Chương Chương 2 · 第2章

Lisaveta was just taking off her shawl and her bonnet, when the

Countess sent for her. She had had the horses put in again.

While two footmen were helping the old lady into the carriage, Lisaveta

saw the young officer at her side. She felt him take her by the hand,

lost her head, and found, when the young officer had walked away, that

he had left a paper between her fingers. She hastily concealed it in

her glove.

During the whole of the drive she neither saw nor heard. When they were

in the carriage together the Countess was in the habit of questioning

Lisaveta perpetually.

"Who is that man that bowed to us? What is the name of this bridge?

What is there written on that signboard?"

Lisaveta now gave the most absurd answers, and was accordingly scolded

by the Countess.

"What is the matter with you, my child?" she asked. "What are you

thinking about? Or do you really not hear me? I speak distinctly

enough, however, and I have not yet lost my head, have I?"

Lisaveta was not listening. When she got back to the house, she ran to

her room, locked the door, and took the scrap of paper from her glove.

It was not sealed, and it was impossible, therefore, not to read it.

The letter contained protestations of love. It was tender, respectful,

and translated word for word from a German novel. But Lisaveta did

not read German, and she was quite delighted. She was, however,

much embarrassed. For the first time in her life she had a secret.

Correspond with a young man! The idea of such a thing frightened her.

How imprudent she had been! She had reproached herself, but knew not

now what to do.

Cease to do her work at the window, and by persistent coldness try and

disgust the _young_ officer? Send him back his letter? Answer him in

a firm, decided manner? What line of conduct was she to pursue? She

had no friend, no one to advise her. She at last decided to send an

answer. She sat down at her little table, took pen and paper, and began

to think. More than once she wrote a sentence and then tore up the

paper. What she had written seemed too stiff, or else it was wanting in

reserve. At last, after much trouble, she succeeded in composing a few

lines which seemed to meet the case.

"I believe," she wrote, "that your intentions are those of an

honourable man, and that you would not wish to offend me by any

thoughtless conduct. But you must understand that our acquaintance

cannot begin in this way. I return your letter, and trust that you will

not give me cause to regret my imprudence."

Next day, as soon as Hermann made his appearance, Lisaveta left her

embroidery, and went into the drawing-room, opened the ventilator, and

threw her letter into the street, making sure that the young officer

would pick it up.

[Illustration: SHE TORE IT INTO A HUNDRED PIECES.]

Hermann, in fact, at once saw it, and picking it up, entered a

confectioner's shop in order to read it. Finding nothing discouraging

in it, he went home sufficiently pleased with the first step in his

love adventure.

Some days afterwards, a young person with lively eyes called to see

Miss Lisaveta, on the part of a milliner. Lisaveta wondered what she

could want, and suspected, as she received her, some secret intention.

She was much surprised, however, when she recognised, on the letter

that was now handed to her, the writing of Hermann.

"You make a mistake," she said; "this letter is not for me."

"I beg your pardon," said the milliner, with a slight smile; "be kind

enough to read it."

Lisaveta glanced at it. Hermann was asking for an appointment.

"Impossible!" she cried, alarmed both at the boldness of the request,

and at the manner in which it was made. "This letter is not for me,"

she repeated; and she tore it into a hundred pieces.

"If the letter was not for you, why did you tear it up? You should have

given it me back, that I might take it to the person it was meant for."

"True," said Lisaveta, quite disconcerted.

"But bring me no more letters, and tell the person who gave you this

one that he ought to blush for his conduct."

Hermann, however, was not a man to give up what he had once undertaken.

Every day Lisaveta received a fresh letter from him, sent now in one

way, now in another. They were no longer translated from the German.

Hermann wrote under the influence of a commanding passion, and spoke a

language which was his own. Lisaveta could not hold out against such

torrents of eloquence. She received the letters, kept them, and at last

answered them. Every day her answers were longer and more affectionate,

until at last she threw out of the window a letter couched as follows:--

"This evening there is a ball at the Embassy. The Countess will be

there. We shall remain until two in the morning. You may manage to

see me alone. As soon as the Countess leaves home, that is to say

towards eleven o'clock, the servants are sure to go out, and there

will be no one left but the porter, who will be sure to be asleep in

his box. Enter as soon as it strikes eleven, and go upstairs as fast

as possible. If you find anyone in the ante-chamber, ask whether the

Countess is at home, and you will be told that she is out, and, in

that case, you must resign yourself, and go away. In all probability,

however, you will meet no one. The Countess's women are together in a

distant room. When you are once in the ante-chamber, turn to the left,

and walk straight on, until you reach the Countess's bedroom. There,

behind a large screen, you will see two doors. The one on the right

leads to a dark room. The one on the left leads to a corridor, at the

end of which is a little winding staircase, which leads to my parlour."

At, ten o'clock Hermann was already on duty before the Countess's door.

It was a frightful night. The winds had been unloosed, and the snow was

falling in large flakes; the lamps gave an uncertain light; the streets

were deserted; from time to time passed a sledge, drawn by a wretched

hack, on the look-out for a fare. Covered by a thick overcoat, Hermann

felt neither the wind nor the snow. At last the Countesses carriage

drew up. He saw two huge footmen come forward and take beneath the arms

a dilapidated spectre, and place it on the cushions well wrapped up in

an enormous fur cloak. Immediately afterwards, in a cloak of lighter

make, her head crowned with natural flowers, came Lisaveta, who sprang

into the carriage like a dart. The door was closed, and the carriage

rolled on softly over the snow.

The porter closed the street door, and soon the windows of the first

floor became dark. Silence reigned throughout the house. Hermann walked

backwards and forwards; then coming to a lamp he looked at his watch.

