“Oh, yes, I know,” was his calm response.
If, in the first place, the Count had cherished some vague illusion that his wife was ignorant of Rosa’s death, it now also seemed proper to reassure her by his cool demeanor. Instead, however, her ladyship’s eyes shot fire, and her features were savage with anger.
“What!” she shouted, “you know, and you can think of nothing better to do than shave? What sort of man are you—what sort of father—what sort of husband?”
“Good Lord!” cried the Count, throwing up his arms.
But before the poor man, soaped up to the eyes, and wrapped round with a towel, could add another word, in came the valet. Her ladyship commanded that not a peasant from the farmyard should be admitted to the house, and that no one should go thence to the farmyard. After this she gave orders for the coachman to be ready within an hour; he must harness to the landau the horses which his lordship would select.
“What are you going to do?” asked the latter, who had recovered himself meanwhile. “Nothing rash, I must insist.”
“Rash—how dare you say that? I am willing to be obedient to you in everything, but when it comes to a question of life and death—my son’s life, you understand—then I will listen to no parley from any one. I wish to leave here at once. Order the horses, please.”
The Count grew annoyed. How could matters have come to such a pass as this? Was there any propriety in running away after such a fashion? And then, what about business affairs? In two days, or one day, or maybe in twelve hours, he would be ready to start. But not before—no. His wife, however, interrupted him violently: “Propriety, indeed, and business! For shame!”
“And clothes?” objected the husband. “We must certainly take some with us. You see, we shall really need more time.”
The Countess made some contemptuous answer. She would see to it, she assured him, that the trunks were packed in an hour.