That day was to be one of the most noteworthy of my life. After dinner we went for a walk on the downs, and up to a common where nothing would grow; the soil was strong and dry, with no vegetable mould. There were, however, a few oaks, and some bushes covered with sloes; but instead of grass, the ground was carpeted with curled brown lichen, bright in the rays of the setting sun, and slippery under foot. I held Madeleine by the hand to keep her from falling, and Madame de Mortsauf gave Jacques her arm. The Count, who led the way, suddenly struck the earth with his stick, and turning round, exclaimed in a terrible tone:
“Such has my life been!—Oh, before I knew you,” he added, with an apologetic glance at his wife. But it was too late, the Countess had turned pale. What woman would not have staggered under such a blow?
“What delightful perfumes reach us here, and what wonderful effects of light!” cried I. “I should like to own this common; I might perhaps find riches if I dug into it; but the most certain advantage would be living near you. But who would not pay highly for a view so soothing to the eye of that winding river in which the soul may bathe among ash-trees and birch. That shows how tastes differ! To you this spot of land is a common; to me it is a paradise.”
She thanked me with a look.
“Rhodomontade!” said he in a bitter tone. Then, interrupting himself, he said, “Do you hear the bells of Azay? I can positively hear the bells.”
Madame de Mortsauf glanced at me with an expression of alarm, Madeleine clutched my hand.
“Shall we go home and play a bit?” said I. “The rattle of the dice will hinder you from hearing the bells.”
We returned to Clochegourde, talking at intervals. When we went into the drawing-room we sat in indefinable indecision. The Count had sunk into an armchair, lost in thought, and undisturbed by his wife, who knew the symptoms of his malady, and could foresee an attack. I was not less silent. She did not bid me leave, perhaps because she thought that a game of backgammon would amuse the Count and scare away this dreadful nervous irritation, for its outbreaks half killed her.
Nothing was more difficult than to persuade the Count to play his game of backgammon, though he always longed for it. Like a mincing coquette, he had to be entreated and urged, so as not to seem under any obligation, perhaps because he felt that he was. If, at the end of some interesting conversation, I forgot to go through my salamelek, he was sulky, sharp, and offensive, and showed his annoyance by contradicting everything that was said. Then, warned by his fractiousness, I would propose a game, and he would play the coquette.
“It was too late,” he would say, “and besides, I did not really care for it.” In short, no end of airs and graces, like a woman whose real wishes you cannot at last be sure of. I was humble, and besought him to give me practice in a science so easily forgotten for lack of exercise.
On this occasion I had to affect the highest spirits to persuade him to play. He complained of giddiness that hindered his calculations, his brain was crushed in a vice, he had a singing in his ears, he was suffocating, and sighed and groaned. At last he consented to come to the table. Madame de Mortsauf then left us to put the children to bed and to read prayers for the household. All went well during her absence; I contrived that Monsieur de Mortsauf should win, and his success restored his good-humor. The sudden transition from a state of depression, in which he had given utterance to the most gloomy anticipations for himself, to this joviality like that of a drunken man, and to crazy, irrational mirth, distressed and terrified me. I had never seen him so frankly and unmistakably beside himself. Our intimacy had borne fruit; he was no longer on his guard with me. Day by day he tried to involve me in his tyranny, and find in me fresh food for his humors—for it really would seem that mental disorders are living things with appetites and instincts, and a craving to extend the limits of their dominion as a landowner seeks to enlarge his borders.
The Countess came down again, and drew near the backgammon table for a better light on her work, but she sat down to her frame with ill-disguised apprehension. An unlucky move which I could not avoid changed the Count’s face; from cheerful it became gloomy, from purple it turned yellow, and his eyes wandered. Then came another blow which I could neither foresee nor make good. Monsieur de Mortsauf threw a fatally bad number which ruined him. He started up, threw the table over me and the lamp on the ground, struck his fist on the console, and leaped—for I cannot say he walked—up and down the room. The rush of abuse, oaths, and ejaculations that he poured out was enough to make one think that he was possessed, according to medieval belief. Imagine my position.
“Go out into the garden,” said she, pressing my hand.
I went without the Count’s noticing that I was gone.
From the terrace, whither I slowly made my way, I could hear his loud tones, and groans coming from his bedroom, adjoining the dining-room. Above the tempest I could also hear the voice of an angel, audible now and then like the song of the nightingale when the storm is passing over. I wandered up and down under the acacias on that exquisite night late in August, waiting for the Countess. She would come; her manner had promised it. For some days an explanation had been in
