Author: Various Release Date: September 11, 2004 [EBook #13437]

Hermann saw a fresh complexion and a pair of dark eyes. That moment

decided his fate.

III

Lizaveta Ivanovna had scarcely taken off her hat and cloak, when the

Countess sent for her and again ordered her to get the carriage ready.

The vehicle drew up before the door, and they prepared to take their

seats. Just at the moment when two footmen were assisting the old lady

to enter the carriage, Lizaveta saw her Engineer standing close beside

the wheel; he grasped her hand; alarm caused her to lose her presence

of mind, and the young man disappeared--but not before he had left a

letter between her fingers. She concealed it in her glove, and during

the whole of the drive she neither saw nor heard anything. It was the

custom of the Countess, when out for an airing in her carriage, to be

constantly asking such questions as: "Who was that person that met us

just now? What is the name of this bridge? What is written on that

signboard?" On this occasion, however, Lizaveta returned such vague

and absurd answers, that the Countess became angry with her.

"What is the matter with you, my dear?" she exclaimed. "Have you taken

leave of your senses, or what is it? Do you not hear me or understand

what I say?... Heaven be thanked, I am still in my right mind and

speak plainly enough!"

Lizaveta Ivanovna did not hear her. On returning home she ran to her

room, and drew the letter out of her glove: it was not sealed.

Lizaveta read it. The letter contained a declaration of love; it was

tender, respectful, and copied word for word from a German novel. But

Lizaveta did not know anything of the German language, and she was

quite delighted.

For all that, the letter caused her to feel exceedingly uneasy. For

the first time in her life she was entering into secret and

confidential relations with a young man. His boldness alarmed her. She

reproached herself for her imprudent behaviour, and knew not what to

do. Should she cease to sit at the window and, by assuming an

appearance of indifference towards him, put a check upon the young

officer's desire for further acquaintance with her? Should she send

his letter back to him, or should she answer him in a cold and decided

manner? There was nobody to whom she could turn in her perplexity, for

she had neither female friend nor adviser... At length she resolved to

reply to him.
She sat down at her little writing-table, took pen and paper, and

began to think. Several times she began her letter, and then tore it

up: the way she had expressed herself seemed to her either too

inviting or too cold and decisive. At last she succeeded in writing a

few lines with which she felt satisfied.
"I am convinced," she wrote, "that your intentions are honourable, and

that you do not wish to offend me by any imprudent behaviour, but our

acquaintance must not begin in such a manner. I return you your

letter, and I hope that I shall never have any cause to complain of

this undeserved slight."
The next day, as soon as Hermann made his appearance, Lizaveta rose

from her embroidery, went into the drawing-room, opened the ventilator

and threw the letter into the street, trusting that the young officer

would have the perception to pick it up.

Hermann hastened forward, picked it up and then repaired to a

confectioner's shop. Breaking the seal of the envelope, he found

inside it his own letter and Lizaveta's reply. He had expected this,

and he returned home, his mind deeply occupied with his intrigue.

Three days afterwards, a bright-eyed young girl from a milliner's

establishment brought Lizaveta a letter. Lizaveta opened it with great

uneasiness, fearing that it was a demand for money, when suddenly she

recognised Hermann's hand-writing.

"You have made a mistake, my dear," said she: "this letter is not for

me."
"Oh, yes, it is for you," replied the girl, smiling very knowingly.

"Have the goodness to read it."
Lizaveta glanced at the letter. Hermann requested an interview.
"It cannot be," she cried, alarmed at the audacious request, and the

manner in which it was made. "This letter is certainly not for me."

And she tore it into fragments.
"If the letter was not for you, why have you torn it up?" said the

girl. "I should have given it back to the person who sent it."

"Be good enough, my dear," said Lizaveta, disconcerted by this remark,

"not to bring me any more letters for the future, and tell the person

who sent you that he ought to be ashamed..."
But Hermann was not the man to be thus put off. Every day Lizaveta

received from him a letter, sent now in this way, now in that. They

were no longer translated from the German. Hermann wrote them under

the inspiration of passion, and spoke in his own language, and they

bore full testimony to the inflexibility of his desire and the

disordered condition of his uncontrollable imagination. Lizaveta no

longer thought of sending them back to him: she became intoxicated

with them and began to reply to them, and little by little her answers

became longer and more affectionate. At last she threw out of the

window to him the following letter:

