The Writings of Prosper Mérimée/Volume 5/The Queen of Spades
THE QUEEN OF SPADES La Dame de Pique
From the Russian of Pushkin THE QUEEN OF SPADES
I
Russian literature is very little known among us. The great poet Pushkin and the modern Russian writers have been the object of serious study, but the literary movement of Russia has not been followed with the attention it deserves. The Russian language, in fact, is almost completely ignored in France. The interpreters and competent critics are missing. A writer known by his works, which will be read when the greatest romances of the present age will be forgotten, is a happy exception, for the author of Columba has turned toward Russian literature the same penetrating curiosity that he has devoted to the gypsies while he was composing Carmen. It is to Mérimée that we owe the translation of what we are going to read, and we will recognise in The Queen of Spades and the Bohemians two of those very rare productions to which this eminent spirit has given an original cachet. Pushkin could assuredly find no one better qualified to introduce him to French literature.—(Note by the French Editor.)
A GAME of cards was going on at Naroumof's, a lieutenant in the Guards. The long winter night had gone by without anyone noticing it, and it was five o'clock in the morning before supper was served. The winners sat down and filled their plates in great spirits, while the losers looked gloomily on. But by degrees, with the help of champagne, the talk became animated and everyone joined in.
"How did you make out to-day, Sourine?" asked the master of the house of one of his friends.
"I have lost as usual; I really have no luck at all. You know how cool I am at cards; I never change my way of playing and I never win."
"Do you mean to say that through the whole evening, you never once put on the red? Well, such persistence is beyond me."
"What do you think of Hermann?" said one of the guests, pointing to a young officer of Engineers. "Never in his life has that fellow staked anything on a card, and still he can sit and watch us playing till five in the morning."
"The game interests me," said Hermann, "but I am not in a position to risk my small means on the chance of making more than I really need."
"Hermann is a German and consequently economical," cried Tomski; "but speaking of cards, one who is really astonishing is my grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedotovna."
"Why so?" asked his friends.
"Have you not noticed," continued Tomski, "that she never plays?"
"That is so," said Naroumof, "and for a woman of eighty not to touch a card is very unusual."
"You do not know why?"
"No. Is there a reason for it?"
"Yes, listen and I will tell you. You must know that sixty years ago, my grandmother went to Paris and created a furor. People ran after her carriage to see the Venus of Moscow, as she was called. Richelieu courted her and my grandmother vows that he nearly blew his brains out one night, because she was so distant with him. In those days women played faro, and one night at court she lost to the Duke of Orleans a very large sum of money. On reaching home, she took off her patches, divested herself of her frills and furbelows, and in this tragical undress went to my grandfather's room to tell him of her ill-luck and ask him to give her the money with which to pay her debt. My grandfather, who is now dead, had control of her money, and although he stood very much in awe of her, still, when she mentioned the sum she wanted, he jumped to his feet. He stormed and swore, and after making a rough calculation of the sums she had had in the last six months, he showed her that she had spent half a million. He told her he had not his villages of the districts of Moscow and Saratef at his disposal in Paris, and finally ended by refusing point-blank to give her the amount she asked. You can perhaps imagine how furious my grandmother was—she struck him in the face and vowed she would never speak to him again. But the next morning she thought better of it and for the first time in her life, she actually brought herself to plead and argue with him. It was in vain that she told him that there were debts and debts, that one could not treat a prince like a tradesman; all her eloquence was thrown away on him, he was obdurate and would not give in. My grandmother was at a loss to know what to do, when she suddenly remembered that there was a very celebrated man to whom she might appeal. You have heard, no doubt, of the Count de St. Germain, of whom such wonderful tales are told. You know that he was a sort of Wandering Jew, the possessor of the elixir of life and the philosopher's stone. Some people made fun of him and called him a quack; Casanova in his memoirs calls him a spy. However, notwithstanding the mysterious life he led, Saint Germain was sought after by the very best people, and was certainly a charming man. To this day, my grandmother, who was very fond of him, will fly in a rage if anyone speaks disrespectfully of him in her presence. Thinking he might advance her the sum she needed, she wrote him a note asking him to call and see her. The old wizard came immediately and found her in the depths of despair. In a few words she related her troubles, telling him of her husband's hard-heartedness, adding that her only hope now lay in his being able to help her. After a few minutes of deep thought, Saint Germain said: 'Madam, I could easily advance you the money you require, but I know that you would not be happy until you had returned it to me, and I don't want to help you out of one scrape to get you into another. There is one way by which you can settle your debt, and that is, to win back the money. . . .' 'But, my dear Count,' answered my grandmother, 'I have just told you that I have not a penny of my own. . . .' 'You don't need any,' continued Saint Germain, 'just listen to me.' And there and then he told her a secret which each one of you fellows would give a great deal to know."