It was twenty minutes to eleven. Leaning against the lamp-post, his

eyes fixed on the long hand of his watch, he counted impatiently the

minutes which had yet to pass. At eleven o'clock precisely Hermann

walked up the steps, pushed open the street door, and went into the

vestibule, which was well lighted. As it happened the porter was not

there. With a firm and rapid step he rushed up the staircase and

reached the ante-chamber. There, before a lamp, a footman was sleeping,

stretched out in a dirty greasy dressing-gown. Hermann passed quickly

before him and crossed the dining-room and the drawing-room, where

there was no light. But the lamp of the ante-chamber helped him to see.

At last he reached the Countess's bedroom. Before a screen covered with

old icons (sacred pictures) a golden lamp was burning. Gilt arm-chairs,

sofas of faded colours, furnished with soft cushions, were arranged

symmetrically along the walls, which were hung with China silk. He

saw two large portraits painted by Madame le Brun. One represented a

man of forty, stout and full coloured, dressed in a light green coat,

with a decoration on his breast. The second portrait was that of an

elegant young woman, with an aquiline nose, powdered hair rolled back

on the temples, and with a rose over her ear. Everywhere might be seen

shepherds and shepherdesses in Dresden china, with vases of all shapes,

clocks by Leroy, work-baskets, fans, and all the thousand playthings

for the use of ladies of fashion, discovered in the last century, at

the time of Montgolfier's balloons and Mesmer's animal magnetism.

[Illustration: "A FOOTMAN IN A GREASY DRESSING GOWN."]

Hermann passed behind the screen, which concealed a little iron

bedstead. He saw the two doors; the one on the right leading to the

dark room, the one on the left to the corridor. He opened the latter,

saw the staircase which led to the poor little companion's parlour, and

then, closing this door, went into the dark room.

The time passed slowly. Everything was quiet in the house. The

drawing-room clock struck midnight, and again there was silence.

Hermann was standing up, leaning against the stove, in which there was

no fire. He was calm; but his heart beat with quick pulsations, like

that of a man determined to brave all dangers he might have to meet,

because he knows them to be inevitable. He heard one o'clock strike;

then two; and soon afterwards the distant roll of a carriage. He now,

in spite of himself, experienced some emotion. The carriage approached

rapidly and stopped. There was at once a great noise of servants

running about the staircases, and a confusion of voices. Suddenly the

rooms were all lit up, and the Countess's three antiquated maids came

at once into the bed-room. At last appeared the Countess herself.

The walking mummy sank into a large Voltaire arm-chair. Hermann looked

through the crack in the door; he saw Lisaveta pass close to him, and

heard her hurried step as she went up the little winding staircase.

For a moment he felt something like remorse; but it soon passed off,

and his heart was once more of stone.

[Illustration: "A STRANGE MAN HAD APPEARED."]

The Countess began to undress before a looking-glass. Her head-dress of

roses was taken off, and her powdered wig separated from her own hair,

which was very short and quite white. Pins fell in showers around

her. At last she was in her dressing-gown and night cap, and in this

costume, more suitable to her age, was less hideous than before.

Like most old people, the Countess was tormented by sleeplessness. She

had her armchair rolled towards one of the windows, and told her maids

to leave her. The lights were put out, and the room was lighted only by

the lamp which burned before the holy images. The Countess, sallow and

wrinkled, balanced herself gently from right to left. In her dull eyes

could be read an utter absence of thought; and as she moved from side

to side, one might have said that she did so not by any action of the

will, but through some secret mechanism.

Suddenly this death's-head assumed a new expression; the lips ceased to

tremble, and the eyes became alive. A strange man had appeared before

the Countess!

It was Hermann.

"Do not be alarmed, madam," said Hermann, in a low voice, but very

distinctly. "For the love of Heaven, do not be alarmed. I do not wish

to do you the slightest harm; on the contrary, I come to implore a

favour of you."

The old woman looked at him in silence, as if she did not understand.

Thinking she was deaf, he leaned towards her ear and repeated what he

had said; but the Countess still remained silent.

"You can ensure the happiness of my whole life, and without its costing

you a farthing. I know that you can name to me three cards----"

The Countess now understood what he required.

"It was a joke," she interrupted. "I swear to you it was only a joke."

"No, madam," replied Hermann in an angry tone. "Remember Tchaplitzki,

and how you enabled him to win."

The Countess was agitated. For a moment her features expressed strong

emotion; but they soon resumed their former dulness.

"Cannot you name to me," said Hermann, "three winning cards?"

The Countess remained silent. "Why keep this secret for your

great-grandchildren," he continued. "They are rich enough without;

they do not know the value of money. Of what profit would your three

cards be to them? They are debauchees. The man who cannot keep his

inheritance will die in want, though he had the science of demons at

his command. I am a steady man. I know the value of money. Your three

cards will not be lost upon me. Come!"

He stopped tremblingly, awaiting a reply. The Countess did not utter a

word. Hermann went upon his knees.

"If your heart has ever known the passion of love; if you can remember

its sweet ecstasies; if you Pave ever been touched by the cry of a

newborn babe; if any human feeling has ever caused your heart to beat,

I entreat you by the love of a husband, a lover, a mother, by all

that is sacred in life, not to reject my prayer. Tell me your secret!

Reflect! You are old; you Pave not long to live! Remember that the

happiness of a man is in your hands; that not only myself, but my

children and my grandchildren will bless your memory as a saint."

The old Countess answered not a word.

Hermann rose, and drew a pistol from his pocket.

"Hag!" he exclaimed, "I will make you speak."

At the sight of the pistol the Countess for the second time showed

agitation. Her head shook violently she stretched out her hands as if

to put the weapon aside. Then suddenly she fell back motionless.

"Come, don't be childish!" said Hermann. "I adjure you for the last

time; will you name the three cards?"

The Countess did not answer. Hermann saw that she was dead!