The Countess Lodrin had passed the night without lying down. When her
maid appeared to see if her mistress were not ill, she had been
dismissed by a mute wave of the hand. At last, towards morning, sitting
beside her writing-table, she had fallen into the leaden sleep that is
wont to follow terrible mental agitation.
The sun was high in the heavens when she awoke with stiffened limbs and
a dull pain at her heart, but without any distinct consciousness of
misfortune. She looked around her, and started, perceiving that some
strange commotion was astir in the castle; she could hear footsteps
overhead, and outside her door.--She hurried out, the corridor was
filled with people--people who had no claim to be up here. And all the
servants were hurrying hither and thither in the confusion of a
household where some catastrophe has occurred, all weeping, trembling,
not one showing unsympathetic curiosity, and amongst them was Pistasch,
vainly trying to quiet the loud howling of Oswald's Newfoundland.
"What is the matter?" the Countess shrieked,--"what has happened?"
But no one had the courage to answer her. She ran to Oswald's
bedroom--all gazed after her in horror-stricken compassion; they might
have restrained her, but who could dare to do so? At the door she met
Georges.
"What is it?" she gasped, clutching his arm, "where is Ossi?"
"In there," he murmured hoarsely, "but ...!"
"'But'--for God's sake tell me what has happened?"
"A duel," said Georges with an effort,--he would fain have detained
her, would fain have found the conventional phrases with which men
attempt to break bad news, he could not recall any, and he stammered.
"A duel?" she asked sharply, "with whom?"
"With Capriani;--he...."
Before he could say another word she had opened the door and had
entered Oswald's room.
They had lain him on his bed,--the noble outlines of his stalwart
figure were distinctly visible beneath the white sheet;--his face was
uncovered, and bathed in all the ideal charm of dead youth.
The Countess staggered, tried to hold herself erect, tripped over her
dress, and fell; then dragged herself on her knees to the bed of her
dead child. At its foot she lay, her face buried in her hands.
When, two hours afterward, Truyn who had been informed of the frightful
catastrophe entered the room with Georges Lodrin, she was still
kneeling in the same place, her head still in her hands.
Profoundly shocked Truyn bent over her, and gently begged her to leave
the room. She arose mechanically, and leaning upon his arm went to the
door. There she paused, turned, and hurried back to the bed. They
feared that force would be necessary to separate her from the dead
body, when Georges remembered the message entrusted to him by the dying
man. In the tumult, the horror, in his own terrible grief he had
forgotten it. "Let me try to persuade her, wait for me here," said he
to Truyn, and going to the bedside where the Countess was again
kneeling he whispered: "Aunt, I have a message for you from him; he
died in my arms, and while dying he thought of you!"
She shrank away from him.
"To-day is his birthday," Georges continued, "he remembered it in his
last moments and begged me to tell you, and, for God's sake not to
forget it, that he thanked you for the past happy twenty-six years, and
that he kissed your dear, dear hands in token of farewell."
The wretched woman, who had hitherto seemed carved out of marble, began
to tremble violently; a hard hoarse sob burst from her lips.
It was the first warm breath of spring breaking up the ice. She
instantly rose and threw herself in an agony of tears upon the corpse,
exclaiming: "My child, my fair, noble boy!"
Georges withdrew; the moment was too sacred to be intruded upon.
Shortly afterwards she tottered, bent and bowed, from the room. Truyn,
whom she had not seemed to perceive, offered her his arm, and she
quietly allowed herself to be led to her own apartment.