Wenk said farewell, and drove from the house to Count Told’s villa at Tutzing, hoping that he might find the Countess there, but he was told by the footman that neither his master nor his mistress had spent the night at home. Then he returned to his own chambers, where the Count, pale and haggard, waited eagerly for him.
“I felt sure of it,” he said disconsolately, when Wenk told him that the Countess had not returned home, “but one always hopes for the impossible. And what about the Privy Councillor?”
“I told him exactly what you told me; he had regarded the matter in another light, but not a very serious one. He advises you to consult a neurologist whom he knows, and has given me this letter to him for you.”
“Dr. Mabuse,” read the Count. “Why, he was at the party last night.”
“Shall I go to him?” suggested Wenk.
“No, Doctor, I really must not rely on your kindness any longer. I must pull myself together and deal with this crisis in my life. I will call up Dr. Mabuse on the telephone, as we have his number there. I will do it from here, if I may.”
“Dr. Mabuse,” said the Count at the telephone, “you were present at Privy Councillor Wendel’s party last night when I had the misfortune to. …”
“That is so.”
“I want your professional help. The Councillor gave me a letter of introduction to you. Can I bring it at once?”
The other voice answered harshly, “No. I do not see patients except in their own homes. What is your address? Expect me there tomorrow morning at 11 a.m. Repeat the appointment; what time is fixed?”
“Eleven a.m.,” said the Count, thoroughly terrified, and then he left Wenk’s house.
XIII
The Countess opened her eyes on something black, intersected with red circles and rays. All around her was dark and strange. Somewhere on high a faint light was glimmering in the room in which she lay. She was on a sofa, fully dressed. She had never seen the room before, and all its contents were unfamiliar. She lay there, trying to recall what had happened, but she found it impossible. One moment alone stood out in her memory: the recollection of the grey eyes of that Dr. Mabuse who had told her of tigers—eyes which had held her as with the clutch of a beast whose claws ran blood. She recalled something like a spring in the air, a hold that left her breathless, feeling as if the very heart were being torn from her body and she was sinking, sinking down into a gulf.
Suddenly a door opened; where, exactly, she did not know, for she felt rather than perceived it. She was expecting something, but her imagination flowed back upon herself and she waited.
After a time a voice spoke out of the semidarkness: “You are awake. Would you like the light?”
It was a voice which seemed to the Countess at the first moment like the trump of doom, but in an instant this sensation left her and she felt incredulous. How came that voice into this mysterious obscurity? It was the very last she could have expected to hear. She shrank terrified within herself, and it seemed as if her whole body gradually stiffened. There was a sound in her throat, but she was not conscious of it. She stretched her hands in front of her as if warding off a danger. Then suddenly the room was flooded with light.
Dr. Mabuse closed the door and approached the sofa. He said: “The situation is exactly what I desired. I have brought you home!”
At these words the Countess regained control of herself. She rose from the sofa, though she felt faintness stealing over her. What did this man want with her?—but indeed she knew what he wanted. He was a tiger, intent on his prey. Nevertheless, she asked him, “What do you want?”
“I have just told you,” he answered curtly.
“And now?”
“You will remain with me.”
“I will not!” cried the Countess. “I will go and help my husband!” And at that moment she recollected clearly what had happened. Her husband had cheated at cards. Oh, merciful Heaven, she thought, how could such a thing have happened? She knew so well how utterly foreign to his nature such a thing would be. What misery, what despair, what depths of misfortune! And she herself had been with the woman who was an accomplice in Hull’s murder, and had succumbed to her power. Everything seemed to swim before her eyes, and she saw her husband’s unconscious act through a mist of blood.
She heard the voice of the man beside her, stern and threatening: “You will not? Have I asked you whether you will?”
He had not asked the tiger or the buffalo. Was he to ask a weak woman? Was he to ask her? She, too, was his prey. This idea filled her with a sort of voluptuous dread. She was the prey of the strongest man whom she had ever known. How could she defend herself? He had simply taken her. Were there men whose will was strong enough to give them possession of a woman if they never even touched her?
“How did I come here?” she asked.
“We have something more important than that to talk about,” he answered in a cold, harsh voice that made her tremble. “How are you going to adapt yourself to the situation?”
“I will never adapt myself to it!” she cried; and it seemed as if instruments of torture were engraven
