A COMPLETE VOID, so like a strong fever or a death-like torpor, takes possession of me every time I give myself to fear or shame. In consequence I'm inclined to reserve action, a habit that has saved me from a lot of trouble, but also made me the victim of not a few curious incidents. I have always been incurably impressionable. I wasn't able to endure being at a disadvantage, and given this unwillingness I had developed a special defense mechanism: like an ostrich that hides its head in the sand, I would usually turn into a lifeless statue. This responsiveness, however, had nothing to do with cowardice. A sharp mind is quick to detect and attach itself to such quality when it appears in a regular, normal person, and so it came about that in school I was unjustly accused of being a coward.
Once, In my younger and most sensitive years, an unpleasant incident befell me. When I was a fifteen-year-old youth, I read some sort of romantic novel, got emotional and decided to confess my love to the object of my juvenile affection. The intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them usually constitute a pointless stream of outright thoughts.The sensation produced by a blatant rejection which I received excited my nervous system in such a way that the intensity of this barren punch produced at first a dull pain which being prolonged, soon turned into a numbness over my whole body. I began suffocating and almost fainted. Since then, this feeling began to chase me.
I hardly remember myself now, and the more time passes the worse it gets. I have been thinking a lot about my past lately, as if trying to recover something, some idea of myself perhaps. My life became confused and disordered long ago, but maybe, if I could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, I could win back what I lost... For everything that I do not manage to recall and tell you shall be forgotten forever.
***
"Keyle, calm your breathing already."
I sat on the floor, behind the divan, and could not believe my ears. "How does he know? Perhaps he talks to himself? It cannot be that he heard my breathing..."
Fear sent a chill over me and came back as a trembling in my hands and legs. With terror I sensed and instantly realized what it meant for me now to make such a mistake. The perspiration streamed from my face.
I raised my head and looked blankly about me. I could not move, despite all my efforts. "And what am I going to say? That I was searching for money? That I did not intend to steal anything and, say, simply wanted to explore the place? But to be interrogated, to rack my brains for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie... No, then he will finish me off for sure. He was saying the truth, after all: he has the right to murder, especially now, when there is a reason... I am a goner, a goner!"
"Well, why are you still sitting?"
As if coming to my senses, I startled up. On seeing Stevens I felt myself grow pale and then red, my knees seemed to be giving way. A giddiness came over me again. "I shall fall down!" flashed through my mind, but Stevens began to speak and I recovered myself at once.
"I believe it would be right if I let you explain yourself first."
He was sitting in an armchair with one leg crossed over the other and, as his habit was, smoked a cigar. His eyes looked cold, and I'm sure I'm not lying—calm. I uttered a harsh, jarring laugh that frightened me.
"I had presumed and calculated," I faltered, "that you, perhaps, by coincidence..."
"I say, why are you standing in the doorway?" he interrupted suddenly. "If you have something to say, sit down."
The minute was so chosen that it was impossible to refuse. I sat down and looked at Stevens warily.
"Thank you... You see, my fingers are covered in blisters. Look here," I demonstrated my hands. "And I was hoping that you, perhaps, have some sort of remedy..."
"So you found it appropriate to sneak into my office? While I was away?"
His countenance began to express something caustic and ironical.
"No." quoth I. "But you have to understand..."
"You think I am pretty dumb, do you not?' he suggested. "Perhaps I am. You are lying to yourself, above all. C'est invraisemblable¹. You must have had another intention. Otherwise you would await me."
I averted my eyes.
"I swear, je vous jure², there was no intention. I would never lie about it. Look if you do not believe me. Look!"
"I won't bother," Stevens wrinkled his nose fastidiously. "Passons³. Suppose you needed to relieve the pain. Suppose you are awfully stupid and decided that you have the right to do so— that is, the right to commit unpardonable audacity. So be it. But why, why would you sneak around and eavesdrop on me? Perhaps it was your intention? To eavesdrop?"
I winced, but said nothing.
"Tell me!"
His mood changed unexpectedly, rapidly, as though the very silence was an affront to him. I was not even surprised.
"I agree, It was foolish. I don't know how it is that I did not wait for you," began I. "You don't understand; I used to think, indeed, that if I go in and then leave straight away, nothing would happen. But I was too afraid to leave... When you were there, I mean. Though, of course, I could have left... But I did not dare. That is, I would certainly leave if I could; confess about everything myself. And as for the conversation... I did not understand anything anyway."
Stevens sat, facing me in silence and looking incredulously at me. There was a thrill of extraordinary and unexpected feeling in my soul. Although his eyes appeared so arrogant and serene, still every time he looked at me like that I felt my stomach tighten. I'd be lying if I said that this piercing gaze did not scare me.
"Did not understand anything?"
"Exactly. I swear, I did not intend to eavesdrop..."
Stevens nodded, reached out to the humidor, put the cigar out and stood up.
"Let us go."
"Where?"
"I am being premature. He will beat me, of course he will beat me... "
I was not afraid of beating, and yet began to tremble from a painful expectation. Even my cheeks grew red, I think. Stevens studied me with some especially close attention. It must be that my face then expressed all my senseless and absurd feelings. For a moment, I felt my confidence give way; then, loathing myself for being so weak, I startled up.
"I know you do not believe me," I blurted out, almost in a frenzy.
"No, why, I believe you," he said, but as only he knew how to speak sometimes, with such contempt and sarcasm, with such arrogance, that, by God, it almost took my breath away. "Come, follow me."
We left the office and I went along the corridor. I hardly knew what I was doing, but tried not to show it much. I felt vexed that I had come into the office, felt annoyed by Stevens who would not tell me anything; I could not calm my thoughts.
"Well, this is it!" I thought, following him slowly and listlessly, "Anyway I'll make an end, for I am so stupid... But what kind of end, however? He knows how to make threats, for sure. But to punish? No, he does not know how to punish, he only talks and speechifies away".
We entered the dressing room. Stevens began rummaging in the chests. One sudden irrelevant idea almost made me laugh: "Is he actually searching for a cap? What a cross-dressing freak he is then!"
At last I lost all control:
"But will you tell me, finally, what's going on here?" I said. "At any rate let me know: otherwise I'll go mad right here. Or are you ashamed to honor a slave with your candor?"
Stevens shook his head.
"Stop talking. You are being annoying."
He drew something from one of the chests and handed it to me.
"Here, take it. I do not have any sort of remedy from blisters. But, I suppose It would be easier for you if you worked with your hands covered."
I shuddered in surprise. He spoke so seriously that it couldn't possibly have been taken for a joke. He gave me an ordinary pair of gloves. I began examining them, suspecting that there was some scoundrelly intrigue at the bottom of it all. Stevens cleared his throat, as if preparing to say something, but, as I was particularly agitated, I blurted out a question stupidly and crudely:
"That's it?"
Stevens frowned: he must have expected to hear the words of gratitude.
"Sorry, I am no pharmacist."
"No, It's not what I mean... Vous me pardonnerez?"⁴
"Well, why should I punish you?" he said dryly and somehow especially nonchalantly. "It would be completely useless to me. You are punished already. And I do not want to beat you... Besides, even If i wanted to, I would not."
"Why?"
"Nothing could be further from my mind. I never abuse my servants."
If I had cared to think a little, I would have been amazed that he could have talked to me like that after all I had done. Of course, I suspected that such kindness may have proceeded from different causes, but determined to take no notice of those oddities. Indeed, I did not expect mercy from him.
"Thank you... For the gloves."
I even smiled.
Stevens nodded. We were silent for a moment.
"By the way," he suddenly caught himself. "Here's some news, before I forgot: I am having a guest tomorrow... And I would like you to wait on us during lunch. No need to be nervous, though, for you must be acquainted with him already. Closely acquainted."
Some painful and shameful sensation was born in me. My smile was gone.
"You are out of your mind..." I faltered.
Stevens, who clearly did not expect such a response, raised his eyebrows.
"What are you so afraid of? What's so bad about it?"
I stared directly into his face
"You... You..." I swallowed, went red and felt my hands and feet turn cold from fear. "Did you invite my father?"
Stevens eyed me for at least ten seconds, and then went off into his hysterical, high laughter. His laughter, however, soon turned to an insufferable fit of coughing. I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology.
"Of course!" cried Stevens hoarsely. "That's what I did! Invited him purposefully. Come and see your son, Mr. Keyle! All dolled up, with his hair braided, in a petticoat, starched one... Look how good he is at washing floors!"
My legs seemed to be giving way. Fear made me go so far as to take the most stupid joke seriously.
Stevens continued, without mockery:
"That is a fun idea. But I would never do that. No important figure shall see you in a damn dress."
It did not make me feel any better.
"I am afraid of disgrace," I whispered.
"What disgrace? On the contrary! Believe me, that all this will be explained tomorrow and will end right about the same time..."
"Pardon you? What! What a word! You made me dress as a woman, and now you want to humiliate me in front of other people! What have I done?"
"If he doesn't see you, it will be worse still." he added rigidly.
"How do you mean it will be worse?"
"It will be worse."
"I don't understand."
"Mind your own business," said Stevens coldly. "Enough complaining. This slavery should be a pleasure for you — I am so forgiving..."
"Well, yes, yes, to be enslaved to you is a pleasure," I went on raving. "If there is pleasure in the ultimate degree of humiliation and insignificance! It's all nonsense. I do not need such pleasure. You're laughing..."
"I'm not laughing at all," he said with wrath. "I order you to be silent."
I stopped, barely able to breathe. In all this conversation there was something which really did offend me.
"A slave is not to speak against the will of its master," quoted Stevens. "Nothing then would be immoral, everything would be lawful. For every individual who is in involuntary servitude, the moral law of nature must immediately be changed into the exact contrary of the former law, and that egoism, even to cruelty, must become not only lawful to the Master but even recognized as the inevitable, the most rational, even honorable outcome of his position. Any will of the Master must be executed and cannot be rejected. A slave is not a human being, hence the moral or ethical convictions are not to be applied to it."
There was a moment's silence. I felt like my gaze would soon burn a hole right through his shoe.
"Do you know this by heart?" asked I.
"The Theory was written under my watch. It would be weird if I didn't remember at least something."
"So... Do you actually believe that you have the right to kill anyone who lives in this house?"
"It appears so."
I shook my head, stared right into his eyes and felt with sudden loathing how weak, how physically weak I had become.
"This Theory is the most cruel and insulting despotism which can exist on earth," whispered I. "Although you have forgotten yourself so much as to hide behind it. If such atrocities are written in the constitution of our country... 'tis not my country. Ubi Libertas ibi Patria."
Stevens was silent for a moment. Then he said, seemingly indifferent:
"Good riddance."
He arranged his tie and went quickly out of the room. Mechanically I followed him. Suddenly the sound of rapid footsteps was heard from the bottom of the stairs. Stevens stood still, as though thunder-struck.
"Leave. Now."
I decided not to argue.
***
THE PREPARATIONS for the visit began the next morning. Women already knew about the guest and were in a terrible dismay. Theodosia was bustling all around the kitchen, cooking. Vella was also busy and did not talk to me... Though she became unusually quiet earlier in the evening. That night at supper she did not say a single word, and then went off to bed without bidding goodbye to anyone.
As I dressed I examined my attire more carefully than usual. I put on fresh stockings, brushed the dress and tied my hair with a bow. I even decided to shave. The sensation was exceptionally unpleasant: I felt as though I have lost a fraction of my masculinity all of a sudden. My face, not handsome but very fresh, seemed younger than my years at all times. Now I looked like a fifteen-year-old waif— pale, with hollow cheeks and a sharp, smooth chin. In short, I regretted the change in my appearance instantly.
As the lunchtime approached, I decided to have a conversation with Theodosia.
"Miss Silver."
Silver, as her habit was, did not pay any attention to me.
"Miss Silver, we have to talk."
The cook gave me a short glance consciously devoid of meaning.
"Look," began I. "I understand, you must be familiar with some details of my court case. All these... small and completely indecent details. Or, to put it more correctly, one particular detail. Right?"
Silence.
"I only meant to say... About my father's words. There was an object. You see, he tried to save my life, and so came up with a peculiar lie. I myself was surprised: he slandered me! All those rumors about my health, they..."
"Mr. Keyle," Theodosia interrupted. "I'II tell you straight: I despise you. And, besides, it's very unrealistic."
"Why? It's realistic, very much so indeed. Miss Silver, listen..."
"Your father could have called you anything: a madman, a leper, a lunatic... And yet he came up with such an unusual vulgarity. Why would one make something like that up? Also, you didn't object."
"Nobody let me speak."
"A milksop's talk. One can behave with dignity in any situation."
"Suppose that. But, excuse me, what's so vulgar about it?"
She looked at me coldly and with positive hostility.
"He said that you're a sodomite, Mr. Keyle. Ain't that vulgar?"
I tried not to wince upon hearing these words, but do what I could, it was impossible to keep my features quite motionless. I had a most vivid hallucination; a hundred fingers were pointing at me; I saw a sneer upon the face of every man that looked at me. A voice, loud enough for everyone to hear, was whispering, 'The sodomite!'
"You are ill."
The hallucination ended. I gazed up.
"Be that as you will. But dozens, hundreds of madmen are walking about in freedom, and your ignorance is incapable of distinguishing them from the sane. Why then do you hate me, but not them? Where's the logic of it?"
"So you're not denying anything?"
"I do deny it. But assuming, of course, it was actually..."
"Logic doesn't come in. There is neither logic nor morality in my being sane and your being ill. You go against God's will, and so you disgust me," Theodosia brought out in a hollow voice. "That's it."
I was about to say something else, but Silver made haste to leave. I was left alone with my thoughts.
Those convictions were like a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, and untrue. Theodosia was right about one thing, however: such a word was actually spoken in court. My sentence was more merciful than could have been expected, perhaps partly because of a fake illness that father attributed to me. He somehow discovered and proved that while his son was at the university he had lived with some comrade of his, rented a room, but did not pay for accommodation. "Which means he found another way of paying the rent", explained he. These facts (slanderous facts, I must add) made an impression in my favor, for the court saw it as an irrefutable evidence of my illness. In the end I was, in consideration of extenuating circumstances, condemned to death penalty with a possibility of being sold into slavery. From that day the society branded me with an infamous name, and I loathed my father.
As for the imputations, I not only rejected them, but decided not to pay any attention to Theodosia's words, because they had been said in ignorance.
I slipped downstairs. Stevens ordered a fire in the parlor, and it was rather light, despite the curtains being drawn. I sat down on the divan and closed my eyes. I longed to rest, if only for a moment. Soon the doorbell woke me, however. I started, roused myself, raised my head, and seeing the time, jumped up wide awake as though someone had pulled me off the divan. I stood up, smoothed my hair and began waiting for the master to get down.
After half a minute the doorbell rang again, more insistently.
"Perhaps he didn't hear it?" I thought. After waiting for some few moments I began softly and cautiously walking towards the hallway, listening every second. No footsteps were heard from the stairs. For one instant the thought floated through my mind "Shall I go back? Had I better wait a little longer?" But I made no answer and began listening at the front door, a dead silence. Stevens was at home, of course, but didn't hear the doorbell apparently. I suddenly heard something like the cautious touch of a hand on the lock and the rustle of a coat at the very door. Someone was standing stealthily close to the lock and just as I was doing on the inside was listening within. The bell rang for the third time. My heart was beating violently. I could stand it no longer, and put out my hand to the latch... then looked about me for the last time, pulled myself together and opened the door.
In the door stood a tall man, taller than me by a head or so. He was dressed exquisitely, in a black suit with a magenta tie. He carried a handsome cane, which he tapped on the porch every now and then. His face was broad, rather pleasant, with high cheekbones. Even his hair, sticking out in different directions and frizzy, did not give him a stupid appearance, as frizzy hair usually does. He was smiling. Upon seeing his smile I, of course, went red. If there really was something unpleasing and repulsive in his rather good-looking and imposing countenance, it was due to quite other causes. I recognized this man instantly. One would have thought that he must be a paragon of beauty, yet at the same time there seemed something repellent about him.
It was René Mantrousse — a well-known figure, an honorary member of the Republican party and Stevens' ally. The author of the Theory.
For a moment he seemed to be evaluating the situation, and then, as though with an irresistible choice in my favor, concentrated on me. The smile vanished from his face. His eyes–a real cat's, shone with wonder and confusion. If I were a guest, and if the door before me was opened by a man dressed as a maid, I would be surprised, too.
Here I caught myself, bowed slightly and took a step aside. The guest stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after him, entered the hallway, still keeping his eyes on me, took off his hat and handed me his coat. He leaned his hands on his cane. I hung up the coat and froze in the corner, not knowing what to do. I did not have the right to talk to him.
"Keyle?"
"He recognized me. Of course."
I blushed desperately, but nodded. I saw some sort of pity in his eyes; it must have been my fancy, though. Suddenly Mantrousse smiled and opened his mouth to say something.
Then rushed footsteps were heard in the corridor — quite unexpectedly.
"Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn't hear the bell."
Stevens burst into the hallway. He looked perturbed, to say the least. Mantrousse's face changed; he ceased smiling and came up to Stevens, managing to shove me aside on the way.
"Mr. Stevens!" the guest put out his broad, flat hand. "I'm glad to see you, sir..."
"Mr. Mantrousse," Stevens responded to the handshake. "How was your trip?"
There was tension in his voice, as if the question was asked out of formal necessity rather than interest.