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

will be there. We shall remain until two o'clock. You have now an

opportunity of seeing me alone. As soon as the Countess is gone, the

servants will very probably go out, and there will be nobody left but

the Swiss, but he usually goes to sleep in his lodge. Come about

half-past eleven. Walk straight upstairs. If you meet anybody in the

ante-room, ask if the Countess is at home. You will be told 'No,' in

which case there will be nothing left for you to do but to go away

again. But it is most probable that you will meet nobody. The

maidservants will all be together in one room. On leaving the

ante-room, turn to the left, and walk straight on until you reach the

Countess's bedroom. In the bedroom, behind a screen, you will find two

doors: the one on the right leads to a cabinet, which the Countess

never enters; the one on the left leads to a corridor, at the end of

which is a little winding staircase; this leads to my room."
Hermann trembled like a tiger, as he waited for the appointed time to

arrive. At ten o'clock in the evening he was already in front of the

Countess's house. The weather was terrible; the wind blew with great

violence; the sleety snow fell in large flakes; the lamps emitted a

feeble light, the streets were deserted; from time to time a sledge,

drawn by a sorry-looking hack, passed by, on the look-out for a

belated passenger. Hermann was enveloped in a thick overcoat, and felt

neither wind nor snow.

At last the Countess's carriage drew up. Hermann saw two footmen carry

out in their arms the bent form of the old lady, wrapped in sable fur,

and immediately behind her, clad in a warm mantle, and with her head

ornamented with a wreath of fresh flowers, followed Lizaveta. The door

was closed. The carriage rolled away heavily through the yielding

snow. The porter shut the street-door; the windows became dark.

Hermann began walking up and down near the deserted house; at length

he stopped under a lamp, and glanced at his watch: it was twenty

minutes past eleven. He remained standing under the lamp, his eyes

fixed upon the watch, impatiently waiting for the remaining minutes to

pass. At half-past eleven precisely, Hermann ascended the steps of the

house, and made his way into the brightly-illuminated vestibule. The

porter was not there. Hermann hastily ascended the staircase, opened

the door of the ante-room and saw a footman sitting asleep in an

antique chair by the side of a lamp. With a light firm step Hermann

passed by him. The drawing-room and dining-room were in darkness, but

a feeble reflection penetrated thither from the lamp in the ante-room.
Hermann reached the Countess's bedroom. Before a shrine, which was

full of old images, a golden lamp was burning. Faded stuffed chairs

and divans with soft cushions stood in melancholy symmetry around the

room, the walls of which were hung with China silk. On one side of the

room hung two portraits painted in Paris by Madame Lebrun. One of

these represented a stout, red-faced man of about forty years of age

in a bright-green uniform and with a star upon his breast; the

other--a beautiful young woman, with an aquiline nose, forehead curls

and a rose in her powdered hair. In the corners stood porcelain

shepherds and shepherdesses, dining-room clocks from the workshop of

the celebrated Lefroy, bandboxes, roulettes, fans and the various

playthings for the amusement of ladies that were in vogue at the end

of the last century, when Montgolfier's balloons and Mesmer's

magnetism were the rage. Hermann stepped behind the screen. At the

back of it stood a little iron bedstead; on the right was the door

which led to the cabinet; on the left--the other which led to the

corridor. He opened the latter, and saw the little winding staircase

which led to the room of the poor companion... But he retraced his

steps and entered the dark cabinet.
The time passed slowly. All was still. The clock in the drawing-room

struck twelve; the strokes echoed through the room one after the

other, and everything was quiet again. Hermann stood leaning against

the cold stove. He was calm; his heart beat regularly, like that of a

man resolved upon a dangerous but inevitable undertaking. One o'clock

in the morning struck; then two; and he heard the distant noise of

carriage-wheels. An involuntary agitation took possession of him. The

carriage drew near and stopped. He heard the sound of the

carriage-steps being let down. All was bustle within the house. The

servants were running hither and thither, there was a confusion of

voices, and the rooms were lit up. Three antiquated chamber-maids

entered the bedroom, and they were shortly afterwards followed by the

Countess who, more dead than alive, sank into a Voltaire armchair.

Hermann peeped through a chink. Lizaveta Ivanovna passed close by him,

and he heard her hurried steps as she hastened up the little spiral

staircase. For a moment his heart was assailed by something like a

pricking of conscience, but the emotion was only transitory, and his

heart became petrified as before.

The Countess began to undress before her looking-glass. Her

rose-bedecked cap was taken off, and then her powdered wig was removed

from off her white and closely-cut hair. Hairpins fell in showers

around her. Her yellow satin dress, brocaded with silver, fell down at

her swollen feet.
Hermann was a witness of the repugnant mysteries of her toilette; at

last the Countess was in her night-cap and dressing-gown, and in this

costume, more suitable to her age, she appeared less hideous and

deformed.