The officers all listened attentively. Tomski stopped to fill and relight his pipe and continued in this way:
"That very night my grandmother played at Versailles, at a card party given by the Queen. The Duke of Orleans was banker and she told him some plausible story to explain her delay in settling her debt, after which she sat down and took three cards. The first one won; she doubled her stake on the second which won again, doubled once more on the third and finally came out a very large winner."
"Sheer luck! " said one of the officers.
"A fairy tale!" cried Hermann.
"Were the cards arranged beforehand then?" said a third.
"I don't think so," answered Tomski quietly.
"What!" cried Naroumof, "you have a grandmother who knows three winning cards, and you have not succeeded in coaxing her to tell you what they are?"
"Oh! there is the rub," answered Tomski.
"She had four sons, one of whom was my father. Three of them were inveterate gamblers and not one of them could ever win from her this secret which, Heaven knows, would have been so useful to them and to me also. But listen to what my uncle, the Count Ivan Ilitch, told me, and this on his word of honour. You know Tchaplitzki—the one who died in penury after squandering millions—well, one day in his youth, he lost to Zoritch something like three hundred thousand rubles. He was in despair about it, and went to his mother who was anything but forbearing with young men's escapades, but somehow she always was more indulgent with Tchaplitzki than with any of her other sons. She told him of three cards to stake on, one after the other, exacting from him a solemn promise never again to touch a card while he lived. Tchaplitzki sought Zoritch immediately and asked him for a chance to win back his money. On the first card, he put fifty thousand rubles; he won, doubled his stakes and won again. Finally with his three cards he settled his debt and even had something to the good. . . . But here it is six o'clock! Don't you think it is high time we all went to bed."
Each man emptied his glass and went home.
II
The old Countess Anna Fedotovna was in her dressing-room, seated before a looking-glass. Three maids hovered about her; one held a rouge pot, another a box of pins and the third was adjusting an enormous lace cap, trimmed with flaming coloured ribbons. The Countess could not now lay claim to any beauty, but she still persisted in keeping up the habits of her youth, decking herself in styles of fifty years ago, and taking as much pains with her dress as did any painted woman of the past century. Her demoiselle de compagnie was seated at the window, working on a piece of embroidery.
"Good-morning, Grandmamma," said a young officer entering the dressing-room.
"How do you do. Mademoiselle Lisa. Grandmamma, I have come to ask you a favour?"
"What is it, Paul?"
"Will you allow me to present one of my friends to you and may I ask you to give him an invitation to your ball?"
"Bring him to my ball and you can introduce him then. Did you go to the Princess's reception last night?"
"Of course, and we had a delightful evening. We danced until daylight, and Miss Eletzki was simply exquisite."
"Well, my dear boy, I must say that you are not hard to please. You should have seen her grandmother, the Princess Daria Petrovna. She was a beauty. But tell me, she must be pretty old, Princess Daria?"
"What do you mean," cried Tomski thoughtlessly, "why she has been dead these seven years."
The Countess's companion looked up from her work and made the young man a sign. He remembered immediately that orders had been given for no one to mention the death of any of the old lady's contemporaries in her presence. He could have bitten his tongue for forgetting; however, she received the news of her old friend's death with the greatest composure.
"Dead?" she said. "Strange that I never heard of it. We were appointed ladies in waiting together and when we were presented to the Empress . . ." The old Countess related for the hundredth time some anecdote of her youth. "Paul," she said when through with her story," help me to get up. Lisanka, where is my snuff-box?"
And followed by her three maids, she disappeared behind a screen to complete her toilet. Tomski remained alone with Lisa.
"Who is this gentleman you wish to present to the Countess," she asked in low tones.
"Naroumof. Do you know him?"
"No. Is he in the army."
"Yes."
"In the Engineers?"
"'No, in the Horse Guards. What made you think he was in the Engineers?"
The young girl smiled, but did not answer.
"Paul," cried the Countess from behind the screen, "send me a new novel, anything, only be sure it is not in the modern style."
"How must it be then. Grandmamma?"
"A novel in which the hero does not strangle either his father or mother, and where no one gets drowned. Nothing terrifies me more than drowning people."
"Where do you suppose I can find a novel of that kind? Would you like a Russian novel?"
"Pshaw! Are there Russian novels? Then send me one; you will not forget, will you?"
"I will be sure to remember. Good-bye, Grandmamma, I am in a great hurry. Goodbye, Lisabeta Ivanovna. What made you think Naroumof was in the Engineers?" And with that he went out.
Lisabeta Ivanovna, being left alone, went back to her sewing near the window. She was no sooner seated than there appeared at the corner of the street a young officer. His presence made the girl blush; she lowered her eyes and pretended to be very busy with her work. The old Countess entered at that moment, dressed for the street.
"Lisanka," said she, "order the carriage, we will go for a drive."
Lisa rose immediately and began putting her work away.
"Well! What is the matter? Are you deaf? Go and tell them to harness immediately."
"I am going," answered the companion.
And she ran into the hall.
A servant entered carrying books sent by Prince Paul Alexandrovitch. "Many thanks. Lisanka! Lisanka! Where has she gone to?"
"I was going to get my hat, Madam."
"We have plenty of time. Sit down here, take the first of these books and read to me."
The girl took up a book and read a few lines.
"Louder!" said the Countess. "What is the matter with you? Are you hoarse? Wait a minute, bring that stool nearer, now sit there and go on."
Lisabeta Ivanovna read on a couple of pages, the Countess yawning meanwhile.
"Throw away that tiresome book," said she. "What trash! Send them all back to Prince Paul with my thanks. . . . And that carriage, will it never come? "
"Here it is," answered Lisabeta Ivanovna, looking out of the window.
"Well! and you are not ready? Will you never cease to keep me waiting—it is simply unbearable."
Lisabeta ran to her room. She had not been there more than a minute or two when the Countess rang the bell furiously; her three maids came in at one door, while a footman entered by another.
"Does no one hear me in this house," cried the Countess. "Let one of you go and tell Lisabeta Ivanovna that I am waiting for her."
The companion entered at this moment dressed for the street.
"At last, mademoiselle," said the Countess, "but what means this elaborate costume? Who is going to see you? Tell me what kind of a day is it. Windy, is it not?"
"No, your Excellency," said the footman, "on the contrary, it is quite mild."
"You never know what you are saying. Open the window. . . . It is just as I said; it is blowing a hurricane and is bitterly cold besides. I will not need the carriage. Lisanka, my dear, we will not go out. You need not have gone to all the trouble of dressing up."
"What a life!" muttered the companion under her breath.
And, in truth, Lisabeta Ivanovna was a very unhappy girl.
"Thou shalt know by experience," said Dante, "how salt the savour is of other's bread and how sad a path it is to climb and descend another's stairs."
But who can depict the troubles of a young girl who is a companion to an old lady in high life? It was not that the Countess was wicked, but she possessed all the whims and fancies of a once pampered and fashionable woman. She was miserly, rude and as selfish as one can be who feels she is gradually being set aside by the world. She never missed a ball and she would sit in a corner all powdered and painted and look like a death's-head at a feast. Every one of her guests, as they came in, bowed profoundly before her, but this ceremony over, no one ever spoke to her again. She entertained the whole town, according to the etiquette of that day, but she never could call people by their right names. Her numerous servants, grown old and fat in her service, did pretty much as they pleased and pilfered to their hearts' content, as if death had already entered the house. As for Lisabeta Ivanovna, she lived a life of misery. When she poured the tea, she was accused of wasting the sugar, when she read a novel to the Countess, the old lady held her responsible for all the author's vagaries and when out walking with her, she was blamed for the uneven pavements or the state of the weather. Her salary, which was very small, was never paid regularly, and still she was expected to dress well, "like everybody else," which meant in a way very few people could afford. When going out in society, her position was still more pitiful. She was known to everyone but nobody ever noticed her. She sometimes danced of an evening, but only when she was needed to fill up a set. Ladies would take her hand and lead her away with them when they needed someone to rearrange their dress. She was very proud and felt her position keenly. She lived on patiently, in the hope that some day a lover would break her fetters for her; but young men who did not object to a mild flirtation, took good care that their attentions were not noticed, though Lisabeta Ivanovna was ten times prettier and sweeter than some of the forward or stupid girls to whom they devoted their time. More than once, overcome by the luxury and loneliness of her surroundings, she had left the drawing-room and retired to her own little room, barely furnished with a wooden bed, an old screen, a torn carpet and an old bureau with a small mirror. There, by the light of a solitary candle, she would cry her heart out.
