“But where do you expect to go?” persisted the Count.
“To the railway station, first of all, and then wherever you like. Now order the horses.”
“I have had enough of this!” cried the other. “I’ll give such orders as I choose! I’ll let the business affairs go, and everything else! Your clothes, too! The sorrels,” he added, enraged, to the domestic who was standing by impassively.
The Countess dressed and did her hair with the utmost speed, at moments clasping her hands in silent prayer, distributing commands, summoning servants from various parts of the house by frantic pulls at the bell. There was running up and down stairs, banging of doors, shouting, laughing, calling out of names, suppressed swearing. All the windows facing the fatal farmyard were immediately closed. Thus the cries of the unfortunate children who had lost their mother were shut out; besides a disagreeable odor of chlorin had penetrated into the villa, and even into the Countess’s room, smothering the delicate Viennese perfume she habitually used.
“Heavens!” she exclaimed angrily, “now they are doing their best to ruin everything! Pack up quickly, and get those trunks locked! This frightful smell is enough to kill one! Don’t they know that chlorin has no effect? They ought to burn the things. The steward will be dismissed if any thieving goes on.”
“Some things are being burnt already, milady,” observed one of the maids. “The doctor is having sheets, coverlid, and mattress burnt.”
“That’s not enough!” snapped the Countess.
Here the Count, shaved and dressed, entered his wife’s apartment. He began talking to her aside.
“What shall we do with these servants? We can’t take all of them with us.”
“Anything you please. Send them away. Nothing will be safe in the house if they remain. I don’t want them to get the cholera, and then fumigate the rooms with that vile chlorin, and perhaps burn up some of my best gowns. They have no respect whatever for their masters’ property, and—”