Werewolf Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг
other day with the Baron Raoul.”
“May be not,” said the girl, “but a great many things have happened since the other day.”
“And many more to happen still,” said Thibault in a lively tone.
“I think,” said the waiting-maid in a mournful voice, “that the climax is already reached.”
Then, as she went on in front.
“If you wish to come,” she added, “follow me.”
Thibault followed her; Lisette, without the slightest effort at concealment, walked straight across the open space that lay between the trees and the castle.
“You are courageous to-day,” said Thibault, “and supposing some one were to see us....”
“There is no fear now,” she answered, “the eyes that could have seen us are all closed.”
Although he did not understand what the young girl meant by these words, the tone in which they were spoken made Thibault shiver.
He continued to follow her in silence as they went up the winding-stairs to the first floor. As Lisette laid her hand on the key of the door, Thibault suddenly stopped her. Something in the silence and solitude of the castle filled him with fear; it seemed as if a curse might have fallen on the place.
“Where are we going?” said Thibault, scarcely knowing himself what he said.
“You know well enough, surely.”
“Into the Countess’s room?”
“Into the Countess’s room.”
“She is waiting for me?”
“She is waiting for you.”
And Lisette opened the door. “Go in,” she said.
Thibault went in, and Lisette shut the door behind him and waited outside.
It was the same exquisite room, lighted in the same manner, filled with the same sweet scent. Thibault looked round for the Countess, he expected to see her appear at the dressing-room door, but the door remained closed. Not a sound was to be heard in the room, except the ticking of the Sèvres clock, and the beating of Thibault’s heart. He began to look about him with a feeling of shuddering fear for which he could not account; then his eyes fell on the bed; the Countess was lying asleep upon it. In her hair were the same diamond pins, round her neck the same pearls; she was dressed in the same pink silk dressing-gown, and had on the same little slippers of cloth of silver which she had worn to receive the Baron Raoul.
Thibault went up to her; the Countess did not stir.
“You are sleeping, fair Countess?” he said, leaning over to look at her.
But all at once, he started upright, staring before him, his hair standing on end, the sweat breaking out on his forehead. The terrible truth was beginning to dawn upon him; was the Countess sleeping the sleep of this world or of eternity?
He fetched a light from the mantel-piece, and with trembling hand, held it to the face of the mysterious sleeper. It was pale as ivory, with the delicate veins traced over the temples, and the lips still red. A drop of pink burning wax fell on this still face of sleep; it did not awake the Countess.
“Ah!” cried Thibault, “what is this?” and he put down the candle, which his shaking hand could no longer hold, on the night-table.
The Countess lay with her arms stretched out close to her sides; she appeared to be clasping something in either hand. With some effort, Thibault was able to open the left one; within it he found the little bottle, which she had taken from her dressing case the night before. He opened the other hand; within it lay a piece of paper on which were written these few words: “True to tryst,”—yes, true and faithful unto death, for the Countess was dead!
All Thibault’s illusions were fading one after the other, like the dreams of the night which gradually fade away, as the sleeper becomes more and more thoroughly awake. There was a difference, however, for other men find their dead alive again in their dreams; but with Thibault, his dead did not arise and walk, but remained lying for ever in their last sleep.
He wiped his forehead, went to the door leading into the corridor, and opened it, to find Lisette on her knees, praying.
“Is the Countess dead then?” asked Thibault.
“The Countess is dead, and the Count is dead.”
“From the effect of the wounds given him by the Baron Raoul?”
“No, from the blow with the dagger given him by the Countess.”
“Ah!” said Thibault, grimacing hideously, in his effort to force a laugh in the midst of this grim drama, “all this tale you hint at is new to me.”
Then Lisette told him the tale in full. It was a plain tale, but a terrible one.
The Countess had remained in bed part of the day, listening to the village bells of Puiseux, which were tolling as the Baron’s body was being borne from thence to Vauparfond, where he was to be laid in the family grave. Towards four o’clock the bells ceased; then the Countess rose, took the dagger from under her pillow, hid it in her breast, and went towards her husband’s room. She found the valet in attendance in good spirits; the doctor had just left, having examined the wound, and declared the Count’s life out of danger.
“Madame will agree that it is a thing to rejoice at!” said the valet.
“Yes, to rejoice at indeed.”
And the Countess went on into her husband’s room. Five minutes later she left it again.
“The Count is sleeping,” she said, “do not go in until he calls.”
The valet bowed and sat down in the ante-room to be in readiness at the first call from his master. The Countess went back to her room.
“Undress me, Lisette,” she said to her waiting maid, “and give me the clothes that I had on the last time he came.”
The maid obeyed; we have already seen how every detail of toilet was arranged exactly as it had been on that fatal night. Then the Countess wrote a few words on a piece of paper, which she folded and kept in her right hand. After that, she lay down on her bed.
“Will Madame not take anything,” asked the maid.
The Countess opened her left hand, and showed her a little bottle she was holding inside it.
“Yes, Lisette,” she said, “I am going to take what is in this bottle.”
“What, nothing but that!” said Lisette.
“It will be enough, Lisette; for after I have taken it, I shall have need of nothing more.”
And as she spoke, she put the bottle to her mouth and drank the contents at a draught. Then she said:
“You saw that man, Lisette, who waited for us in the road; I have a meeting with him this evening, here in my room, at half past nine. You know where to go and wait for him, and you will bring him here. I do not wish that anyone should be able to say that I was not true to my word, ever after I am dead.”
Thibault had nothing to say; the agreement made between them had been kept. Only the Countess had accomplished her revenge herself, single-handed, as everyone understood, when the valet feeling uneasy about his master, and going softly into his room to look at him, found him lying on his back with a dagger in his heart; and then hurrying to tell Madame what had happened, found the Countess dead also.
The news of this double death soon spread through the Castle, and all the servants had fled, saying that the exterminating Angel was in the Castle; the waiting-maid alone remained to carry out her dead mistress’s wishes.
Thibault had nothing more to do at the castle, so he left the Countess on her bed, with Lisette near her, and went down stairs. As Lisette had said, there was no fear