“That is what you will tell me,” said the Countess, and brought down the crop. A livid stripe across the girl’s face turned slowly to red.
“I have done nothing, I swear it. Mother of Pity, help me! I have done nothing.”
The crop descended again, this time on one of the great sleeves of her peasant costume. So thin it was, so brutal the blow, that it cut into the muslin. Groaning, the girl fell forward on her face. The Countess continued to strike pitiless blows into which she put all her fury, her terror, her frayed and ragged nerves.
The girl on the floor, from whimpering, fell to crying hard, with great noiseless sobs of pain and bewilderment. When at last the blows ceased, she lay still.
The Countess prodded her with her foot. “Get up,” she commanded.
But she was startled when she saw the girl’s face. It was she who was the fool. The welt would tell its own story, and the other servants would talk. It was already a deep purple, and swollen. Both women were trembling. The Countess, still holding the crop, sat down.
“Now!” she said. “You will tell me to whom you gave a certain small book of which you know.”
“I, madame?”
“You.”
“But what book? I have given nothing, madame. I swear it.”