"It was quite good. Though this time I happened to come across a chatty taxi driver."
Mantrousse, on the contrary, spoke without effort.
"Understandable," Stevens nodded, smiling faintly. "In New-York most of the taxi drivers are like this. Well, go to the parlor... I shall join you soon."
Mantrousse nodded and went out of the room.
I waited until the footsteps in the corridor had faded, then raised my head and spoke first:
"Is this a joke?"
"Quiet," hissed Stevens.
"You invited René Mantrousse," I persisted. "Do you want me to die from shame? Good god..."
"Listen here," interrupted he. "Please, be decent. It is a very, very important person."
"You promised that no important figure would see me wearing this apparel! Are you demented or something?"
My bitterness grew more and more intense, and if I had the opportunity at the moment, I might have murdered him.
"Is that any way to speak to me?" he flew into a fury.
"I shall talk to you as I please."
I was trembling all over, as though I was in a fit. A dull animal rage boiled within me, and I did not know how to escape from it. Stevens frowned and said to me, his lips trembling with anger:
"It's not about me. You know who he is. There will be twice the hell to pay as opposed to misbehaving now. Are we understood?"
I clenched my wrists, glaring at the parquet.
Mantrousse was indeed a man who bore the weight of a great name. He was famous not only for a brilliant mind, but also for an exceptional cruelty in treating slaves. His unsparing fierceness seemed exaggerated even to the most utter planters. Rumor had it that his cruelty surpassed any description: he cut off fingers, poked out the eyes, scourged, branded and did not mind killing the unwanted ones. He himself never confirmed those rumors, but didn't refute them either. Perhaps there was some truth in them. I shivered.
"Understood."
It was one o'clock—almost immediately afterward I looked at the clock and found it was two. The guest waited for us in the parlor; he sat on a chair with his fists clenched in his lap. Stevens fell back on the divan across from him.
"How are you, Mr. Stevens?" Mantrousse inquired.
"I'm sick," said Stevens. "I have been sick all day."
"What's the matter? You sounded well enough on the phone."
Stevens smirked.
"You already know, do you not?"
"True."
There was a moment of weird silence. It seemed to me that they didn't know what to talk about. Stevens kept slapping himself nervously on the knee of his trousers. Mantrousse's eyes looked dreamy and concentrated, not altogether tranquil.
"You wanted to discuss something, for what I remember?"
"Yes, exactly. Here's the deal..."
It is very odd, but I cannot recollect their conversation. They were talking about the finances, or something of the sort. Stevens was quite unlike himself. He seemed to be in a fearful hurry all the time, entirely from head to foot absorbed by something; some vital ideas which he wanted to formulate and expound. He talked a great deal and fearfully fast, chewing on his cigar, gesticulating and explaining with strained and painful effort. I could make nothing of it. Mantrousse was nodding, changing his position in a chair at times.
"Ah, It's so hot out here," he complained at some point.
"It's because we are sitting by the fire." explained Stevens.
"You go right on conserving heat. I read somewhere that the sun is getting hotter every year. Hey there, slave!"
I shuddered and gazed up.
"Make us a cold drink," he ordered loudly.
I stared at him in confusion. Perhaps upon noticing my perplexity, Stevens decided to give me a hint:
"Yes, I was just about to offer you a drink. John," he turned to me. "Please, bring in a bottle of chardonnay... The red one."
"Yes, Sir."
"So even Stevens is afraid of him." I mused, scurrying off to the kitchen. "See how nervous he is! Although, if I were him, I would be nervous as well. Such a man..."
About six years ago, perhaps even earlier, a wave of bold protests overflowed the country. It began with the abolitionist doctrine — a government, in which the 'galling slavery' coexists with a human rights law shall choke on its own contradictions and collapse. The criminal proceedings began eventually: charges were pushed against the plantation and factory owners. These charges constituted an important piece of circumstantial evidence —although the explanation, based on moral convictions and a civil rights law, did not tell seriously against them. The abolitionists would say that that there is no greater crime than the murder of the weak and defenseless, and slaves are, above all, humans.
Soon, such proceedings — the abolitionists against the slave-owners— became a common thing. The jury knew not what to say: the old legislation on slavery was not applicable to criminals (that the blacks are an inferior race to the whites and that might was the right of the white race... ), but there weren't any other laws. Those convicted of a felony deemed worthy of penal servitude— but who exactly, for what exactly, and on what basis was never specified. Now, after half a year of unrest and hundreds of unfinished cases, the government saw no change for the better; indeed it was quite the other way. There was nothing but talk of endless revolts that overflowed plantations.
