He started up and came to the window. He uttered a suppressed cry in his fear and joy at seeing her standing there. He tore the window open, and his hands trembled as he stretched them out. She had come, come to him? He stared at her with glassy eyes, his breath smelt of drink like Mr. Tiralla's.
She was afraid of him, and still her distress drew her nearer and nearer to him. "I've come to you--you," she said in a swift whisper. She seized his hands imploringly. With a little help from him she swung herself up, and stood beside him in the room.
There was his bed, there his sofa, there his desk and all his books. She stared around with eyes in which, however, there was no interest. She only wanted help, help, and she thought of nothing else.
He had closed the window and he now closed the shutters too. A gleam of prudence had returned; what would people think if they saw her in his room at that hour? He drew her to the old sofa, and she let him do so; he ventured to kiss her and she allowed him to do that too.
Something rose within her; in her shame and anguish she longed to thrust him back, but--she had need of him, she had need of him. She held her breath so as not to smell his. She suffered him to kiss her, her lips tightly compressed, but when he drew nearer and nearer to her in his intoxication she repulsed him. Then she recollected that she would have to put up with it, for she dared not offend him, she must bind him to her. She tried to find an excuse for her repulse; had he not deceived her once before with the dish of mushrooms? Could she really trust him again?
He swore solemnly that she could, glowing with desire.
Then she said, "Pan Tiralla must die, and you, you must help me."
"I--I?" he stammered, all at once sober. He was sorry for the man, he had been punished enough. Why should he die?
She did not notice his hesitation. "You must drink with him," she whispered hastily; "drink every day with him at our house, so that he drinks more, much more than he does now. He doesn't drink enough at present. You must be with him, you must fill his glass without his noticing it, you must entertain him the whole time, tell him what he likes to hear, put him in a good humour by saying, 'Your health!' and 'Much good may it do you!' so that he goes on drinking and drinking. You must help me in this way." She looked at him imploringly.
He avoided her eyes; no, he could not do that, he did not like to. Mr. Tiralla was rather fond of him, but how much did she care for him, eh? Not so much. He snapped his fingers in her face. She preferred another man, Becker; oh, he knew it very well, and that was the reason things were not going quickly enough for her. No, he would not give her a helping hand to that, never, never, he panted, excited to fury by his passionate jealousy, and let his hand fall with a bang on the table, "Never!"