"The lover of the Countess Olga,...was I."The Count staggered as if struck by lightning.He supported himself by the back of a chair, to avoid falling; then springing to the table, he seized a carafe full of water and emptied it in a single draught.Then in a convulsed voice, he exclaimed:
"You lie! The Countess Olga could never have given herself to a serf!""Refer to your memory once more, Kostia Petrovitch.You forget that in her eyes I was not a serf, but an illustrious physician, a sort of great man.However, I will console you.The Countess Olga loved me no more than I loved her.My magnetic eyes, my threats had, as it were, bewitched her poor head; in my arms she was dying with fear, and when at the end of one of these sweet interviews, she heard me cry out, 'Olga Vassilievna, your lover is a serf,' she nearly perished of shame and horror."The Count cast upon his serf a look of indescribable disgust, and, making a superhuman effort to speak, once more exclaimed:
"Impossible! That letter which you addressed to me at Paris--""I feared that your dishonor might be concealed from you, and what would life have been to me then?"M.Leminof turned to the priest who remained standing at the other end of the room."Father Alexis, is what this man says true?"The priest silently bowed.
"And was it for this, foolish priest, that you have endured death and martyrdom--to prolong the days of a worm of the earth?""I cared little for his life," answered the priest, with dignity, "but much for my conscience, and for the inviolable secrecy of the confessional.""And for two years in succession you have suffered my mortal enemy to lodge under my roof without warning me?""I was ignorant of his history and of the fact that he had reasons for hating you.I fancied that a mad passion had made him a traitor to friendship, and that in repentance he sought to expiate his fault, by the assiduous attentions which he lavished upon you.""Poor fellow!" said the Count, crushing him with a look of pity.
Then Vladimir resumed in a voice growing more and more feeble:
"Since that cursed hour, when I crawled at your feet, without being able to soften your stony heart with my tears, I became disgusted with life.To feel that I belonged to you was every instant a torment.But if you ask me why I have deferred my death so long, Ianswer that while you had a daughter living my vengeance was not complete.I let this child grow up; but when the clock of fate struck the hour I waited for, courage suddenly failed me, and I was seized with scruples, which still astonish me.But what am Isaying? I bless my weakness, since I brought home a victim pure and without stain, and since her virginal innocence adds to the horror of your crime.Ah! tell me, was the steel which pierced her heart the same that silenced Morlof's? Oh, sword, thou art predestinated!"Count Kostia's eyes brightened.He had something like a presentiment that he was about to be delivered from that fatal doubt which for so many years had poisoned his life, and he fixed his vulture-like eyes upon Vladimir.
"That child," said he, "was not my daughter."Vladimir opened his vest, tore the lining with his nails and drew out a folded paper, which he threw at the Count's feet:
"Pick up that letter!" cried he, "the writing is known to you.Imeant to have sent it to you by your dishonored daughter.Go and read it near your dead child."M.Leminof picked up the letter, unfolded it, and read it to the end with bearing calm and firm.The first lines ran thus: "Vile Moujik.Thou hast made me a mother.Be happy and proud.Thou hast revealed to me that maternity can be a torture.In my ignorant simplicity, I did not know until now it could be aught else than an intoxication, a pride, a virtue, which God and the church regard with favor, and the angels shelter with their white wings.When for the first time I felt my Stephan and my Stephane stir within me, my heart leaped for joy, and I could not find words enough to bless Heaven which at last rewarded six years of expectation; but now it is not a child I carry in bosom, it is a crime...."This letter of four pages shed light, and carried conviction into the mind of Count Kostia.
"She was really my daughter," said he, coolly..."Fortunately Ihave not killed her."
He left the room, and an instant after re-appeared, accompanied by Gilbert, and carrying in his arms his daughter, pale and disheveled, but living.He advanced into the middle of the room.
There, as if speaking to himself, he said:
"This young man is my good genius.He tore my sword from me.God be praised! he has saved her and me.This dear child was frightened, she fell, but she is unhurt.You see her, she is alive, her eyes are open, she hears, she breathes.To-morrow she shall smile, to-morrow we shall all be happy.
Then drawing her to the head of the bed and calling Gilbert to him, he placed his hands together, and standing behind them, embracing their shoulders in his powerful arms, and thrusting his head between theirs, he forced them, in spite of themselves, to bend with him over the dying man.
Gilbert and Stephane closed their eyes.
The Count's and Vladimir's were wide open devouring each other.
The master's flamed like torches; the serf's were sunken, glassy, and filled with the fear and horror of death.He seemed almost petrified, and murmured in a failing voice:
"I am lost.I have undone my own work.To-morrow, to-morrow, they will be happy."One last look, full of hatred, flashed from his eyes, over which the eternal shadow was creeping, his features contracted, his mouth became distorted, and, uttering a frightful cry, he rendered up his soul.
Then the Count slowly raised himself.His arms, in which he held the two young people as in a living vice, relaxed, and Stephane fell upon Gilbert's breast.Confused, colorless, wild-eyed, intoxicated with joy and terror at the same time, clinging to her friend as the sailor to his plank of safety, she said in an indistinct voice:
