“I ask what that means!” he repeated.
“I ask that too,” sneered Beerencreutz. “I ask what it means when Henrik Dohna’s countess will not dance with Gösta Berling.”
The count turned questioning to his wife.
“I could not, Henrik,” she cried. “I could not dance with him or any of them. I thought of the major’s wife, whom they allowed to languish in prison.”
The little count straightened his stiff body and stretched up his old-man’s head.
“We pensioners,” said Beerencreutz, “permit no one to insult us. She who will not dance with us must drive with us. No harm has come to the countess, and there can be an end of the matter.”
“No,” said the count. “It cannot be the end. It is I who am responsible for my wife’s acts. Now I ask why Gösta Berling did not turn to me to get satisfaction when my wife had insulted him.”
Beerencreutz smiled.
“I ask that,” repeated the count.
“One does not ask leave of the fox to take his skin from him,” said Beerencreutz.