One morning, two days after the evening at Naroumof's and about a week before the scene just described, Lisabeta was seated near the window, as usual, working at her embroidery, when happening to look out, she saw a young officer of Engineers standing on the corner looking at her. She lowered her eyes and went on working with renewed energy. After a few minutes she raised her eyes once more and saw that the officer was still looking at her. Not being in the habit of flirting with the young men who passed her window, she kept her eyes resolutely fixed on her work for more than two hours, until someone came to say that dinner was ready. Then having to rise and put away her work, she looked out and the young officer was still standing in the same place. This rather puzzled her. After dinner she drew her chair to the window, with some trepidation, but the officer was gone, and after a while, she forgot all about him.
Two days later, when about to enter the carriage with the Countess, she saw him once more standing near the door. His fur collar was turned up and she could only see his bold black eyes looking intently at her. Lisabeta felt frightened without knowing why, and took her seat in the carriage in fear and trembling.
On her return to the house, she flew to the window, her heart beating wildly; the ofiicer was in his usual place, gazing at her with ardent glances. She drew back immediately, a prey to curiosity, and wondered at the strange feeling in her whole being, which she experienced for the first time in her life.
After this not a day went by without the officer appearing in the street, and very soon there was a mute understanding between them. Seated at the window, she could feel his pres- ence and every time she looked up she allowed her glance to rest on him a little longer. The young fellow seemed very grateful for such an innocent favour; she noticed with the quick per- ception of youth that a deep glow suffused his brow every time their eyes met. By the end of a week, she smiled.
When Tomski asked his grandmother to be allowed to present one of his friends, the poor girl's heart beat to suffocation, and when she heard that Naroumof was in the Horse Guards, she knew he could not be the officer she meant, and she regretted deeply having compromised her secret by letting a hare-brained fellow like Tomski share it.
Hermann was the son of a German, who had settled in Russia and had left him a small patrimony. Determined to be independent, Hermann had made it a point never to touch his income, and so he lived on his pay and never allowed himself the slightest luxury. He was reserved and ambitious, his reticence rarely giving his comrades a chance to make fun of him. Under an assumed calmness, he hid violent passions and a vivid imagination, but he was always master of himself and had avoided, so far, the erring ways of the average youth. A born gambler, he never touched a card, because he knew that in his position he could not risk losing his small inheritance for a possible gain at play; and still he would sit at the gaming tables, night after night, watching the rapid changes of the game with a feverish anxiety.
The queer story of the Count de St. Germain's three winning cards had left a deep impression on his mind, and he thought of it all night long. "If only," he kept saying to himself while walking through the streets of St. Petersburg the following night, "the old lady could be persuaded to tell me her secret, if she would only name the three cards! I must be presented to her, maybe I could win her confidence, I might make love to her. . . . True, she is eighty-seven years old! She may die this week . . . to-morrow perhaps. . . . And after all, is there any truth in that story? No; economy, frugality and work, these must be my three winning cards. With them, I will double, I will increase my capital tenfold. They alone will give me independence and comfort."
Musing in this way, he found he had wandered into one of the fashionable quarters of the city, and was then at the door of a rather ancient looking house. The streets were filled with carriages, each one stopping in its turn before a brilliantly lighted mansion. He could see, through the open carriage doors, sometimes the small foot of a woman or the riding-boot of a general; an open-worked stocking or the dress-shoe of a diplomat. Fur capes or coats passed in succession before the magnificent footman at the door. Hermann stopped and asked a night watchman, huddled in his sentry-box:
"Whose house is that?"
"The Countess———."
It was that of Tomski's grandmother.
Hermann started and recalled to mind the story of the three cards. He kept walking to and fro in front of the house, thinking of the woman who occupied it, of her wealth and her mysterious power. After reaching his barely furnished room, it was a long time before he could get to sleep, and when he did, visions of cards, of a green cloth, heaps of gold coins and bank-bills floated before his closed eyes. He dreamed how, staking on one card after the other, he kept winning incessantly, winning at every turn, pocketing gold coins and filling his pockets with bank-notes. On awaking, he sighed at not finding his imaginary treasure, and to divert his thoughts from this dream, he walked out once more in the direction of the Countess's house, which he reached in a short time. There was an irresistible attraction about it and he stopped to look up at the windows. In one of them he saw a young girl with black hair, bending gracefully over a book or maybe a piece of embroidery. She looked up and he beheld a fresh young face, whose pretty dark eyes attracted him. That moment decided his fate.
III
Lisabeta Ivanovna was about to take her coat and hat off, when the Countess sent for her. She had ordered that the horses be harnessed again. While two sturdy footmen were helping the old lady into the carriage, Lisabeta, who was standing near, noticed that the young officer was close by; she felt him take her hand and put a paper into it, and before she could recover from her surprise, he had disappeared around the corner. She immediately hid the note in her glove, but during the whole drive, she neither heard nor saw what was going on. When out driving, the Countess was in the habit of asking endless questions.
"Who is the man who just bowed to us? What is this bridge called? What does that sign read?"
Lisabeta answered at random and was sharply reproved for her mistakes.
"What ails you to-day? What are you thinking of? Do you hear me? or is it that you think I am in my dotage and do not know what I am saying?"
But Lisabeta was not paying the slightest attention to the old lady's rambling talk. On returning to the house, she ran to her room and drew the note from her glove. It was not sealed and so there was no excuse for not reading it. It was full of protestations of love; affectionate, but very respectful. It had been translated word for word from a German novel, but as Lisabeta did not know a word of German, she was quite pleased with it. Notwithstanding this, she felt very ill at ease, because it was the first time in her life that she had something to hide. She shuddered at the thought of being in correspondence with an unknown young man; and regretting her indiscretion she was at a loss to know what to do.
Would she cease to work near the window and by studied coolness discourage the young officer in his attentions — would she send back his note or answer it in a very decided manner, leaving no doubt as to her feelings in the matter? What should she do? Having no friend from whom she could seek advice, she finally decided to answer his note.
She sat down to write, drew some paper toward her and remained in deep thought. More than once she began a sentence, but tore up the paper before it was half completed. Sometimes she thought the wording was too blunt, and again she felt she was wanting in reserve. At last, after much deliberation, she managed to compose a few lines to her satisfaction.
"I think," she wrote, "that your intentions are those of a gentleman, that you are sincere in what you write and are not trying to mislead me by your conduct, but you must know that our acquaintance can not proceed in this way. I am returning your letter, hoping you will not give me cause to regret my trust in you."
Next morning, as soon as she saw Hermann, she left her work, went into the drawing-room and opening the window, threw the letter in the street, confident that the young officer would not let it go astray. And she was right, for Hermann picked it up immediately and went into a pastry shop to read it. Not finding anything discouraging in the letter, he went home, rather pleased that this amorous intrigue should begin so well.
A few days later, a young girl with rather saucy looks, asked to speak to Mademoiselle Lisabeta, saying she had been sent by a certain milliner. Lisabeta received her with some trepidation, fearing an unsettled bill; but she was greatly surprised, on opening the paper handed to her, to recognise Hermann's handwriting.
"This is a mistake, the letter is not for me."
"I beg your pardon," answered the young girl, smiling in a mischievous way, "but would you be so kind as to read it?"
Lisabeta glanced and saw that Hermann begged her to meet him.
"It is impossible!" she cried, frightened at the request itself and at the way it had been delivered. " I tell you this letter is not for me."
And with that, she tore it into bits.
"If that letter is not for you. Mademoiselle, then why did you tear it up?" continued the milliner's apprentice. "You should have sent it back to the one for whom it was intended."
"Oh! forgive me, dear child," said Lisabeta in dismay; "I beg of you never to bring me any more letters, and tell him who sent you that he ought to be ashamed of himself."
But Hermann was not a man to be easily discouraged. Every day Lisabeta received a letter in some way or other, and these were not German translations either. Hermann wrote under the stimulus of an ardent passion, and spoke a language with which he was familiar. Lisabeta could not hold out very long before this flood of eloquence. She eventually received the letters with pleasure and before long answered them. Each day the answers grew longer and were more affectionate. Finally, one day, she threw him at the window the following note:
"There is to be a ball at the Ambassador's to-night. The Countess is going and we will remain there until about two in the morning. This is how you can see me alone. As soon as the Countess leaves the house, about eleven o'clock, the servants will retire. The footman alone will be in the hall, and he is sure to be sleeping. Be here as soon as we leave and walk right in. If by any ill-luck you should meet anyone in the house, ask for the Countess and you will be told that she is not at home. In that case, you will have to leave, but in all probability you will not see anyone. The maids will all be in their rooms at the back of the house. After reaching the hall, turn to the left and walk straight ahead until you reach the Countess's bedroom. In there, behind a screen, you will find two doors; the one on the right is a dark closet, the other opens into a passageway, at the end of which is a small winding staircase that leads to my room."
