“Oh! nephew,” exclaimed the canon, “if your wife were here, you would behave more rationally.”
“Papa will make himself ill!” said the child with a mischievous look.
Just after this extraordinary gastronomical episode, as the Count was eagerly helping himself to a slice of venison, a housemaid came in with, “We cannot find madame anywhere, sir!”
I sprang up at the words with a dread in my mind, my fears written so plainly in my face, that the old canon came out after me into the garden. The Count, for the sake of appearances, came as far as the threshold.
“Don’t go, don’t go!” called he. “Don’t trouble yourselves in the least,” but he did not offer to accompany us.
We three—the canon, the housemaid, and I—hurried through the garden walks and over the bowling-green in the park, shouting, listening for an answer, growing more uneasy every moment. As we hurried along, I told the story of the fatal accident, and discovered how strongly the maid was attached to her mistress, for she took my secret dread far more seriously than the canon. We went along by the pools of water; all over the park we went; but we neither found the Countess nor any sign that she had passed that way. At last we turned back, and under the walls of some outbuildings I heard a smothered, wailing cry, so stifled that it was scarcely audible. The sound seemed to come from a place that might have been a granary. I went in at all risks, and there we found Juliette. With the instinct of despair, she had buried herself deep in the hay, hiding her face in it to deaden those dreadful cries—pudency even stronger than grief. She was sobbing and crying like a child, but there was a more poignant, more piteous sound in the sobs. There was nothing left in the world for her. The maid pulled the hay from her, her mistress submitting with the supine listlessness of a dying animal. The maid could find nothing to say but “There! madame; there, there—”
“What is the matter with her? What is it, niece?” the old canon kept on exclaiming.
At last, with the girl’s help, I carried Juliette to her room, gave orders that she was not to be disturbed, and that everyone must be told that the Countess was suffering from a sick headache. Then we came down to the dining-room, the canon and I.
Some little time had passed since we left the dinner-table; I had scarcely given a thought to the Count since we left him under the peristyle; his indifference had surprised me, but my amazement increased when we came back and found him seated philosophically at table. He had eaten pretty nearly all the dinner, to the huge delight of his little daughter; the child was smiling at her father’s flagrant infraction of the Countess’ rules. The man’s odd indifference was explained to me by a mild altercation which at once arose with the canon. The Count was suffering from some serious complaint. I cannot remember now what it was, but his medical advisers had put him on a very severe regimen, and the ferocious hunger familiar to convalescents, sheer animal appetite, had overpowered all human sensibilities. In that little space I had seen frank and undisguised human nature under two very different aspects, in such a sort that there was a certain grotesque element in the very midst of a most terrible tragedy.
The evening that followed was dreary. I was tired. The canon racked his brains to discover a reason for his niece’s tears. The lady’s husband silently digested his dinner; content, apparently, with the Countess’ rather vague explanation, sent through the maid, putting forward some feminine ailment as her excuse. We all went early to bed.
As I passed the door of the Countess’ room on the way to my night’s lodging, I asked the servant timidly for news of her. She heard my voice, and would have me come in, and tried to talk, but in vain—she could not utter a sound. She bent her head, and I withdrew. In spite of the painful agitation, which I had felt to the full as youth can feel, I fell asleep, tired out with my forced march.
It was late in the night when I was awakened by the grating sound of curtain rings drawn sharply over the metal rods. There sat the Countess at the foot of my bed. The light from a lamp set on my table fell full upon her face.
“Is it really true, monsieur, quite true?” she asked. “I do not know how I can live after that awful blow which struck me down a little while since; but just now I feel calm. I want to know everything.”
“What calm!” I said to myself as I saw the ghastly pallor of her face contrasting with her brown hair, and heard the guttural tones of her voice. The havoc wrought in her drawn features filled me with dumb amazement.
Those few hours had bleached her; she had lost a woman’s last glow of autumn color. Her eyes were red and swollen, nothing of their beauty remained, nothing looked out of them save her bitter and exceeding grief; it was as if a gray cloud covered the place through which the sun had shone.
I gave her the story of the accident in a few words, without laying too much stress on some too harrowing details. I told her about our first day’s journey, and how it had been filled with recollections of her and of love. And she listened eagerly, without shedding a tear, leaning her face towards me, as some zealous doctor might lean to watch any change in a patient’s face. When she seemed to me to have opened her whole heart to pain, to be deliberately plunging herself into misery with the first delirious frenzy of despair, I caught at my opportunity, and told her of the fears that
