"Yes; they have come from Paris, Berlin, and even Switzerland, and have made a most careful study of their patient and employed all their skill, but to no purpose."
As no answer seemed called for, I remained silent, waiting for him to continue.
"The Count's disease is a terrible affliction somewhat akin to madness. It returns every year on the same day and at the same hour; his eyes grow red as fire, he shudders from head to foot, and he mutters incoherently."
"The man has undoubtedly become unbalanced through trouble and adversity."
"No! Not so! He possesses power and wealth and untold honors,—everything, in short, that other people most desire; but the most singular part of it is that he fancies if his daughter would only consent to marry, it would effect his cure; and she as strangely refuses even to entertain the idea, maintaining that she has consecrated her life to God. The Count cannot bear to think that the ancient race of Nideck must perish with her."
"How did his illness first declare itself?"
"Suddenly, twelve years ago."
As he spoke my companion seemed to be trying to recall something. "One evening," he began, after a moment, "I was alone with the Count in the armory of the Castle. It was about Christmas time. We had been hunting wild boar all day in the gorges of the Rhethal, and had returned at nightfall bringing with us two poor hounds ripped open the length of their bellies. It was just such weather as this, cold and snowy. The Count was striding up and down the room, his head upon his breast and his hands clasped behind his back, like a man who is deep in thought. From time to time he paused, and looked at the high windows that were fast becoming veiled in snow, while I sat in the chimney-corner warming myself, thinking of my dogs, and silently cursing all the wild boar of the Black Forest. For fully two hours everybody in the Castle had been asleep, and there was no sound to break the silence, save the noise of the Count's heavy spurred boots on the flagstones. I distinctly recall how a raven, doubtless borne along by a gust of wind, came flapping against the panes with a discordant cry, and how the sheets of snow fell from the windows. The casements on that side of the house were suddenly changed from white to black."
"Have these details any bearing on your master's illness?"
"Let me finish. You shall see for yourself. At the raven's cry, the Count suddenly halted; his eyes became fixed, his cheeks ashy pale, and he bent his head forward like a hunter who hears the game approaching. I went on warming myself, thinking meanwhile, 'Won't he go to bed soon?' For, to tell the truth, I was dropping with fatigue. I can see it all, Gaston; I am sitting there now! Scarcely had the raven uttered its harsh croak above the abyss, when the old clock struck eleven. At the same moment the Count turned on his heel; he listened; his lips moved; I saw him totter like a drunken man. He stretched out his hands, his teeth tightly clenched, and his eyeballs shining like fire. 'My lord,' I cried, 'what is the matter?' But he burst into mad laughter, stumbled, and fell upon the floor, face downwards. I called for help immediately; the servants hurried to the room. Sebalt and I raised the Count and moved him to the bed near the window; but just as I was about to cut my master's cravat with my hunting-knife,—for I believed it was a stroke of apoplexy,—the Countess Odile entered, and threw herself upon the body of her father, uttering such piteous cries that I tremble yet when I think of it. From that hour, Gaston, a pall has hung over the Castle, and Heaven only knows when it will be lifted. Every year, at the same day and hour, the Count is seized with these strange convulsions. The attacks last from a week to a fortnight, during which he howls and cries in a most terrifying manner. Then he slowly recovers. He is pale and weak, and moves about steadying himself on the chairs of his chamber, and turning fearfully to look, at the slightest sound, seemingly afraid of his own shadow. The young Countess, the sweetest creature in the world, never leaves him; but he cannot bear the sight of her at these times. 'Go! Go!' he cries, stretching out his arms before him. 'Leave me! Haven't I suffering enough as it is, without your hated presence?' It is abominable to hear him, and I, who am always at his side in the chase, and would readily risk my life to serve him,—I could throttle him at these moments, when I witness his monstrous treatment of his own daughter!"