour every evening in an uninhabited wing of this castle; my
intention was not so much to punish him for an act of
insubordination, as to cure him of the foolish terrors by which he
is tormented, for this boy of sixteen, who often shows himself
brave even to rashness, believes in ghosts, in apparitions, in
vampires. I ought to authorize him to guard himself at night by
the best-toothed of my bulldogs. Oh what a strange compound has
God given me for a son!"
At this moment the sound of steps was heard in the corridor.
"In the name of the kind friendship which you profess for me, sir,"
exclaimed Gilbert, seizing one of M. Leminof's hands, "I beg of
you, do not punish this child for a boyish freak for which I
forgive him with all my heart!"
"I can refuse you nothing, my dear Gilbert," answered he with a
smiling air. "I spare him from his pretended dungeons. I dare
hope that you will give me credit for it."
"I thank you; but one thing more: the flowers you deprived him of."
"Mon Dieu! since you wish it, we will have them restored to him,
and to please you, I will content myself with having him make
apologies to you in due form."
"Make apologies to me!" cried Gilbert in consternation; "but that
will be the most cruel of punishments."
"We will leave him the choice," said the Count dryly. And as
Gilbert insisted: "This time you ask too much!" added he in a tone
which admitted of no reply. "It is a question of principles, and
in such matters I never compromise."
Gilbert perceived that even in Stephane's interest, it was
necessary to desist, but he understood also to what extent the
pride of the young man would suffer, and cursed himself a thousand
times for having spoken.
Someone knocked at the door.
"Come in," cried the Count in a hoarse voice; and Stephane entered,
followed by Ivan.
X
Stephane remained standing in the middle of the room. He was paler
than usual, and kept his eyes on the floor; but his bearing was
good, and he affected a resolute air which he rarely displayed in
the presence of his father. The Count remained silent for some
time; he gazed with a cold eye on the supple and delicate body of
his son, the exquisite elegance of his form, his fine and delicate
features, framed in the slightly darkened gold of his hair. Never
had the beauty of his child filled the heart of his father with
keener bitterness. As for Gilbert, he had eyes only for a little
black spot which he noticed for the first time upon the uniformly
pale complexion of Stephane: it was like an almost imperceptible
fly, under the left corner of his mouth.
"That is the mole," thought he, and he fancied he could hear the
voice of the somnambulist cry:
"Take away that mole! it hurts me!"
Shuddering at this recollection, he felt tempted to rush from the
room; but a look from the Count recalled him to himself; he made a
strong effort to master his emotion, and fixing his eyes upon the
window, he looked at the falling rain.
"As a preliminary question," suddenly exclaimed the Count, speaking
to his son; "do me the favor, sir, to tell me how much time you
have passed in what you call a dungeon, for I do not remember."
Stephane's face colored with a vivid blush. He hesitated a moment
and then answered:
"I was there in all fifteen hours, which appeared to me as long as
fifteen days."
"You see!" said the Count, looking at Gilbert. "And now," resumed
he, "let us come to the point; a scene of the greatest impropriety
occurred in this house this morning. Fritz, my valet, in
presenting himself to my secretary, who is my friend, permitted
himself to say three times: 'Good-morning, comrade; comrade, good-
morning!'"
At these words Stephane's lips contracted slightly, as if about to
smile; but the smile was arrested on its way.
"My little story amuses you, apparently," pursued the Count,
raising his head.
"It is the incredible folly of Fritz which diverts me," answered
Stephane.
"His folly seems to me less than his insolence," replied the Count;
"but without discussing words, I am delighted to see that you
disavow his conduct. I ought not to conceal from you the fact,
that this scoundrel wished to make me believe that he acted upon
your orders, and I was resolved to punish you severely. I see now
that he has lied, and it remains for me but to dismiss him in
disgrace." Gilbert trembled lest Stephane's veracity should
succumb under this temptation; the young man hesitated but an
instant.
"I am the guilty one," answered he in a firm voice, "and it is I
who should be punished."
"What," said M. Leminof, "was it then my son, who, availing himself
of the only resources of his mind, conceived this truly happy idea.
The invention was admirable, it does honor to your genius. But if
Fritz has been but the instrument to carry out your sublime
conceptions, why do you laugh at his stupidity?"
"Oh, poor soul!" replied Stephane, with animation, "oh! the donkey,
how he spoiled my idea! I didn't order him to call M. Saville his
comrade, but to treat him as a comrade, which is a different thing.
