Stephane remained standing in the middle of the room.He was paler than usual, and kept his eyes on the floor; but his bearing was good, and he affected a resolute air which he rarely displayed in the presence of his father.The Count remained silent for some time; he gazed with a cold eye on the supple and delicate body of his son, the exquisite elegance of his form, his fine and delicate features, framed in the slightly darkened gold of his hair.Never had the beauty of his child filled the heart of his father with keener bitterness.As for Gilbert, he had eyes only for a little black spot which he noticed for the first time upon the uniformly pale complexion of Stephane: it was like an almost imperceptible fly, under the left corner of his mouth.
"That is the mole," thought he, and he fancied he could hear the voice of the somnambulist cry:
"Take away that mole! it hurts me!"
Shuddering at this recollection, he felt tempted to rush from the room; but a look from the Count recalled him to himself; he made a strong effort to master his emotion, and fixing his eyes upon the window, he looked at the falling rain.
"As a preliminary question," suddenly exclaimed the Count, speaking to his son; "do me the favor, sir, to tell me how much time you have passed in what you call a dungeon, for I do not remember."Stephane's face colored with a vivid blush.He hesitated a moment and then answered:
"I was there in all fifteen hours, which appeared to me as long as fifteen days.""You see!" said the Count, looking at Gilbert."And now," resumed he, "let us come to the point; a scene of the greatest impropriety occurred in this house this morning.Fritz, my valet, in presenting himself to my secretary, who is my friend, permitted himself to say three times: 'Good-morning, comrade; comrade, good-morning!'"
At these words Stephane's lips contracted slightly, as if about to smile; but the smile was arrested on its way.
"My little story amuses you, apparently," pursued the Count, raising his head.
"It is the incredible folly of Fritz which diverts me," answered Stephane.
"His folly seems to me less than his insolence," replied the Count;"but without discussing words, I am delighted to see that you disavow his conduct.I ought not to conceal from you the fact, that this scoundrel wished to make me believe that he acted upon your orders, and I was resolved to punish you severely.I see now that he has lied, and it remains for me but to dismiss him in disgrace." Gilbert trembled lest Stephane's veracity should succumb under this temptation; the young man hesitated but an instant.
"I am the guilty one," answered he in a firm voice, "and it is Iwho should be punished."
"What," said M.Leminof, "was it then my son, who, availing himself of the only resources of his mind, conceived this truly happy idea.
The invention was admirable, it does honor to your genius.But if Fritz has been but the instrument to carry out your sublime conceptions, why do you laugh at his stupidity?""Oh, poor soul!" replied Stephane, with animation, "oh! the donkey, how he spoiled my idea! I didn't order him to call M.Saville his comrade, but to treat him as a comrade, which is a different thing.
Unfortunately I had not time to give him minute instructions, and he misunderstood me, but he did what he could conscientiously to earn his fee.The poor fellow must be pardoned.I am the only guilty one, I repeat it.I am the one to be punished.""And might we know, sir," said the Count, "what your intention was in causing M.Saville to be insulted by a servant?""I wished to humiliate him, to disgust him, and to force him to leave this house.""And your motive?"
"My motive is that I hate him!" answered he in a hoarse voice.
"Always exaggerations," replied the Count sneeringly."Can you not, sir, rid yourself of this detestable habit of perpetual exaggeration in the expression of your thoughts? Can I not impress upon your mind the maxims upon this subject which two men of equal genius have given us: M.de Metternich and Pigault Lebrun! The first of these illustrious men used to say that superlatives were the seals of fools, and the second wrote these immortal words:
"'Everything exaggerated is insignificant.'" Then extending his arm:
"To hate! to hate!" exclaimed he."You say the word glibly.Do you know what it is? Sorrow, anger, jealousy, antipathy, aversion, you may know all these; but hatred, hatred!--you have no right to say this terrible word.Ah! hatred is a rough work! it is ceaseless torture, it is a cross of lead to carry, and to sustain its weight without breaking down requires very different shoulders than yours!"At this moment Stephane ventured to look his father in the face.
He slowly uplifted his eyes, inclining his head backward.His look signified "You are right, I will take your word for it; you are better acquainted with it than I."But the Count's face was so terrible that Stephane closed his eyes and resumed his former attitude.A slight shudder agitated his whole frame.The Count perceived that he was near forgetting himself, and drove back the bitter wave which came up from his heart to his lips in spite of himself:
"Besides, my young friend here is the least detestable being in the world," pursued he in a tranquil tone."Judge for yourself; just now he pleaded your cause to me with so much warmth, that he drew from me a promise not to punish you for what he has the kindness to call only a boy's freak.He even stipulates that I shall restore you your flowers, which he pretends give you delight, and within an hour Ivan will have carried them to your room.In short, two words of apology are all he requires of you.You must admit that one could not have a more accommodating disposition, and that you owe him a thousand thanks.""Apologies! to him!" cried Stephane with a gesture of horror.
"You hesitate! oh! this is too much! Do you then wish to revisit a certain rather gloomy hall?"Stephane shuddered, his lips trembled.