Like all old people in general, the Countess suffered from

sleeplessness. Having undressed, she seated herself at the window in a

Voltaire armchair and dismissed her maids. The candles were taken

away, and once more the room was left with only one lamp burning in

it. The Countess sat there looking quite yellow, mumbling with her

flaccid lips and swaying to and fro. Her dull eyes expressed complete

vacancy of mind, and, looking at her, one would have thought that the

rocking of her body was not a voluntary action of her own, but was

produced by the action of some concealed galvanic mechanism.
Suddenly the death-like face assumed an inexplicable expression. The

lips ceased to tremble, the eyes became animated: before the Countess

stood an unknown man.
"Do not be alarmed, for Heaven's sake, do not be alarmed!" said he in

a low but distinct voice. "I have no intention of doing you any harm,

I have only come to ask a favour of you."
The old woman looked at him in silence, as if she had not heard what

he had said. Hermann thought that she was deaf, and bending down

towards her ear, he repeated what he had said. The aged Countess

remained silent as before.

"You can insure the happiness of my life," continued Hermann, "and it

will cost you nothing. I know that you can name three cards in

order--"
Hermann stopped. The Countess appeared now to understand what he

wanted; she seemed as if seeking for words to reply.

"It was a joke," she replied at last: "I assure you it was only a

joke."
"There is no joking about the matter," replied Hermann angrily.

"Remember Chaplitzky, whom you helped to win."
The Countess became visibly uneasy. Her features expressed strong

emotion, but they quickly resumed their former immobility.

"Can you not name me these three winning cards?" continued Hermann.
The Countess remained silent; Hermann continued:
"For whom are you preserving your secret? For your grandsons? They are

rich enough without it; they do not know the worth of money. Your

cards would be of no use to a spendthrift. He who cannot preserve his

paternal inheritance, will die in want, even though he had a demon at

his service. I am not a man of that sort; I know the value of money.

Your three cards will not be thrown away upon me. Come!"...

He paused and tremblingly awaited her reply. The Countess remained

silent; Hermann fell upon his knees.

"If your heart has ever known the feeling of love," said he, "if you

remember its rapture, if you have ever smiled at the cry of your

new-born child, if any human feeling has ever entered into your

breast, I entreat you by the feelings of a wife, a lover, a mother, by

all that is most sacred in life, not to reject my prayer. Reveal to me

your secret. Of what use is it to you?... May be it is connected with

some terrible sin with the loss of eternal salvation, with some

bargain with the devil... Reflect,--you are old; you have not long to

live--I am ready to take your sins upon my soul. Only reveal to me

your secret. Remember that the happiness of a man is in your hands,

that not only I, but my children, and grandchildren will bless your

memory and reverence you as a saint..."

The old Countess answered not a word.
Hermann rose to his feet.
"You old hag!" he exclaimed, grinding his teeth, "then I will make you

answer!"
With these words he drew a pistol from his pocket.

At the sight of the pistol, the Countess for the second time exhibited

strong emotion. She shook her head and raised her hands as if to

protect herself from the shot... then she fell backwards and remained

motionless.

"Come, an end to this childish nonsense!" said Hermann, taking hold of

her hand. "I ask you for the last time: will you tell me the names of

your three cards, or will you not?"
The Countess made no reply. Hermann perceived that she was dead!

IV

Lizaveta Ivanovna was sitting in her room, still in her ball dress,

lost in deep thought. On returning home, she had hastily dismissed the

chambermaid who very reluctantly came forward to assist her, saying

that she would undress herself, and with a trembling heart had gone up

to her own room, expecting to find Hermann there, but yet hoping not

to find him. At the first glance she convinced herself that he was not

there, and she thanked her fate for having prevented him keeping the

appointment. She sat down without undressing, and began to recall to

mind all the circumstances which in so short a time had carried her so

far. It was not three weeks since the time when she first saw the

young officer from the window--and yet she was already in

correspondence with him, and he had succeeded in inducing her to grant

him a nocturnal interview! She knew his name only through his having

written it at the bottom of some of his letters; she had never spoken

to him, had never heard his voice, and had never heard him spoken of

until that evening. But, strange to say, that very evening at the

ball, Tomsky, being piqued with the young Princess Pauline N----, who,

contrary to her usual custom, did not flirt with him, wished to

revenge himself by assuming an air of indifference: he therefore

engaged Lizaveta Ivanovna and danced an endless mazurka with her.

During the whole of the time he kept teasing her about her partiality

for Engineer officers; he assured her that he knew far more than she

imagined, and some of his jests were so happily aimed, that Lizaveta

thought several times that her secret was known to him.
"From whom have you learnt all this?" she asked, smiling.
"From a friend of a person very well known to you," replied Tomsky,

"from a very distinguished man."

"And who is this distinguished man?"
"His name is Hermann."
Lizaveta made no reply; but her hands and feet lost all sense of

feeling.
"This Hermann," continued Tomsky, "is a man of romantic personality.

