When Gilbert got back to the castle, M.Leminof was walking on the terrace.He perceived his secretary at some distance, and made signs to him to come and join him.They made several turns on the parapet, and while walking, Gilbert studied Stephane's father with still greater attention than he had done before.He was now most forcibly struck by his eyes, of a slightly turbid gray, whose glances, vague, unsteady, indiscernible, became at moments cold and dull as lead.Never had M.Leminof been so amiable to his secretary; he spoke to him playfully, and looked at him with an expression of charming good nature.They had conversed for a quarter of an hour when the sound of a bell gave notice that dinner was served.Count Kostia conducted Gilbert to the dining-room.It was an immense vaulted apartment, wainscoted in black oak, and lighted by three small ogive windows, looking out upon the terrace.
The arches of the ceiling were covered with old apocalyptic paintings, which time had molded and scaled off.In the center could be seen the Lamb with seven horns seated on his throne; and round about him the four-and-twenty elders clothed in white.On the lower parts of the pendentive the paintings were so much damaged that the subjects were hardly recognizable.Here and there could be seen wings of angels, trumpets, arms which had lost their hands, busts from which the head had disappeared, crowns, stars, horses' manes, and dragons' tails.These gloomy relics sometimes formed combinations that were mysterious and ominous.It was a strange decoration for a dining-hall.
At this hour of the day, the three arched windows gave but a dull and scanty light; and more was supplied by three bronze lamps, suspended from the ceiling by iron chains; even their brilliant flames were hardly sufficient to light up the depths of this cavernous hall.Below the three lamps was spread a long table, where twenty guests might easily find room; at one of the rounded ends of this table, three covers and three morocco chairs had been arranged in a semi-circle; at the other end, a solitary cover was placed before a simple wooden stool.The Count seated himself and motioned Gilbert to place himself at his right; then unfolding his napkin, he said harshly to the great German valet de chambre:
"Why are not my son and Father Alexis here yet? Go and find them."Some moments after, the door opened, and Stephane appeared.He crossed the hall, his eyes downcast, and bending over the long thin hand which his father presented to him without looking at him, he touched it slightly with his lips.This mark of filial deference must have cost him much, for he was seized with that nervous trembling to which he was subject when moved by strong emotions.
Gilbert could not help saying to himself:
"My child, the seraphim and apostles are well revenged for the humiliation you inflicted upon them."It seemed as if the young man divined Gilbert's thoughts, for as he raised his head, he launched a ferocious glance at him; then seating himself at his father's left, he remained as motionless as a statue, his eyes fixed upon his plate.Meantime he whom they called Father Alexis did not make his appearance, and the Count, becoming impatient, threw his napkin brusquely upon the table, and rose to go after him; but at this same moment the door opened, and Gilbert saw a bearded face which wore an expression of anxiety and terror.Much heated and out of breath, the priest threw a scrutinizing glance upon his lord and master, and from the Count turned his eyes towards the empty stool, and looked as if he would have given his little finger to be able to reach even that uncomfortable seat without being seen.
"Father Alexis, you forget yourself in your eternal daubs!"exclaimed M.Leminof, reseating himself."You know that I dislike to wait.I profess, it is true, a passionate admiration for the burlesque masterpieces with which you are decorating the walls of my chapel; but I cannot suffer them to annoy me, and I beg you not to sacrifice again the respect you owe me to your foolish passion for those coarse paintings; if you do, I shall some fine morning bury your sublime daubings under a triple coat of whitewash."This reprimand, pronounced in a thundering tone, produced the most unhappy effect upon Father Alexis.His first movement was to raise his eyes and arms toward the arched ceiling where, as if calling the four-and-twenty elders to witness, he exclaimed:
"You hear! The profane dare call them daubs, those incomparable frescoes which will carry down the name of Father Alexis to the latest posterity!"But in the heart of the poor priest terror soon succeeded to indignation.He dropped his arms, and bending down, sunk his head between his shoulders, and tried to make himself as small as possible; much as a frightened turtle draws himself into his shell, and fears that even there he is taking up too much room.
"Well! what are these grimaces for? Do you mean to make us wait until to-morrow for your benediction?"The Count pronounced these words in the rude tone of a corporal ordering recruits to march in double-quick time.Father Alexis made a bound as if he had received a sharp blow from a whip across his back, and in his agitation and haste to reach his stool, he struck violently against the corner of a carved sideboard; this terrible shock drew from him a cry of pain, but did not arrest his speed, and rubbing his hip, he threw himself into his place and, without giving himself time to recover breath, he mumbled in a nasal tone and in an unintelligible voice, a grace which he soon finished, and everybody having made the sign of the cross, dinner was served.
