Prokop began to tremble beneath the crown of thorns of the universe. And now human suffering was nothing and had no value; he was a tiny, shrivelled up, trembling bubble at the bottom of an abyss. Good, good; you say that the world is infinite, but if I could only die!
In the east the sky began to go pale. The road and the white stones could already be seen clearly. Look, here were the marks of wheels in the dead dust. Prokop picked himself up, numb and cold, and started to walk. Downhill, towards Balttin.
He went on without stopping. Here was a village, an avenue lined with blackberries, a little bridge over a dark and silent river. The mist disappeared and the sun began to shine through; again a grey and cold day, red roofs, a herd of cows. How far might it be to Balttin? Sixteen, sixteen kilometres. Dry leaves, nothing but dry leaves.
A little after midday he sat down on a pile of pebbles; he could go no farther. A peasant’s cart approached; the driver drew up and looked at the exhausted man. “Can I give you a lift?” Prokop nodded gratefully and sat down next to him without a word. Later the cart drew up in a little town. “Here we are,” said the peasant. “Where exactly are you going?” Prokop got down and went on by himself. How far might it be to Balttin?
It began to rain, but Prokop could go no farther and remained leaning against the wall of a bridge. Underneath was a cold, foaming current. Suddenly a car approached the bridge, slowed down and then stopped. Out of it sprang a man in a leather coat who came up to Prokop. “Where are you going?” It was Mr. d’Hémon, with goggles over his Tartar eyes and looking like an enormous shaggy beetle. “I’m going to Balttin; they’re looking for you.”
“How far is it to Balttin?” whispered Prokop.
“Forty kilometres. What do you want there? They’ve issued a warrant for your arrest. Come along, I’ll take you away.”
Prokop shook his head.
“The Princess has left,” continued Mr. d’Hémon quietly. “Early this morning, with Uncle Rohn. Chiefly so that she should forget … a certain unpleasant experience in connection with running over somebody.”
“Is he dead?” breathed Prokop.
“Not yet. In the second place, the Princess, as you possibly know, has consumption seriously. They’re taking her to somewhere in Italy.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows.”
Prokop stood up, swaying. “In that case—”
“Will you come with me?”
“I don’t … know. Where?”
“Where you like.”
“I should like to go … to Italy.”
“Come along.” Mr. d’Hémon helped Prokop into the car, threw a fur rug over him and slammed the door to. The car started off.
And again the countryside began to unroll itself, but curiously, as if in a dream and backwards; a little town, an avenue of poplars, pebbles, a bridge, a village. The snorting car climbed zigzag fashion up a long hill; and here was the crossroads where they had parted. Prokop raised himself up and would have jumped out of the car, but Mr. d’Hémon drew him back, and put the car into top speed. Prokop closed his eyes and now they were no longer going along the road but had mounted into the air and were flying. He felt the pressure of the air on his face and the impact of scraps of cloud like rags. The noise of the motor became a deep, prolonged roar. Below there was still probably the earth, but Prokop was afraid to open his eyes and see again the flying avenue. Quicker! To be smothered! Quicker still! His chest was constricted by terror and dizziness, he could hardly breathe, and gasped with delight at the wild way in which they tore through space. The car slipped up and down hills and valleys while from somewhere beneath their feet there came the cries of people and the whining of a dog. Sometimes they turned almost lying over on their sides, as if they had been caught up by a tornado. Now again they were flying straight ahead, pure speed, whizzing across country like an arrow.
He opened his eyes. Misty darkness, a row of lights shining through it, lights of a factory. Mr. d’Hémon drove the car in and out of the traffic in the streets, slipped through a suburb which seemed to be in ruins and they were again in the open. In front of the car stretched two long antennae of light which fell on rubbish, mud, stones. The car whirled round corners, the exhaust drumming like a machine gun, and then threw itself at a long stretch of road as if it were winding it in. To the right and the left was a crisscross pattern of narrow valleys between hills. The car turned off into it and plunged into woods, noisily twisting its way upwards and dropping head first into further valleys. The villages breathed rings of light into the thick fog and the car flew on, roaring and leaving behind it clouds of sparks, rushing down hills, and climbing in spirals higher, higher, higher. At last it jumped over something and lurched. Stop! They pulled up in black darkness; no, it was a house. Mr. d’Hémon stepped out of the car, breathing heavily, knocked at the door and engaged some people in conversation. A moment later he returned with a can of water and poured its contents into the hissing radiator; in the bright light of the car’s lamps he looked in his fur coat like a devil from some story for children. Then he went round the car, felt the tyres, raised the hood and said something, but Prokop, utterly exhausted, was already half asleep. Then he again