Hermann, like a tiger scenting his prey, stood impatiently waiting for the appointed hour. At ten o'clock he was already there. The night was stormy, the wind blowing a hurricane and the snow falling heavily. The street lamps gave very little light and the thoroughfares were empty. Now and then, a cab came in view, the driver whipping up his poor horse, while peering through the storm in the hope of finding a belated passenger. Clad in a thin overcoat, Hermann felt neither the wind nor the cold. At last the Countess's carriage appeared and he saw two robust footmen lift the old lady by the arms and place her in the cushioned carriage, where she sat wrapped in a fur cape. A minute later, in a thin cloak and with natural flowers entwined in her hair, Lisabeta hurried in after her. The door shut to and the carriage rolled away noiselessly over the soft snow. The footman closed the door of the house, the lights went out and everything was quiet once more, Hermann meanwhile walking up and down in the street. After a while, he looked at his watch and found it was twenty minutes of eleven. Leaning against a lamp post his eyes glued on the hands of his timepiece, he waited with impatience for the hour to come. Exactly at eleven o'clock, Hermann walked up the steps and, opening the door of the house, found to his joy that the hall was well lighted and that no one was in sight. With firm and quick steps, he entered the anteroom and found a footman fast asleep in a deep armchair. Hermann went by him softly and, passing through the dining-room and the drawing-room, which were not lighted, Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/266 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/267 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/268 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/269 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/270 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/271 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/272 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/273 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/274 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/275 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/276 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/277 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/278 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/279 In the quiet restaurant where he usually took his meals, he drank a great deal in the hope of steadying his nerves, but the wine only increased his perturbation, giving free rein to his troubled thoughts. He returned home early and, without undressing, threw himself on his bed and fell into a heavy sleep.
When he woke it was night and the rays of the moon lit up his room. He looked at the time; it was a quarter of three. He could not go to sleep again, so he sat on his bed thinking of the old Countess.
Just then some one passed in the street and drawing near the window looked in, but Hermann paid no attention. A minute later, the door of the anteroom opened. He thought it was, no doubt, his servant, drunk as usual, when suddenly he realised that those were not his foot- steps and that someone was coming. He heard the sound of slippered feet on the floor. The door opened and a woman in white came into the room. Hermann looked up, expecting to see his old nurse and wondering at the same time what could have brought her at this hour of the night, when the white figure crossing the room rapidly reached the foot of his bed, and he recognised the Countess.
"I come to you against my will," said she He heard the sound of slippered feet on the floor. The door opened and a woman in white came into the room.
An etching from a drawing by G. Fraipont.
Copyright 1905 by Frank S. Holby
G. Fraipoint. del.
to your wish. Three — seven — ace — these cards played one after the other, will win a fortune for you; but you must not play more than one card at a time in twenty-four hours, and for the rest of your life, you must never touch a card again. I will forgive you my death, on condition that you marry my companion, Lisabeta Ivanovna."
After saying these words, she walked to the door and went out still dragging her slippers after her. Hermann heard her close the door of the anteroom and a minute later, a white figure passed in the street beneath his window and stopped for an instant as if to look in, then disappeared.
For some time Hermann sat dumfounded. Then rising, he walked into the anteroom to find his servant fast asleep on the floor, dead drunk. He found it hard to wake him and then he could get no explanation from him. The door of the anteroom was locked. Hermann went back to his room and wrote down the circumstances of his vision.
Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/286 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/287 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/288 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/289 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/290 Page:The Writings of Prosper Merimee-Volume 5.djvu/291 With his eyes glued to the fatal card, he fancied that the queen of spades looked at him mockingly. He even saw a strange resemblance between it and the dead Countess. . . .
"Damn you, you old hag!" he cried in horror.
Meanwhile Tchekalinski, with a sweep of his rake, gathered in all the money. Hermann sat motionless for some time, and when he finally left the table, he turned to the other men and broke out into a loud laugh. "A wonderful game!" said all the players. Tchekalinski shuffled the cards and the play went on.
CONCLUSION
Hermann has become insane. He is in the Asylum d'Oboukhof — number seventeen. He never answers any question put to him but mutters forever: Three — seven — ace! — three — seven — queen!
Lisabeta Ivanovna has just been married to the son of the Countess's business agent. He has a fine position and is a good fellow besides. Lisabeta has taken a young girl, a poor relative, to live with her and superintends her education.
Tomski is now Major of Cavalry. He is married to Princess Pauline.