The dice went rattling on; the candles were burning dim, with great long wicks. Mr. Trippet could hardly see the Captain, and thought, as far as his muzzy reason would let him, that the Captain could not see him: so he rose from his chair as well as he could, and fell down on Mrs. Catherine's sofa. His eyes were fixed, his face was pale, his jaw hung down; and he flung out his arms and said, in a maudlin voice, "Oh, you byoo-oo-oo-tifile Cathrine, I must have a kick-kick-iss.""Beast!" said Mrs. Catherine, and pushed him away. The drunken wretch fell off the sofa, and on to the floor, where he stayed; and, after snorting out some unintelligible sounds, went to sleep.
The dice went rattling on; the candles were burning dim, with great long wicks.
"Seven's the main," cried the Count. "Four. Three to two against the caster.""Ponies," said the Warwickshire Squire.
Rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, clatter, NINE. Clap, clap, clap, clap, ELEVEN. Clutter, clutter, clutter, clutter: "Seven it is,"says the Warwickshire Squire. "That makes eight hundred, Count.""One throw for two hundred," said the Count. "But stop! Cat, give us some more punch."Mrs. Cat came forward; she looked a little pale, and her hand trembled somewhat. "Here is the punch, Max," said she. It was steaming hot, in a large glass. "Don't drink it all," said she;"leave me some."
"How dark it is!" said the Count, eyeing it.
"It's the brandy," said Cat.
"Well, here goes! Squire, curse you! here's your health, and bad luck to you!" and he gulped off more than half the liquor at a draught. But presently he put down the glass and cried, "What infernal poison is this, Cat?""Poison!" said she. "It's no poison. Give me the glass." And she pledged Max, and drank a little of it. "'Tis good punch, Max, and of my brewing; I don't think you will ever get any better." And she went back to the sofa again, and sat down, and looked at the players.
Mr. Brock looked at her white face and fixed eyes with a grim kind of curiosity. The Count sputtered, and cursed the horrid taste of the punch still; but he presently took the box, and made his threatened throw.
As before, the Squire beat him; and having booked his winnings, rose from table as well as he might and besought to lead him downstairs;which Mr. Brock did.
Liquor had evidently stupefied the Count: he sat with his head between his hands, muttering wildly about ill-luck, seven's the main, bad punch, and so on. The street-door banged to; and the steps of Brock and the Squire were heard, until they could be heard no more.
"Max," said she; but he did not answer. "Max," said she again, laying her hand on his shoulder.
"Curse you," said that gentleman, "keep off, and don't be laying your paws upon me. Go to bed, you jade, or to--,for what I care;and give me first some more punch--a gallon more punch, do you hear?"The gentleman, by the curses at the commencement of this little speech, and the request contained at the end of it, showed that his losses vexed him, and that he was anxious to forget them temporarily.
"Oh, Max!" whimpered Mrs. Cat, "you--don't--want any more punch?""Don't! Shan't I be drunk in my own house, you cursed whimpering jade, you? Get out!" and with this the Captain proceeded to administer a blow upon Mrs. Catherine's cheek.
Contrary to her custom, she did not avenge it, or seek to do so, as on the many former occasions when disputes of this nature had arisen between the Count and her; but now Mrs. Catherine fell on her knees and, clasping her hands and looking pitifully in the Count's face, cried, "Oh, Count, forgive me, forgive me!""Forgive you! What for? Because I slapped your face? Ha, ha!
I'll forgive you again, if you don't mind."
"Oh, no, no, no!" said she, wringing her hands. "It isn't that.
Max, dear Max, will you forgive me? It isn't the blow--I don't mind that; it's--""It's what, you--maudlin fool?"
"IT'S THE PUNCH!"
The Count, who was more than half seas over, here assumed an air of much tipsy gravity. "The punch! No, I never will forgive you that last glass of punch. Of all the foul, beastly drinks I ever tasted, that was the worst. No, I never will forgive you that punch.""Oh, it isn't that, it isn't that!" said she.
"I tell you it is that,--you! That punch, I say that punch was no better than paw--aw-oison." And here the Count's head sank back, and he fell to snore.
"IT WAS POISON!" said she.
"WHAT!" screamed he, waking up at once, and spurning her away from him. "What, you infernal murderess, have you killed me?""Oh, Max!--don't kill me, Max! It was laudanum--indeed it was. You were going to be married, and I was furious, and I went and got--""Hold your tongue, you fiend," roared out the Count; and with more presence of mind than politeness, he flung the remainder of the liquor (and, indeed, the glass with it) at the head of Mrs.
Catherine. But the poisoned chalice missed its mark, and fell right on the nose of Mr. Tom Trippet, who was left asleep and unobserved under the table.
Bleeding, staggering, swearing, indeed a ghastly sight, up sprang Mr. Trippet, and drew his rapier. "Come on," says he; "never say die! What's the row? I'm ready for a dozen of you." And he made many blind and furious passes about the room.
"Curse you, we'll die together!" shouted the Count, as he too pulled out his toledo, and sprang at Mrs. Catherine.
