“And why not?” I started. “That's really suspicious. Now she's even afraid to sit at the fireplace.”
“That's just it,” gloomily confirmed Śvieciłovič. “That means that he is not King Stach. This gift is the very thing that speaks in his favour. And the events at his house.”
“Listen,” I said. “And why not suppose that you yourself are King Stach? You left later than I did yesterday. You are jealous of me without any reason. Perhaps you are throwing dust in my eyes, while in fact, no sooner do I leave than you say: ‘To your horses, men!’”
I did not think so, not for an instant, but I didn't like this young man being so suspicious today, a young man usually so trusting and sincere.
Śvieciłovič looked at me as if he had gone out of his mind, understanding nothing, then he suddenly burst out laughing, and immediately he was his good old self again.
“That's it,” I answered in the same tone. “It's wrong to sin against such old men as Dubatoŭk, so don't. It doesn't take long to slander a person.”
“Alright, now I no longer suspect him,” he answered still laughing. “I said that they were with me, didn't I? At daybreak Varona began to feel very ill, his wound began to bleed again, he began to rave. An old quack doctor was sent for, then even a proper doctor was brought over. They weren't too lazy to ride off to the district centre for a doctor. He ‘passed sentence’: Varona must stay in bed a whole week. The doctor was told it was an accident.”
“So, who else could it have been?”
We turned over in our minds names of everybody in the entire region, but couldn't settle on anybody. We even thought of Bierman and although we understood that he is a lamb, decided to write a letter to a friend of Śvieciłovič's in the province, to learn how Bierman had lived there formerly and what kind of a man he is. That was necessary, for he was the only one among the people of the Janoŭski district about whom we knew absolutely nothing. We made all kinds of guesses, but could think of nothing.
“Who is the wealthiest person living in the environs of Marsh Firs?” I asked.
Śvieciłovič thought awhile:
“Janoŭskaja, it seems... Although her wealth is dead capital. Then there is Harovič (he doesn't live here), then Mr. Haraburda — by the way he is Janoŭskaja's principal heir should she die now. Then there is, certainly, Dubatoŭk. He has little land; his belongings and his house, you see for yourself, are poor, but he must have money hidden somewhere, for he is always entertaining guests in his house, always plenty of eating and drinking there. The rest are unimportant, small fry.”
“You say that Haraburda is Janoŭskaja's heir. Why he and not you, who are a relative of hers?”
“But I've already told you that my father relinquished his rights to any heritage. It's dangerous, the estate has no income, and according to rumours, some promissory notes are attached to it.”
“And don't you think that Haraburda...”
“Him! No! I don't. What has he to gain in earning by crime what will belong to him anyway? Let's say that Janoŭskaja gets married — he has the promissory notes, if it isn't a fable. In addition he's a coward, not many like him.”
“So,” I meditated, “then let's look at things from a different angle: we must learn who had called out Raman from his house that evening. What do we know? That his daughter was visiting some Kulša. But perhaps it wasn't even to them that Raman went. We have only Bierman's word for it. We'll have to ask Kulša. And you will make inquiries concerning Bierman's life in the province.”
I saw him off to the roadway and was going home through the lane. Dusk had already fallen. My feelings were unpleasant. The lane, as a matter of fact, was now but a path, and in one place an enormous lilac bush crossed it, a bush that had grown into a tree. Its wet leaves, resembling hearts, were still green and shone dully, transparent drops falling off from them. The bush was weeping...
I passed round it and had already taken about ten steps, when suddenly behind me something cracked dryly. I felt a burning pain in my shoulder.
It is shameful to confess, but I was quaking with fear. “It's come,” I thought, “he'll shoot again and that'll be the end of me.” I should have shot straight into the bush or simply run away — anything would have been wiser than what I did. Terribly frightened, I turned about and rushed off into the bush, my breast open to the bullet. And here I heard something cracking in the bush. I chased after him like a madman, only wondering why he didn't shoot. While he, evidently, also acted according to instinct: he took to his heels at full speed. And so quickly did he run, I couldn't even see him, let alone catch up with him.
