Countess de Mascaret was waiting in her room for dinner
time, like a criminal sentenced to death, awaits the
hour of his execution. What was he going to do?
Had he come home? Despotic, passionate, ready
for any violence as he was, what was he meditating,
what had he made up his mind to do? There was
no sound in the house, and every moment she looked
at the clock. Her lady’s maid had come and
dressed her for the evening, and had then left the
room again. Eight o’clock struck and almost
at the same moment there were two knocks at the door,
and the butler came in and told her that dinner was
ready.
“Has the Count come in?” “Yes, Madame
la Comtesse; he is in the dining-room.”
For a little moment she felt inclined to arm herself
with a small revolver which she had bought some time
previously, foreseeing the tragedy which was being
rehearsed in her heart. But she remembered that
all the children would be there, and she took nothing
except a smelling bottle. He rose somewhat ceremoniously
from his chair. They exchanged a slight bow,
and sat down. The three boys, with their tutor,
Abbe Martin, were on her right, and the three girls,
with Miss Smith, their English governess, were on
her left. The youngest child, who was only three
months old, remained upstairs with his nurse.
The Abbe said grace as usual, when there was no company,
for the children did not come down to dinner when
there were guests present; then they began dinner.
The Countess, suffering from emotion, which she had
not at all calculated upon, remained with her eyes
cast down, while the Count scrutinized, now the three
boys, and now the three girls, with uncertain, unhappy
looks, which traveled from one to the other.
Suddenly, pushing his wine-glass from him, it broke,
and the wine was spilt on the tablecloth, and at the
slight noise caused by this little accident, the Countess
started up from her chair, and for the first time
they looked at each other. Then, almost every
moment, in spite of themselves, in spite of the irritation
of their nerves caused by every glance, they did not
cease to exchange looks, rapid as pistol shots.
The Abbe, who felt that there was some cause for embarrassment
which he could not divine, tried to get up the conversation,
and he started various subjects, but his useless efforts
gave rise to no ideas and did not bring out a word.
The Countess, with feminine tact and obeying her instincts
of a woman of the world, tried to answer him two or
three times, but in vain. She could not find
words, in the perplexity of her mind, and her own
voice almost frightened her in the silence of the
large room, where nothing else was heard except the
slight sound of plates and knives and forks.
Suddenly, her husband said to her, bending forward:
“Here, amidst your children, will you swear
to me that what you told me just now, is true?”