Unfortunately I had not time to give him minute instructions, and
he misunderstood me, but he did what he could conscientiously to
earn his fee. The poor fellow must be pardoned. I am the only
guilty one, I repeat it. I am the one to be punished."
"And might we know, sir," said the Count, "what your intention was
in causing M. Saville to be insulted by a servant?"
"I wished to humiliate him, to disgust him, and to force him to
leave this house."
"And your motive?"
"My motive is that I hate him!" answered he in a hoarse voice.
"Always exaggerations," replied the Count sneeringly. "Can you
not, sir, rid yourself of this detestable habit of perpetual
exaggeration in the expression of your thoughts? Can I not impress
upon your mind the maxims upon this subject which two men of equal
genius have given us: M. de Metternich and Pigault Lebrun! The
first of these illustrious men used to say that superlatives were
the seals of fools, and the second wrote these immortal words:
"'Everything exaggerated is insignificant.'" Then extending his
arm:
"To hate! to hate!" exclaimed he. "You say the word glibly. Do
you know what it is? Sorrow, anger, jealousy, antipathy, aversion,
you may know all these; but hatred, hatred!--you have no right to
say this terrible word. Ah! hatred is a rough work! it is
ceaseless torture, it is a cross of lead to carry, and to sustain
its weight without breaking down requires very different shoulders
than yours!"
At this moment Stephane ventured to look his father in the face.
He slowly uplifted his eyes, inclining his head backward. His look
signified "You are right, I will take your word for it; you are
better acquainted with it than I."
But the Count's face was so terrible that Stephane closed his eyes
and resumed his former attitude. A slight shudder agitated his
whole frame. The Count perceived that he was near forgetting
himself, and drove back the bitter wave which came up from his
heart to his lips in spite of himself:
"Besides, my young friend here is the least detestable being in the
world," pursued he in a tranquil tone. "Judge for yourself; just
now he pleaded your cause to me with so much warmth, that he drew
from me a promise not to punish you for what he has the kindness to
call only a boy's freak. He even stipulates that I shall restore
you your flowers, which he pretends give you delight, and within an
hour Ivan will have carried them to your room. In short, two words
of apology are all he requires of you. You must admit that one
could not have a more accommodating disposition, and that you owe
him a thousand thanks."
"Apologies! to him!" cried Stephane with a gesture of horror.
"You hesitate! oh! this is too much! Do you then wish to revisit a
certain rather gloomy hall?"
Stephane shuddered, his lips trembled.
"In mercy," cried he, "inflict any other punishment upon me you
please, but not that one. Oh, no! I cannot go back to that
frightful hall. Oh! I entreat you, deprive me of my customary
walks for six months; sell Soliman, cut my hair, shave my head,--
anything, yes, anything rather than put my feet in that horrible
dungeon again! I shall die there or go mad. You don't want me to
become insane?"
"When one is unfortunate enough to believe in ghosts and
apparitions at the age of sixteen," retorted the Count, "he should
free himself as soon as possible from the ridiculous weakness."
Stephane's whole body trembled. He staggered a few steps, and
falling on his knees before his father, clung to him and cried: "I
am only a poor sick child, have pity on me. You are still my
father, are you not? and I am still your child? Mon Dieu! Mon
Dieu! You do not, you cannot, want your child to die!"
"Put an end to this miserable comedy," cried the Count, disengaging
himself from Stephane's clasp. "I am your father, and you are my
son; no one here doubts it; but your father, sir, has a horror of
scenes. This has lasted too long; end it, I tell you. You are
already in a suitable posture. The most difficult part is done,
the rest is a trifle!"
"What do you say, sir?" answered the child impetuously, trying to
rise. "I am on my knees to you only. Ah! great God! I to kneel
before this man! it is impossible! you know very well it is
impossible!
The Count, however, pressing his hand upon his shoulder,
constrained him to remain upon his knees, and turning his face to
Gilbert:
"I tell you, you are kneeling before the man you have insulted, and
we all understand it."
Was it, indeed thus, that Gilbert understood it? Quiet,
impassible, his eyes fixed upon the window, he seemed a perfect
stranger to all that passed around him.
A cry of anguish escaped Stephane, a frightful change came over his
face. Three times he tried to rise, and three times the hand of
his father weighed him down again, and kept him in a kneeling
posture. Then, as if annihilated by the thought of his weakness
and powerlessness, he yielded, and covering his eyes with both
hands, he murmured these words in a stifled and convulsive voice:
"Sir they do me violence,--I ask pardon for hating you."