The country was on the verge of the second Civil War. Of course, the new laws were required, those which would work within "The Bill of Rights" and, at the same time, maintain the old order and reinforce slavery. The legislative establishment found the problem insoluble.
That's exactly when an unknown planter, a republican named René Mantrousse, came into the picture— seemingly out of nowhere. At first he was only employed in some other shady business, but now had suddenly realized something and jumped on the opportunity. One year a series of very solemn and obvious essays, titled 'On the rights of a soulless creature' were published in 'The Liberty'. It was the day America found out about the new philosophy, which was later named "The Slave Theory."
"We, the mankind," Mantrousse wrote. "Developing by a historical living process, present a normal, sensible society. However, a social system (that has come out of some mathematical brain) thinks everyone is the same. All men are not created equal. Those who evade a living process of life from the start commit crime instinctively and thus get enslaved. Obviously, it must be a congenital malformation, and therefore a slave does not possess a living soul. The living soul demands life, the soul shall not obey the rules of mechanics, the soul is an object of suspicion, the soul is capable of thinking! But what they have smells of death and can be made of India-rubber; It is not alive, has no will, is slavish from birth. And it comes in the end that you and me, in contrast to spineless slaves — are a sensible, spirited species! It's seductively clear and you must not think about it. Ergo, if we create a separate social class, all contradictions will cease at once, since there will be nothing to contradict. Human nature is not taken into account, it is excluded. And so a slave is not a human being, and not even an animal. It is an inferior being, soulless by nature. Hence, the slaves are not to be afforded the same rights and freedoms as human beings. In fact, they are not to be afforded anything."
The collection of essays was a stunning success. Later Mantrousse proposed a list of the constitutional amendments, which proclaimed slaves to be another species, not equal to humans. Soon the revolutionary "Slave Theory" had become the new faith and code, while Mantrousse himself got the title of а great thinker and an honorary member of the Republican party. Only perhaps those among the Republicans who were corrupted by the old training could seriously regard him as a benefactor.
Well, never mind about Mantrousse's becoming. I do not have much interest in politics, and therefore it is very possible that I have twisted some facts.
Meanwhile I had already retrieved the wine and now crossed the dining room, so as to pass down the corridor into the parlor.
"I already told you: he's bought with my money."
I shuddered and nearly dropped a tray with drinks. Two hushed voices were coming from the parlor, quarreling and scolding. I crept on tiptoe to the door, stealthily opened it and began listening.
"He's mine on paper, though. I shall do what I please. What do you want from me? Why did you come?"
"Pure interest."
"Not true."
"Well, well. What, do you find him good-looking?"
"How is..."
"Though you differ so much from me in your admiration for beauty. Anyhow, this young man is sure to succeed in the role you have chosen for him."
I became terribly roused.
"That is quite enough. I don't have a 'role' for him. And what right, indeed, do you have to question me so crudely?"
"No, do tell me: I assume you still feel bad about... Having certain desires towards the forbidden fruit? What, did you dress him like this to make him look like a woman? It isn't working. While he is scrawny, he is not effeminate. Well, maybe a little bit, but...
"Stop!"
There was a loud thud.
I tried to calm down.
"It's not about me. It cannot be about me."
Ignoring a sick, frightened feeling, I moved a little on purpose and muttered something aloud that I might not have the appearance of eavesdropping; I pressed my hand against my throbbing heart, then squeezed the edges of a silver tray and pushed the door with my shoulder.
An unexpected scene was passing in the room. Stevens stood in the middle of the parlor, and his distraught eyes stared down at Mantrousse. Mantrousse was sitting gracefully on the edge of an armchair and looked as if he had made a very good joke. Both of them glanced back at me simultaneously.
"Hm."
Stevens sat down on the divan in a strained counterfeit of perfect ease, even boredom.
"Took you long enough," he said, with visible tension. "Quick, pour us some wine."
With a sinking heart I came up to Stevens, popped off the cork and began to pour the drink. He did not take his piercing, unpleasant gaze off me. "But could it be that he heard me again?"
Then I came to Mantrousse. Began pouring. My hands were quivering, and my heart kept beating and thumping so that I could hardly breathe.
I hadn't bothered to take off the gloves, and perhaps it was the greatest, the dumbest mistake I had ever made.
The bottle slipped out of my hands.
—
[1] It's unrealistic
[2] I swear
[3] Suppose that
[4] Do you forgive me?