That day Gilbert passed an entire hour at his window. It was not
the Rhine which fixed his attention, nor the precipice, the
mountains nor the clouds. The narrow space within which he
confined his gaze was bounded on the west by the great square
tower, on the south by a gable, on the north by a spout; I mean to
say that the object of his contemplations was a very irregular,
very undulating roof, or to speak more accurately, two adjacent and
parallel roofs, one higher than the other by twelve feet, and both
inclining by a steep slope towards a frightful precipice.
As he closed the window, he said to himself:
"After all, it is less difficult than I thought; two rope ladders
will do the business, with God's help!"
M. Leminof finding himself too much indisposed to leave his room,
Gilbert dined alone in his turret; after which he went out for a
walk on the borders of the Rhine. As he left the path for the main
road, he saw Stephane and Ivan within twenty paces of him.
Perceiving him, the young man made an angry gesture, and turning
his face, started his horse off at full speed. Gilbert had
scarcely time to leap into the ditch to avoid being run down. As
Ivan passed, he looked at him sadly, shook his head, and carried
his finger to his forehead, as if to say: "You must pardon him; his
poor mind is very sick." Gilbert returned to the castle without
delay, and as he reached the entrance to the terrace, he saw the
serf leaning against one of the doors, where he seemed to be on
guard.
"My dear Ivan," said he, "you appear to be waiting for someone."
"I heard you coming," answered he, "and I took you for Vladimir
Paulitch. It was the sound of your step which deceived me; you
haven't such a measured step generally."
"You are a keen observer," replied Gilbert smiling; "but who, I
pray, is this Vladimir Paulitch?"
"He is a physician from my country. He will remain two months with
us. The barine wrote to him a fortnight since, when he felt that
he was going to be ill; Vladimir Paulitch left immediately, and day
before yesterday he wrote from Berlin, that he would be here this
evening. This Vladimir is a physician who hasn't his equal. I am
waiting for him to arrive."
"Tell me, good Ivan, is your young master in the garden?"
"He is down there under the weeping ash."
"Very well, you must permit me to speak to him a moment. You will
even extend the obligation by saying nothing about it to Kostia
Petrovitch. You know he cannot see us, for he keeps his bed now,
and even if he should rise, his windows open on the inner court."
Ivan's brow contracted. "Impossible, impossible!" he murmured.
"Impossible? Why? Because you will not?
"Ivan, my good Ivan, it is absolutely necessary for me to speak to
your young master. I have made him submit to a humiliation against
my will. He mistakes my sentiments and credits me with the
blackest intentions, and it will be torture to him in future to be
condemned to sit at the same table with me daily. Let me explain
myself to him. In two words I will make him understand who I am,
and I wish him no harm."
The discussion was prolonged some minutes, Ivan finally yielding,
but on the condition that Gilbert should not put his good will to
the proof a second time. "Otherwise," said Ivan, "if you still
attempt to talk with him secretly, I cannot permit him to go out,
and, of course, he could only blame you, and would then have the
right to consider you an enemy."
Upon his side, the serf promised that the Count should know nothing
of the interview.
"Recollect, brother," continued he, "that this is the last improper
favor that you will obtain from me. You are a man of heart, but
sometimes I should say that YOU HAD BEEN EATING BELLADONNA."
Stephane had left the circular bank where he had been sitting, and
stood, with his back against the parapet of the terrace, his arms
hanging dejectedly, and his head sunk upon his breast. His reverie
was so profound that Gilbert approached within ten steps of him
without being perceived; but suddenly rousing himself, he raised
his head quickly, and stamped his foot imperiously.
"Go away!" cried he, "go away, or I will set Vorace on you!"
Vorace was the name of the bulldog that kept him company at night,
and was crouching in the grass some paces distant. Of all the
watchdogs of the castle, this one was the strongest and most
ferocious.
"You see," said Ivan, retaining Gilbert by the arm, "you have
nothing to do here."
Gilbert gently disengaged himself and continued to advance.
"Get out of my sight," screamed Stephane. "Why do you come to
trouble my solitude? Who gives you the right to pursue me, to
track me? How dare you look me in the face after--"
He could say no more. Excitement and anger choked his voice. For
some moments he looked alternately at Gilbert and the dog; then
changing his purpose, he moved as if to fly, but Gilbert barred the
way.
"Listen to me but a minute," said he in a gentle and penetrating
voice, "I bring you good news."
"You!" exclaimed Stephane, and he repeated, "You! you! good news!"
"I!" said Gilbert, "for I come to announce to you my near
departure."
Stephane stared with wide-open eyes, and recoiled slowly to the
wall, where, leaning back again, he exclaimed:
"What! are you going? Ah! certainly the news is excellent, as well
as unexpected; but you are giving yourself unnecessary trouble,
there was no need to forewarn me. Your departure! Great God! I
should have been notified of it in advance by the clearness of the
air, by the more vivid brightness of the sun, by some strange joy
diffused through all my being. Oh! I understand, you are not able
to digest the outrage done to you by the excellent Fritz at my
order. You consider the reparation insufficient. You are right, I
swear it by St. George, my heart made no apologies to you. I upon
my knees to you! Horror and misery! As I told you yesterday, I
yielded only to force. It was the same as if I should make my
bulldog drag you down at my feet now!"
Gilbert made no answer; he contented himself with drawing from his
pocketbook the letter which he had written the day before, and
presenting it to Stephane.