He has the profile of a Napoleon, and the soul of a Mephistopheles. I

believe that he has at least three crimes upon his conscience... How

pale you have become!"
"I have a headache... But what did this Hermann--or whatever his name

is--tell you?"

"Hermann is very much dissatisfied with his friend: he says that in

his place he would act very differently... I even think that Hermann

himself has designs upon you; at least, he listens very attentively to

all that his friend has to say about you."

"And where has he seen me?"
"In church, perhaps; or on the parade--God alone knows where. It may

have been in your room, while you were asleep, for there is nothing

that he--"
Three ladies approaching him with the question: "_oubli ou regret_?"

interrupted the conversation, which had become so tantalisingly

interesting to Lizaveta.
The lady chosen by Tomsky was the Princess Pauline herself. She

succeeded in effecting a reconciliation with him during the numerous

turns of the dance, after which he conducted her to her chair. On

returning to his place, Tomsky thought no more either of Hermann or

Lizaveta. She longed to renew the interrupted conversation, but the

mazurka came to an end, and shortly afterwards the old Countess took

her departure.
Tomsky's words were nothing more than the customary small talk of the

dance, but they sank deep into the soul of the young dreamer. The

portrait, sketched by Tomsky, coincided with the picture she had

formed within her own mind, and thanks to the latest romances, the

ordinary countenance of her admirer became invested with attributes

capable of alarming her and fascinating her imagination at the same

time. She was now sitting with her bare arms crossed and with her

head, still adorned with flowers, sunk upon her uncovered bosom.

Suddenly the door opened and Hermann entered. She shuddered.
"Where were you?" she asked in a terrified whisper.
"In the old Countess's bedroom," replied Hermann: "I have just left

her. The Countess is dead."

"My God! What do you say?"
"And I am afraid," added Hermann, "that I am the cause of her death."
Lizaveta looked at him, and Tomsky's words found an echo in her soul:

"This man has at least three crimes upon his conscience!" Hermann sat

down by the window near her, and related all that had happened.
Lizaveta listened to him in terror. So all those passionate letters,

those ardent desires, this bold obstinate pursuit--all this was not

love! Money--that was what his soul yearned for! She could not satisfy

his desire and make him happy! The poor girl had been nothing but

the blind tool of a robber, of the murderer of her aged

benefactress!... She wept bitter tears of agonised repentance. Hermann

gazed at her in silence: his heart, too, was a prey to violent

emotion, but neither the tears of the poor girl, nor the wonderful

charm of her beauty, enhanced by her grief, could produce any

impression upon his hardened soul. He felt no pricking of conscience

at the thought of the dead old woman. One thing only grieved him: the

irreparable loss of the secret from which he had expected to obtain

great wealth.
"You are a monster!" said Lizaveta at last.
"I did not wish for her death," replied Hermann: "my pistol was not

loaded."
Both remained silent.

The day began to dawn. Lizaveta extinguished her candle: a pale light

illumined her room. She wiped her tear-stained eyes and raised them

towards Hermann: he was sitting near the window, with his arms crossed

and with a fierce frown upon his forehead. In this attitude he bore a

striking resemblance to the portrait of Napoleon. This resemblance

struck Lizaveta even.

"How shall I get you out of the house?" said she at last. "I thought

of conducting you down the secret staircase, but in that case it would

be necessary to go through the Countess's bedroom, and I am afraid."
"Tell me how to find this secret staircase--I will go alone."
Lizaveta arose, took from her drawer a key, handed it to Hermann and

gave him the necessary instructions. Hermann pressed her cold, limp

hand, kissed her bowed head, and left the room.
He descended the winding staircase, and once more entered the

Countess's bedroom. The dead old lady sat as if petrified; her face

expressed profound tranquillity. Hermann stopped before her, and gazed

long and earnestly at her, as if he wished to convince himself of the

terrible reality; at last he entered the cabinet, felt behind the

tapestry for the door, and then began to descend the dark staircase,

filled with strange emotions. "Down this very staircase," thought he,

"perhaps coming from the very same room, and at this very same hour

sixty years ago, there may have glided, in an embroidered coat, with

his hair dressed _à l'oiseau royal_ and pressing to his heart his

three-cornered hat, some young gallant, who has long been mouldering

in the grave, but the heart of his aged mistress has only to-day

ceased to beat..."
At the bottom of the staircase Hermann found a door, which he opened

with a key, and then traversed a corridor which conducted him into the

street.

V

Three days after the fatal night, at nine o'clock in the morning,

Hermann repaired to the Convent of ----, where the last honours were

to be paid to the mortal remains of the old Countess. Although feeling

no remorse, he could not altogether stifle the voice of conscience,

which said to him: "You are the murderer of the old woman!" In spite