"Not even a tiny glass."
He opened his eyes very wide, and looked with astonishment at his wife.
"Monsieur the doctor is right," she said; "I am of his opinion; I prefer to drink with my meals and take a glass of cognac afterwards. In my country, the women drink cognac; it is more genteel than kirschwasser."
Marie Lagoutte had hardly finished this explanation, when Sperver opened the door part way, and motioned me to follow him. I nodded a farewell to the worthy company, and as I stepped into the passage, I heard Tobie's wife saying to him, "He is a nice-looking young man. He would have made a fine soldier!" Sperver looked uneasy; he said nothing. I too was thoughtful.
A few steps beneath the shadowy arches of the Castle served completely to efface from my mind the grotesque figures of Tobie and Marie Lagoutte,—poor, inoffensive creatures, living like bats under the vulture's powerful wing. Soon Gideon threw open the door of a sumptuous apartment, hung with violet-colored velvet worked in gold. A bronze lamp, resting on a corner of the mantelpiece, and covered with a globe of ground crystal, vaguely lighted up the room. Thick rugs deadened the sound of our footsteps. It seemed like a refuge consecrated to silence and meditation.
On entering, Sperver lifted the heavy draperies that concealed a turret window. I saw him gaze earnestly into the plain beneath, and I divined his thoughts; he was looking to see if the witch were still there, crouching in the snow,—but he could see nothing, for the night was dark. As I moved forward into the room, I made out, by the pale rays of the lamp, a young woman of girlish figure seated in an armchair, her forehead resting in her hand, and her whole attitude one of patient but despairing sorrow. Her back was slightly turned towards us, and for this reason I could not at first see her face.
But at the rustle of our entrance she rose quickly, and exhibited to my gaze the most beautiful presence I had ever beheld. The tall, stately figure, the ideal formation of the features, the glory of golden hair that fell about the fair, white neck, the deep, lustrous eyes that bespoke a soul as pure and beautiful as the scenes among which it flourished,—everything about the young mistress of the Castle proclaimed her to be of that noble type which we meet with but once, if at all, in a lifetime. Just what my feelings were at sight of this beautiful young woman I know not, but certain it is that they were of a nature hitherto unknown to me, and I felt a strange sense of harmony and contentment within me as my glance continued to rest upon her.
After a moment the Countess advanced, and said simply, "You are welcome, monsieur;" then, motioning towards the alcove where the Count lay, she added, "There is my father."
I bowed low, and without reply,—such was my agitation,—I approached the couch of the sick man. Sperver, standing at the head of the bed, held the lamp in his raised hand, and the light, softened by the crystal globe, fell palely upon the face of the Count. Odile remained near me, waiting anxiously for my first word.
At the first glance I was struck with the strange physiognomy of the Lord of Nideck, and in contrast to the admiration that his daughter had inspired within me, my first thought was, "He is an old wolf!" And in truth, his head bristling with gray hair and swelling behind the ears; his long, pointed face and receding forehead; his narrow eyes and shaggy eyebrows that met in a point over the bridge of his nose, imperfectly shading the dull, cold eye beneath; his short, stiff beard, spreading unevenly over his bony jaws,—in short, everything about the man made me shudder, and brought involuntarily to my mind the oft-alleged affinities between man and the brute creation.