"What have I to do with this paper?" said Stephane with a gesture
of disdain. "You have told me your news, that is sufficient for
me. Anything more you could add would spoil my happiness."
"Read!" said Gilbert. "I have granted you such a great favor that
you can well afford to grant me a small one."--Stephane hesitated a
moment, but the habitual tediousness of his life was so great that
the want of diversion overcame his hatred and scorn.
"This letter is not bad!" said he as he read. "Its style is
eloquent, the penmanship is admirable too. It involuntarily
suggests to me the tie of your cravat. Both are so correct that
they are insufferable."
Gilbert, smiling, untied the cravat and let the ends hang down upon
his vest.
"It is not worth while to incommode yourself," pursued Stephane,
"we have so short a time to live together! Pray do not renounce
your most cherished habits for me. The bow of your cravat as well
as your writing, harmonize wonderfully with your whole person. I
do not suppose, however, that to please me you would reconstruct
yourself from head to foot. The undertaking would be
considerable."
"Permit me to speak," answered Gilbert. "I have made a little
change in my programme: I shall not leave tomorrow. I have granted
myself a week's delay."
Stephane's face darkened, and his eyes flashed.
"I swear to you here, upon my honor," continued Gilbert, "that in a
week I will leave, never to return, unless you yourself beg me to
remain."
"What baseness! and how cleverly this little plot has been
contrived; I see it all. By force of threats and violence they
hope to compel me a second time to bend my knees to you and cry
with clasped hands, 'Sir, in the name of Heaven, continue us the
favor of your precious presence!' But this act of cowardice I
shall never commit! Rather death! rather death!"
"A word only," resumed Gilbert, without being discouraged. "Submit
me to some proof. Have you no caprice which it is in my power to
satisfy?"
"Throw yourself at my feet," cried he impetuously; "drag yourself
in the dust, kiss the ground before me, and demand pardon and mercy
of me! At this price I will grant you, not my affection certainly,
but my indulgence and pity."
"Impossible!" answered Gilbert, shaking his head. "I am like you;
I should not know how to kneel, unless someone stronger than myself
constrained me by violence. Oh, no! in such a performance I should
lose even the hope of being some day esteemed by you. The more so
as in the trial to which I wish you would subject me, I should
desire to have some danger to brave, some difficulty to surmount."
Stephane could not conceal his astonishment. Never in all his life
had he heard language like this. Nevertheless, distrust and pride
triumphed still over every other feeling.
"Since you wish it!" said he, sneering . . . and he drew a kid
glove from one of his pockets, rubbed it between his hands and
threw it to the bulldog, who caught in his teeth and kept it there.
"Vorace," said he to him, "keep your master's glove between your
teeth, watch it well; you will answer to me for it."
Then turning to Gilbert,--"Sir, will you please restore my glove to
me? I should be infinitely obliged to you for it."
"Ah! this is then the trial to which you will subject me?" answered
Gilbert with a smile upon his lips.
Stephane looked him in the face. For the first time, he could not
avoid being struck by its noble expression and the clearness and
purity of his glance.
Stephane was involuntarily moved, and strove in vain to conceal it
by the jocular tone in which he replied:
"No, sir, it is not a test of your sincerity, but a jest which we
shall do well not to push further. This animal is not amiable.
Should you be unfortunate enough to irritate him, it would be
impossible even for me, his master, to calm his fury. Be good
enough then to leave my glove where it is, and return peaceably to
your study to meditate upon some important problem in Byzantine
history. That will be a trial less perilous and better
proportioned to your strength. Good-evening, sir, good-night."
"Oh! permit me," replied Gilbert. "I am resolved to carry this
adventure to its conclusion!"
And gently repulsing Stephane, who sought to restrain him, he
walked straight toward the bulldog.
"Take care," cried the young man, shuddering, "do not trifle with
that beast, or you are a dead man!"
"Take care," repeated Ivan, who, not having understood half of what
had been said, hardly suspected Gilbert's intention. "Take care,
this dog is a ferocious beast."
Meantime Gilbert, crossing his arms upon his breast, advanced
slowly towards the bulldog, keeping his eyes steadily fixed on
those of the animal, and when he thought he had disconcerted him by
his undaunted gaze sufficiently to make him relax his grip upon the
prize, he suddenly tore the glove from him and waved it in the air
with his right hand. At the same moment Vorace, with a howl of
rage, bounded up to leap at the throat of his despoiler. Gilbert
sprang back, covering himself with his left arm, and the dog's jaws
only grazed his shoulder. Yet when he touched the ground again, he
held between his teeth a long strip of cloth, a scrap of linen, and
a morsel of bloody flesh. Mad with fury the bulldog rolled over on
the grass with this prize which he could hardly devour, and then
suddenly, as if seized with a paroxysm of frenzy, he moved towards
the castle doubling upon himself; but reaching the foot of the
turret, he looked for his enemy and returned like an arrow, to
pounce upon him again.
"Throw down the glove," cried Ivan, "and climb the ash."
"I will surrender the glove only to him who asked me for it,"
answered Gilbert.
And hiding it in his bosom, he drew a knife from his pocket. He
had not time to open it. The dog, with bristling hair and foaming
jaws, was already within three steps of him, gathering himself to
spring upon him; but he had scarcely raised himself from the ground
when he fell back with his head shattered. The hatchet which Ivan
carried at his girdle had come down upon him like a flash. The
terrible animal vainly attempted to rise, rolled writhing in the
dust, and breathed out his life with a hoarse and fearful howl.