"One more effort to escape," he said, "one sound, and you die like a dog! Stand over there, on the other side of the table; so!"
"The man is mad!" murmured the count, obeying Berger's command and trembling in all his limbs.
"Maybe!" said Berger, with an uncomfortable laugh; "but if I am mad it is your fault, count. You do not know me?"
"No; indeed, I do not!"
"Maybe I have changed slightly since I last had the equivocal honor of meeting you. I will assist your memory. Do you know this?"
He opened the medallion and held it towards the count across the table. The count took his gold eye-glass and looked at the miniature. It was a well-painted portrait of a marvellously beautiful, brown-eyed girl, in the costume of the year 1820.
"Leonora!" cried the count, starting back.
"Yes; Leonora!" repeated Berger, closing the medallion again and putting it away. "And now I hope you will know who I am, and what the account is which we have to settle."
The count had turned pale even under his rouge; his false teeth rattled; he had to sit down in an arm-chair which stood near the table, as he could not stand any longer.
Berger seemed to enjoy the wretched sight.