And immediately his strength abandoned him, and he fainted; as a
lily broken by the storm, his head sank, and he would have fallen
backward, if his father had not signed to Ivan, who raised him like
a feather in his robust arms, and carried him hastily out of the
room.
Gilbert's first care after returning to his turret, was to light a
candle and burn Stephane's letter. Then he opened a closet and
began to prepare his trunk. While engaged in this task, someone
knocked at the door. He had only time to close the closet and the
trunk when Ivan appeared with a basket on his arm. The serf came
for the flowers, which he had orders to carry to the apartment of
his young master. Having placed five or six in his basket, he
turned to Gilbert and gave him to understand, in his Teutonic
gibberish mingled with French, that he had something important to
communicate to him. Gilbert answered in a tone of ill-humor, that
he had not time to listen to him. Ivan shook his head with a
pensive air, and left. Gilbert immediately seated himself at the
table, and upon the first scrap of paper which came under his hand,
hastily wrote the following lines:
"Poor child, do not distress yourself too much for the humiliation
to which you have just submitted. As you said yourself, you
yielded only to violence, and your apologies are void in my eyes.
Believe me, I exact nothing. Why did I not divine, this morning,
that Fritz spoke in your name! I should not have felt offended,
for it is not to me that your insults are addressed, it is to some
strange Gilbert of your imagination. I am not acquainted with him.
But what can it avail you to provoke contests, the result of which
is certain in advance? It is a hand of iron which lately weighed
upon your shoulder. Do you hope then to free yourself so soon from
its grasp? Believe me, submit yourself to your lot, and mitigate
its rigors by patience, until the day when your eyes have become
strong enough to dare to look him in the face, and your hand manly
enough to throw the gage of battle. Poor child the only
consolation I can offer you in your misfortune I should be a
culprit to refuse. I have but one night more to pass here; keep
this secret for me for twenty-four hours, and receive the adieus of
that Gilbert whom you have never known. One day he passed near you
and looked at you, and you read an offensive curiosity in his eyes.
I swear to you, they were full of tears."
Gilbert folded this letter, and slid it under the facing of one of
his sleeves; then taking the key of the private door in his hand,
and posting himself at the head of the staircase, he waited Ivan's
return. As soon as he heard the sound of his steps in the
corridor, he descended rapidly and met him on the landing at the
gallery.
"I do not know what to do," said Ivan to him. "My young master is
not himself, and he has broken the first flower-pots I carried to
him in a thousand pieces."
"Take the others too," replied Gilbert, taking care to let him see
the key which he flourished in his hand. "You can put them in your
room for the time being. When he becomes calmer he will be glad to
see them again."
"But will it not be better to leave them with you until he asks for
them?"
"I don't want to keep them half an hour longer," replied Gilbert
quickly, and he descended the first steps of the private staircase.
"As you are going on the terrace, sir," cried the serf to him,
"don't forget, I beg of you, to close the door behind you."
Gilbert promised this. "It works well," thought he; "his caution
proves to me that the wicket is not closed." He was not mistaken.
For the convenience of his transportation, the serf had left it
half open, only taking the precaution to close and double-lock the
door of the grand staircase. Gilbert waited until Ivan had reached
the second story, and immediately remounting upon tiptoe, he darted
into the corridor, followed its entire length, turned to the right,
passed before the Count's study, turned a second time to the right,
found himself in the gallery which led to the square tower, sprang
through the wicket, and arrived without obstacle at the foot of the
tower staircase. He found the steps littered with the debris of
broken pots and flowers. As he began to descend, loud voices came
to his ears; he thought for a moment that M. Leminof was with his
son. This did not turn him from his project. He had nothing to
conceal. "I will beg the Count himself," thought he, "to read my
farewell letter to his son." Having reached the top of the
staircase, he crossed a vestibule and found himself in a long, dark
alcove, lighted by a solitary glass door, opening into the great
room ordinarily occupied by Stephane. This door was ajar, and the
strange scene which presented itself to Gilbert, as he approached,
held him motionless a few steps from the threshold. Stephane, with
his back towards him, stood with his arms crossed upon his breast.
He was not speaking to his father, but to two pictures of saints
hanging from the wall above a lighted taper. These two paintings
on wood, in the style of Father Alexis, represented St. George and
St. Sergius. The child, looking at them with burning eyes,
apostrophized them in a voice trembling with anger, at intervals
stamping his foot and running his hands furiously through his long
hair and tossing it in wild disorder. Illustrious Saints of the
Eastern Church, heard you ever such language before?
