-- And without waiting for a word of assent or dissent on my part, looking me hard in the face all the time, he began thundering on the piano, and singing to it with loud and lofty enthusiasm -- only interrupting himself, at intervals, to announce to me fiercely the titles of the different pieces of music: ‘Chorus of Egyptians in the Plague of Darkness, Miss Halcombe!'
-- ‘Recitativo of Moses with the tables of the Law.' -- ‘Prayer of Israelites, at the passage of the Red Sea. Aha! Aha! Is that sacred? is that sublime?'
The piano trembled under his powerful hands, and the teacups on the table rattled, as his big bass voice thundered out the notes, and his heavy foot beat time on the floor.
There was something horrible -- something fierce and devilish -- in the outburst of his delight at his own singing and playing, and in the triumph with which he watched its effect upon me as I shrank nearer and nearer to the door. I was released at last, not by my own efforts, but by Sir Percival's interposition. He opened the dining-room door, and called out angrily to know what ‘that infernal noise' meant. The Count instantly got up from the piano. ‘Ah I if Percival is coming,' he said, ‘harmony and melody are both at an end. The Muse of Music, Miss Halcombe, deserts us in dismay, and I, the fat old minstrel, exhale the rest of my enthusiasm in the open air!' He stalked out into the verandah, put his hands in his pockets, and resumed the Recitativo of Moses, sotto voce, in the garden.
I heard Sir Percival call after him from the dining-room window. But he took no notice -- he seemed determined not to hear. That long-deferred quiet talk between them was still to be put off, was still to wait for the Count's absolute will and pleasure.
He had detained me in the drawing-room nearly half an hour from the time when his wife left us. Where had she been, and what had she been doing in that interval?
I went upstairs to ascertain, but I made no discoveries, and when I questioned Laura, I found that she had not heard anything. Nobody had disturbed her, no faint rustling of the silk dress had been audible, either in the ante-room or in the passage.
It was then twenty minutes to nine. After going to my room to get my journal, I returned, and sat with Laura, sometimes writing, sometimes stopping to talk with her. Nobody came near us, and nothing happened. We remained together till ten o'clock. I then rose, said my last cheering words, and wished her goodnight. She locked her door again after we had arranged that I should come in and see her the first thing in the morning.
I had a few sentences more to add to my diary before going to bed myself, and as I went down again to the drawing-room after leaving Laura for the last time that weary day, I resolved merely to show myself there, to make my excuses, and then to retire an hour earlier than usual for the night.
Sir Percival, and the Count and his wife, were sitting together. Sir Percival was yawning in an easy-chair, the Count was reading, Madame Fosco was fanning herself. Strange to say, her face was flushed now. She. who had never suffered from the heat, was most undoubtedly suffering from it tonight.
‘I am afraid, Countess, you are not quite so well as usual?' I said.
‘The very remark I was about to make to you,' she replied. ‘You are looking pale, my dear.'
My dear! It was the first time she had ever addressed me with that familiarity!
There was an insolent smile too on her face when she said the words.
‘I am suffering from one of my bad headaches,' I answered coldly.
‘Ah, indeed? Want of exercise, I suppose? A walk before dinner would have been just the thing for you.' She referred to the ‘walk' with a strange emphasis. Had she seen me go out? No matter if she had. The letters were safe now in Fanny's hands.
‘Come and have a smoke, Fosco,' said Sir Percival, rising, with another uneasy look at his friend.
‘With pleasure, Percival, when the ladies have gone to bed,' replied the Count.
‘Excuse me, Countess, if I set you the example of retiring,' I said.
‘The only remedy for such a headache as mine is going to bed.'
I took my leave. There was the same insolent smile on the woman's face when I shook hands with her. Sir Percival paid no attention to me. He was looking impatiently at Madame Fosco, who showed no signs of leaving the room with me. The Count smiled to himself behind his book. There was yet another delay to that quiet talk with Sir Percival -- and the Countess was the impediment this time.
June 19th. -- Once safely shut into my own room, I opened these pages, and prepared to go on with that part of the day's record which was still left to write.
For ten minutes or more I sat idle, with the pen in my hand, thinking over the events of the last twelve hours. When I at last addressed myself to my task, I found a difficulty in proceeding with it which I had never experienced before. In spite of my efforts to fix my thoughts on the matter in hand, they wandered away with the strangest persistency in the one direction of Sir Percival and the Count, and all the interest which I tried to concentrate on my journal centred instead in that private interview between them which had been put off all through the day, and which was now to take place in the silence and solitude of the night.
In this perverse state of my mind, the recollection of what had passed since the morning would not come back to me, and there was no resource but to close my journal and to get away from it for a little while.
I opened the door which led from my bedroom into my sitting-room, and having passed through, pulled it to again, to prevent any accident in case of draught with the candle left on the dressing-table. My sitting-room window was wide open, and I leaned out listlessly to look at the night.
It was dark and quiet. Neither moon nor stars were visible. There was a smell like rain in the still, heavy air, and I put my hand out of the window. No. The rain was only threatening, it had not come yet.