“But the doctors insist that he will live?”
“They know nothing yet definitely. In shooting, he must have turned the pistol so that the ball, after passing through his forehead, went up and lodged under the skull. They found the ball, and extracted it easily enough; but whether he will live—and if he lives, whether his mind will survive—is unknown. One doctor fears a disturbance in his speech; but his life is in question yet.”
The event, though known generally, and described every day in the papers, had made so great an impression that silence continued awhile. Svirski, who, with his muscles of an athlete, had the sensitiveness of a woman, burst forth,—
“Through such women!”
But Vaskovski, sitting near, said in a low voice,—
“Leave them to the mercy of God.”
“Is it possible?” said Bigiel, turning to Pan Stanislav; “and thou hadst no suspicion?”
“It did not come to my head even that he would shoot himself. I saw clearly that he was struggling with his feelings. For a while, when we were riding, his chin trembled, as if he wished to burst into weeping; but he is a brave soul. He restrained himself at once, and to appearance was calm. He deceived me mainly by his promise to come next day.”
“Do you know what seems to me?” continued he, after a while; “the last drop which overflowed the cup was Pani Bronich’s letter. Ignas gave it to me to read. She wrote that what had happened was the will of God; that the fault was on his side; that he was an egotist; but that they were obeying the voice of conscience and justice; that they forgave him, and begged God to forgive him too,—in a word, unheard of things! I saw that that made a desperate impression on him, and I imagine what must have taken place in a man so injured and of such spirit, when he saw that in addition to everything else injustice was attributed to him; when he understood that it is possible for people to set everything at naught and distort it, to trample on reason, truth, and the simplest principles of justice, and then shield themselves behind the Lord God. For that matter I was not concerned; but when I saw the cynicism, the want of moral understanding, as God lives, I asked myself this question: Am I mad, and are truth and honesty mere illusions on earth?”
Here Pan Stanislav was so indignant at Pani Bronich’s letter that he tugged at his beard feverishly, and Svirski said,—