Then he sprang on a chair, tore the two pictures from the wall,
threw them to the ground, and seizing his riding whip, switched
them furiously. In this affair, St. George lost half of his head
and one of his legs, and St. Sergius was disfigured for the rest of
his days. When he had satisfied his fury, Stephane hung them up
again on their nails, turning their faces to the wall, and blew out
the lamp; then he rolled upon the floor, twisting his arms and
tearing his hair--but suddenly sitting up, he drew from his bosom a
small, heart-shaped medallion which he gazed on fixedly, and as he
looked the tears began to roll down his cheeks, and in the midst of
his sobs, he cried out:
"Oh, my mother! I desire nothing from you! you could do nothing for
me; but why did I have time to know you? To remember! to remember--
what torment! Yes, I can see you now-- Every morning you gave me
a kiss, high on my forehead at the roots of my hair. The mark is
there yet--sometimes it burns me. I have often looked in the glass
to see if I had not a scar there-- Oh, my mother! come and heal my
wound by renewing it! To be kissed by one's mother, Great God!
what happiness! Oh! for a kiss, for a single kiss from you, I
would brave a thousand dangers, I would give my blood, my life, my
soul. Ah! how sad you look! there are tears in your eyes. You
recognize me, do you not? I am much changed, much changed; but I
have always your look, your forehead, your mouth, your hair."
Then starting up suddenly, Stephane walked around the room with an
unsteady step. He held the medallion closely grasped in his right
hand and kept his eyes upon it. Again he held it out at arm's
length and looked at it steadily with half-closed eyes, or drawing
it nearer to him, he said to it sweet and tender things, pressing
it to his lips, kissing it a thousand times and passing it over his
hair and his cheeks wet with tears; it seemed as though he were
trying to make some particle of this sacred image penetrate his
life and being. At last, placing it on the bed, he knelt before
it, and burying his face in his hands, cried out sobbing, "Mother,
mother, it is long since your daughter died. When will you call
your son to you?"
Gilbert retired in silence. A voice from this room said to him:
"Thou art out of place here. Take care not to meddle in the secret
communion of a son and his mother. Great sorrows have something
sacred about them. Even pity profanes them by its presence." He
descended the staircase with precaution. When he had reached the
last step,--extending his arm in the direction of the Count's room,
he muttered in a low tone: "You have lied! Under that tunic of
black velvet there is a beating heart!" Then advancing with a
rapid step through the corridor, he hoped to pass out unseen; but
on reaching the wicket, he found himself face to face with Ivan,
who was coming out of his room, and who in his surprise dropped the
basket he held in his hand.
"You here!" exclaimed he in a severe tone. "Another would have
paid dearly for this--"
Then in a soft voice, expressing profound melancholy:
"Brother," said he, "do you want both of us to be killed? I see
you do not know the man whose orders you dare to brave." And he
added, bowing humbly: "You will pardon me for calling you brother?
In my mouth, that does not mean 'comrade.'"
Gilbert gave a sign of assent, and started to leave, but the serf,
holding him by the arm, said:
"Fortunately the barine has gone out; but take care; two days since
he had one of his turns, he has one every year, and while they
last, his mind wanders at night, and his anger is terrible during
the day. I tell you there is a storm in the air, do not draw the
thunderbolt upon your head."
Then placing himself between Gilbert and the door, he added with a
grave air:
"Upon your conscience, what have you been doing here? Have you
seen my young father? Has he been talking to himself? You could
understand what he said, for he always talks in French. He only
knows enough Russian to scold me. Tell me, what have you heard? I
must know."
"Don't be alarmed," answered Gilbert. "If he has secrets he has
not betrayed them. He was engaged in complaining to himself, in
scolding the saints and weeping. Neither must you think that I
came hither to spy upon him, or to question him. As he had met
with sorrow, I wanted to console him by imparting the agreeable
news of my near departure; but I had not the courage to show myself
to him, and besides, I am not quite certain now what I shall do."
"Yes, you will do well to go," eagerly answered the serf; "but go
secretly, without warning anyone. I will help you, if you wish it.
You are too inquisitive to remain here. Certain suspicions have
already been excited on your account, which I have combated. Then,
too, you are imprudent!" Thus saying, he drew from his pocket the
candle which Gilbert had dropped in the corridor, the preceding
night.
"Fortunately," said he, returning it to him, "it was I who found
it, and picked it up, and I wish you well, you know why. But
before going from here," added he in a solemn tone, "swear to me,
that during the time you may yet remain in this house, you will not
try to come into this gallery again, and that you will not ramble
in the other any more in the night. I tell you your life is in
danger if you do."
