And we heard silvery laughter behind us. It was the laughter of disenchantment. She had thought that the Count, the owner of these immense forests and the broad lake, was I, and not that pigmy with the worn face and long moustache.
I heard a deep sigh issue from Urbenin's powerful breast. That iron man could scarcely move.
“Dismiss the bailiff,” I whispered to the Count. “He is ill or—drunk.”
“Pëtr Egorych, you seem to be unwell,” the Count said, turning to Urbenin. “I do not require you just now, so I will not detain you any longer.”
“Your Excellency need not trouble about me. Thank you for your attention, but I am not ill.”
I looked back. The red spot had not moved, but was looking after us.
Poor, fair little head! Did I think on that quiet, peaceful May evening that she would afterwards become the heroine of my troubled romance?
Now, while I write these lines, the autumn rain beats fiercely against my warm windows, and the wind howls above me. I gaze at the dark window and on the dark background of night beyond, trying by the strength of my imagination to conjure up again the charming image of my heroine.… I see her with her innocent, childish, naive, kind little face and loving eyes, and I wish to throw down my pen and tear up and burn all that I have already written.
But here, next to my inkstand, is her photograph. Here, the fair little head is represented in all the vain majesty of a beautiful but deeply-fallen woman. Her weary eyes, proud of their depravity, are motionless. Here she is just the serpent, the harm of whose bite Urbenin would scarcely have called exaggerated.
She gave a kiss to the storm, and the storm broke the flower at the very roots. Much was taken, but too dearly was it paid for. The reader will forgive her her sins!