The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [137]
Next afternoon, her father, herself and Flora were certain Wokulski would come to terms with the Baron, and that it would not even be proper if he did not. Tomasz did not go into town until afternoon, and returned very troubled.
‘What is it, father?’ Izabela asked, struck by his expression.
‘A wretched business,’ Tomasz replied, throwing himself into a leather arm-chair, ‘Wokulski has rejected the apologies and his seconds have made strict conditions.’
‘When is it to be?’ she asked more quietly.
‘Tomorrow, before nine o’clock,’ Tomasz replied, and wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘A wretched business,’ he went on, ‘there is confusion among our partners, for Krzeszowski is a good shot. If this man dies, all my calculations will go for nothing. I’d lose my right hand…he’s the only man who could possibly carry out my plans…There’s no one else I would entrust my capital to, and I am certain I would get at least eight thousand a year…Bad luck is haunting me, no doubt about it.’
The bad temper of the master of the house affected the others; no one ate any dinner. Afterwards Tomasz shut himself up in his study and walked about, which was a sure sign of unusual excitement. Izabela went to her room also, and lay down on her chaise-longue, as she always did in anxious times. Dreary thoughts oppressed her.
‘My triumph was short-lived,’ she told herself, ‘Krzeszowski really is a good shot. If he kills the only man who concerns himself with me nowadays, then what? Duelling is indeed a barbarous business. For Wokulski (taking him from a moral standpoint) is worth more than Krzeszowski, yet he may die. The last man in whom my father has placed his hopes…’
But here family pride spoke up in Izabela: ‘Still, my father doesn’t need Wokulski’s favours after all; he would entrust his capital to him, provide him with support and he in return would pay interest. But it is a pity…’
She recalled the old manager of their former estate who had served them thirty years and whom she had much loved and trusted; Wokulski might have taken the place of the dead man for both of them, and become her sensible confidant—but he was going to die!
She lay with her eyes closed for some time, not thinking of anything: then extraordinary notions began coming into her head: ‘What a peculiar coincidence,’ she told herself. Tomorrow two men who had mortally offended her were going to fight for her sake—Krzeszowski, with his malicious remarks and Wokulski, with the sacrifices he had dared make for her. She had already almost forgiven him the purchase of the dinner-service and the promissory notes, and the money lost at cards to her father, on which the entire household had lived for several weeks…(No, she had not yet forgiven him that, and never would!)
So heavenly justice was, in a way, looking after the insult to her. Who would perish on the morrow? Perhaps both…In any case, he who had presumed to offer financial assistance to Izabela Łęcka. Such a man, like the lovers of Cleopatra, must not live…
Thus she reflected, sobbing: she was sorry for a devoted servant and perhaps confidant, but she humbled herself before the judgement of Providence, which does not forgive an insult to Miss Łęcka.
Had Wokulski been able to look into her soul just then, he would have fled in alarm and been cured of his obsession.
Izabela did not sleep all that night. She saw before her the picture by a French painter which represents a duel. Two men in black were taking aim at one another with pistols, under a group of green trees. Then (this was not in the picture) one of them fell, struck by a bullet. It was Wokulski. Izabela did not even attend his funeral, as she did not wish to betray her emotion. But she wept several times, at night. She was sorry for the unusual parvenu, this faithful slave, who