Gilbert answered him by a gesture of assent, and passing the
wicket, regained his room, where alternately standing at the
window, or stretched upon an easy-chair, he passed two full hours
communing with his thoughts. The dinner-bell put an end to his
long meditations. There was but little conversation during the
repast. M. Leminof was grave and gloomy, and seemed to be laboring
under a great nervous excitement which he strove to conceal.
Stephane was calmer than would have been expected, after the
violent emotions he had experienced, but there was something
singular in his look. Father Alexis alone wore his everyday face;
he found it very good, and did not judge it expedient to change it.
Towards the end of the repast, Gilbert was surprised to see
Stephane, who was in the habit of drinking only wine and water,
fill his glass with Marsala three times, and swallow it almost at a
single draught. The young man was not long in feeling the effect
of it; his face flushed, and his gaze became vacant. Towards the
close of the meal, he looked a great deal at the Apocalyptic
frescoes of the vaulted ceiling: then turning suddenly to his
father, he ventured to address him a question. It was the first
time for nearly two years,--an event which made even Father Alexis
open his eyes.
"Is it true," asked Stephane, "that living persons, supposed to be
dead, have sometimes been buried?"
"Yes, it has sometimes happened," replied the Count.
"But is there no way of establishing the certainty of death?"
"Some say yes, others no. I have been told of a frozen man who was
dissected in a hospital. The operator, in opening him, saw his
heart beating in his breast; he took flight and is running yet."
"But when one dies a violent death--poisoned, for example?"
"My opinion is, that they can still be mistaken. Physiology is a
great mystery."
"Oh! that would be horrible," said Stephane in a penetrating voice;
"to awaken by bruising one's forehead against the cover of a
coffin."
"It would certainly be a very disagreeable experience, answered the
Count. And the conversation dropped. Stephane appeared very much
affected by his father's answers. He gazed no more at the ceiling,
but fixed his eyes on his plate. His face changed color several
times, and as if feeling the need of stupefying himself, he filled
his glass with wine for the fourth time, but he could not empty it,
and had hardly touched it with his lips before he set it on the
table with an air of disgust.
Tea was brought in. M. Leminof served it; and leaving his cup to
cool, rose and walked the floor. After making two or three turns,
he called Gilbert, and leaning upon his arm continued his walk,
talking with him about the political news of the day. Stephane saw
them come and go; he was evidently deeply agitated. Suddenly, at
the moment when they turned their backs, he drew from his sleeve a
small packet, which contained a pinch of yellow powder, and
unfolding it quickly, held it over his still full cup; but as he
was about emptying it, his hand trembled, and at this moment, his
father and Gilbert returning to his side, he had only time to
conceal the paper in his hand. In an instant he raised it again,
but at the decisive moment his courage again failed him. It was
not until the third trial that the yellow powder glided into the
cup, where Stephane stirred it with his spoon. This little scene
had escaped Gilbert. The Count alone had lost nothing of it; he
had eyes at the back of his head. He reseated himself in his place
and drank his tea slowly, continuing to talk with Gilbert, and
apparently quite unconscious of his son; but not a movement escaped
him. Stephane looked at his cup steadily, his agitation increased,
he breathed heavily, he shuddered, and his hand trembled with
feverish excitement. After waiting several minutes, the Count
turned to him and, looking him full in the eyes, said:
"Well! you do not drink? Cold tea is a bad drug."
The child trembled still more; his eyes had a glassy brightness.
Turning his head slowly, they wandered over everything about him,
the table, the chairs, the plate, and the black oak wainscoting.
There are moments when the aspect of the most common objects stirs
the soul with solemn emotion. When the condemned man is led out to
die, the least straw on the floor of his cell seems to say
something to his heart. Finally, gathering all his courage,
Stephane raised the cup and carried it to his mouth; but before it
had touched his lips, the Count took it roughly from his hands.