I turned about and went home. I walked on almost crying with mortification. In my room I examined the wound: a trifle — a muscle of the upper shoulder-blade was scratched. But why? Why? It's too late locking the stable door after the horse has bolted. The excitement had probably brought on a nervous shock, for I lay in bed about two hours literally writhing with fright. I should never have thought that a person could be such a booby.
I recalled the warnings, the steps in the corridor, the frightful face in the window, the Lady-in-Blue, the chase along the heather waste, this shot in my back.
They are out to kill me, they will certainly kill me. It seemed to me that the darkness was looking at me with invisible eyes of some monster, that somebody would immediately come creeping over and grab me. It is shameful to confess, but I pulled my blanket over my head as if it could defend me. And involuntarily a mean little thought arose: “I must run away. It's easy for them to put their hopes on me. Let them make sense of these abominations and this Wild Hunt by themselves. I'll go mad if I remain here one more week...”
No moral criteria could help. I trembled like an aspen leaf and fell asleep entirely weakened by fear. If the steps of the Little Man were heard that evening, I'd in all probability have hidden under the bed, but luckily that did not happen.
The morning brought me courage. I was calm.
I decided to go to Bierman that day, all the more so that our mistress was still ill. Behind the house grew enormous burdock. It was already taller than a man and drying up. I made my way through it, reached the porch and knocked at the door. Nobody answered. I pulled at the door and it opened. The small ante-room was empty, only Bierman's coat was hanging there. I coughed. There was a rustling of something in the room. I knocked — Bierman spoke in a broken voice:
“Who, who's there? Come in!”
I entered. Bierman got up from behind the table, wrapped his dressing-gown tighter about him. His face was pale.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bierman.”
“S-sit down, sit down, please,” and he began fussing about to such an extent it made me feel uncomfortable.
“Why have I come dragging myself here? A person likes his solitude. Just look how alarmed he is...”
But Bierman had already taken himself in hand.
“Take a seat, Honourable Sir. Be seated, please.”
I looked at the armchair and saw a plate on it. Some unfinished food in it and a spoon. Bierman quickly removed everything.
“I beg your pardon, I had decided, how shall I put it?... to satisfy my appetite.”
“But, please, go on eating,” I said.
“Oh! Unthinkable! To eat in the presence of a highly respected gentleman. I just... could not.”
The lips of this porcelain doll pleasantly rounded out.
“Have you never noticed what an unpleasant sight is a person eating? Oh! It's awful! He chews dully, and reminds one of cattle. There is a striking resemblance in all people to some kind of animal. This one guzzles like a lion, that one champs, I beg your pardon, like the animal the prodigal son pastured. No, my dear sir, I never eat in the presence of anybody.”
I took a seat. The room was furnished very modestly. An iron bed, reminding one of the guillotine, a dinner-table, two chairs, another table with books and papers piled on it. Only the table-cloth on the first table was unusual, a very heavy one, blue and golden, hanging down to the very floor.
“You are surprised, aren't you? Oh! Honourable Sir, it's the only thing that has remained from former times.”
“Mr. Bierman...”
“I'm listening to you, sir.”
He sat down, bent his doll-like head, opened wide his large grey eyes and raised his eyebrows.
“I want to ask you whether you haven't any other plans of this house?”
“M-m-no. There is one more, made about 30 years ago, but it's plainly stated there that it is a copy of the one that I gave you, and only some new partitions are indicated. This is it. Take it, please.”
I examined the paper. Bierman was right. “But tell me, isn't there any hidden room on the second floor near the room with an empty closet?”
Bierman thought awhile. “I don't know, Respected Sir, I don't know, Sir. There must be a personal secret archive of the Janoŭskis somewhere, but where it is, I do not know.”
His fingers were moving quickly across the table-cloth, knocking out some kind of a march that I could not understand.