All at once she had a feeling that somebody was standing behind her; that somebody was breathing on her cheek. It was the schoolmaster.
He had quietly followed her. He was no less excited than she. She had been insulted by Mr. Tiralla, but Mr. Tiralla had also insulted him; he had insulted them both.
The schoolmaster looked upon the harmless man as a criminal. "He doesn't deserve the sun to shine on him," he whispered, in a voice that was hoarse with excitement. Then he snatched hold of the hand which she held out to him, and pressed it to his lips, to his eyes, and stammered wildly, "Pani, let me die on the spot--God punish me if ever I forget Mr. Tiralla's behaviour. I--I----" he suppressed something he was going to say. Then he once more pressed her willing hand to his burning lips and stood near her in silence, until they heard Mr. Tiralla's voice at the hotel door at the same moment as the carriage rattled out of the yard and round the corner.
She got in without help; the schoolmaster had disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness. Mr. Tiralla was hoisted up on the front seat with great difficulty by the boots. He was a heavy weight and the man's shoulders and arms ached, but he was pleased to help the gentleman. That good Mr. Tiralla--Heaven bless him--had given him a new two-shilling bit as a tip.
Not a word was spoken by the couple. Mrs. Tiralla sat motionless at the back with her cloak wrapped tightly round her, for she was icy cold. She had drawn her shawl far down over her forehead, but her burning eyes wandered in mute despair over the desolate, slushy fields in the early morning twilight. Oh, how uncomfortable she felt, how tired out. She couldn't understand now why she had wanted to go to the ball instead of lying in her warm bed and being lulled to sleep by Rosa's soft-toned prayers, and thus forgetting her miserable existence in the arms of the saints.
She was seized with an unutterable aversion for her present life. There, alas!--and her big eyes grew bigger and bigger and more desperate-looking--there was the first of the big pines on the Przykop, looking just like a flagstaff with a waving pennon on it, and near it, although not yet visible, lay Starydwór, the old, lonely farm where she had to go on living year after year with Mr. Tiralla. How much longer?
A ditch ran along the side of the road, a broad, deep ditch. The carriage jolted as they rumbled along. How would it be if they were to fall into the ditch with carriage and horses, and break their necks? Ha, wouldn't that be a good thing? She stood up in the carriage--how stiff she was after sitting so long--and, resting her left hand on the side-rail, carefully bent over her husband.
He was asleep. His head had fallen on his breast, his snores mingled with the rattle of the wheels. He was sleeping as deeply and soundly in the wet and cold and discomfort as though he were at home in his bed. The reins hung loosely between the enormous fingers of his fur gloves. All she had to do was to take them away from him, he wouldn't notice it. She did so. He was sleeping so soundly that he had no idea of what was going on behind him.
She was standing on the seat now, erect and with flashing eyes, holding the reins with both hands. Now a tug, a turn to the left--she could not reach the whip, but a "Huj, het!" was enough--then a sudden jerk with all her strength, and the terrified horses jumped to the left. One wheel was already hanging over the side of the ditch--farewell, Mr. Tiralla!--a grimace partly of horror at what she had done, partly of triumphant delight, distorted the woman's face--crash--they lay at the bottom.
But not the horses and not the carriage, only Mr. Tiralla and his wife. The clever animals had stopped short as though they recognized the danger, and were now standing quite close to the edge, their bits covered with foam.