Stephane uttered a piercing cry and fell back in his chair with
closed eyes. M. Leminof looked at him for a moment with a
sarcastic and scornful smile; then bending over the cup he examined
it with care, smelt of it, and dipping his spoon in it, drew out
two or three yellow grains which he rubbed and pulverized between
his fingers. Then in a tone as tranquil and as indifferent as if
speaking of the rain, or of the fine weather, he said:
"It is phosphorus, a sufficiently active poison, and phosphorus
matches have been the death of a man more than once. But I saw
your little paper some time before. If I am not mistaken the dose
was not strong enough." And dipping his finger in the cup, he
passed it over his tongue, and curled his lip disdainfully. "I was
not mistaken," continued he, "it would only have given you a
violent colic. It was very imprudent in you; you do not like to
suffer, and you know we have only fresh-water physicians in this
neighborhood. Why didn't you wait a few hours? Doctor Vladimir
Paulitch will be here to-morrow evening." And then he went on in a
more phlegmatic tone. "It should be a first principle to do
thoroughly whatever you undertake to do at all. Thus, when a man
wants to kill himself according to rule, he should not begin by
exciting suspicions in talking of the cemetery. And as these
affairs require the exercise of coolness, he should not try to get
intoxicated. The courage which a person finds at the bottom of a
glass of Marsala is not of a good quality, and the approach of
death always sobers one. Finally, when a man has seriously
resolved to kill himself, he does not do this little thing at the
table, in company, but in his room, after having carefully bolted
the door. In short, your little scene has failed in every point,
and you do not know the first rudiments of this fine art. I advise
you not to meddle with it any more."
At these words he pulled the bell for Ivan.
"Your young master wanted to kill himself," said he; "take him to
his room and prepare him a composing draught that will put him to
sleep. Watch with him to-night, and in future be careful not to
leave any phosphorus matches in his rooms. Not that I suspect him
of entertaining any intense desire of killing himself,--but who
knows? Wounded vanity might drive him to try it. As his nerves
are excited, you will see that for some days he takes a great deal
of exercise. If the weather is fine tomorrow, keep him in the open
air all day, and in the evening walk him on the terrace; he must
get his blood stirred up."
From the moment that his father had taken the poisoned cup from
him, Stephane had remained petrified on his chair, with livid face
and arms hanging over his knees, giving no sign of life. When Ivan
approached to take him away, he rose with a start, and leaning upon
the arm of the serf, he crossed the room without opening his eyes.
When he had gone, the Count heaved a long sigh of weariness and
dejection.
"What did I tell you?" exclaimed he, throwing upon Gilbert a
scrutinizing look; "this boy has a theatrical turn of mind. I
would wager my life that he hadn't the faintest desire to kill
himself: he only aimed at exciting us; but certainly if it was the
sensitive heart of Father Alexis which he took for a target, he has
lost the trouble." And he directed Gilbert's attention to the
worthy priest, who, as soon as he had emptied his cup, had fallen
sound asleep on his stool, and smiled at the angels in his dreams.
Gilbert gave the Count a lively and agreeable surprise by answering
him in the steadiest tone:
"You are entirely right, sir; it was only a very ridiculous
affectation. Fortunately, we may consider it pretty certain that
our young tragedian will not regale us a second time with his
little play. Where courage is required, it is good to have an
opportunity of seeing to the bottom of one's sack; nothing is more
likely to cure a boaster of the foolish mania for blustering."
"Decidedly my secretary is improving," thought the Count; "he has a
tender mouth and feels the curb." And in the joy which this
discovery gave him, he felt that he entertained for him sentiments
of real friendship, of which he would not have believed himself
capable. His surprise and pleasure increased still more when
Gilbert resumed:
"But apropos, sir, do you persist in believing that, according to
Constantius Porphyrogennatus, all Greece became Slavonian in the
eighteenth century? I have new objections to present to you on
that subject. And first this famous Copronymus of whom he
speaks. . . ."
They did not rise from the table until eleven o'clock. It was
necessary to awaken Father Alexis, who slept during the whole time,
his right arm extended over his plate, and his head leaning upon
his elbow. The Count having shaken him, he rose with a start and
exclaimed:
"Don't touch it! The colors are all fresh; Jacob's beard is such a
fine gray!"
The compliant secretary retired humming an aria. M. Leminof
followed him with his eyes, and, pointing after him, said to his
serf in a confidential tone:
"Thou seest that man there; just fancy! I feel friendship for him.
He is at least my most cherished--habit. My suspicions were
absurd, thou wert right in combating them. By way of precaution,
however, make a tour of the corridor between midnight and two
o'clock. Now come and double-lock me in my room, for I feel a
paroxysm coming on. To-morrow at five o'clock thou wilt come to
open it for me."
"Count Kostia!" murmured Gilbert, when he found himself in his
room, "fear no longer that I shall think of leaving you. Whatever
happens, I remain here. Count Kostia, understand me, you have
buried the smile: I take heaven to witness that I will resuscitate
it."