The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [39]
Now Izabela caught sight of her father sitting by her, inspecting his finger-nails attentively, glancing from time to time at the landscape. The carriage continued to stand on the edge of the ring, as if motionless, and only the face of the sun, reflected in the polished wings of the carriage, slowly moved backwards. This apparent rest or mysterious movement irritated Izabela to a high degree. ‘Are we moving or standing still?’ she asked her father. But he said nothing, as though he had not heard: he was inspecting his fine nails, and sometimes glanced out at the surroundings …
Then (the carriage went on trembling and the rattling could still be heard) the figure of a man half emerged from the depths of the lake of black smoke and white steam. He had close-cropped hair, a swarthy face which reminded her of Trosti, the Colonel of Rifles (or was it perhaps the Florentine gladiator?), and huge red hands. He wore a pitch-stained shirt, his sleeves were rolled up above his elbows: in his left hand, against his chest, he held some cards arranged in a fan, while in his right hand, which was raised above his head, he held one card, clearly with the intention of throwing it upon the front seat of the carriage. The rest of his figure could not be seen through the smoke.
‘What is he doing, father?’ Izabela asked fearfully.
‘Playing whist with me,’ her father replied, also holding cards.
‘But he is dreadful, papa!’
‘Even men such as he will not harm a woman,’ Tomasz replied.
Only now did Izabela notice that the man in the shirt was looking at her with a peculiar expression as he continued to hold the card above his head. The smoke and steam, boiling in the valley, sometimes concealed his open shirt and stern features: he was sinking into them, he was gone. Only from behind the smoke, she could still see the pale glitter of his eyes, and his arm, naked to the elbow—and the card — rising above the smoke.
‘What does that card mean, papa?’ she asked her father.
But her father was calmly looking at his own cards, and did not answer, as if he did not hear her.
‘When are we going to leave this place …?’
But although the carriage shuddered and the sun reflected in the wings was still drawing backwards, the lake of smoke was still visible below and in it, the submerged man with his hand above his head — and that card.
Izabela was overcome with nervous agitation, she summoned all her powers of recollection, marshalled all her thoughts in order to guess: that card the man was holding, what did it mean? … Was it the money he had lost to her father at whist? Surely not … Or perhaps the sum he had contributed to the Charitable Society? Not that either. Or the thousand roubles he had given her aunt for the orphanage, or perhaps a receipt for the fountain, birds and carpets to adorn the church at Easter? But no, it was not them either: for none of these things would alarm her.
Gradually Izabela was filled with a great dread. Perhaps it was her father’s bills of exchange, which someone recently bought up? If so, she would take the money for the dinner-service and silver, and would pay off this debt first and free herself from such a creditor. But the man submerged in smoke was still looking into her eyes and had not yet played his card. So perhaps … Oh!
Izabela jumps up, stumbles in the darkness against a stool and rings the bell with a hand that trembles. She rings again, no one answers, so she runs into the hall and in the doorway meets Flora, who seizes her hand and asks in surprise: ‘What is the matter, Bela?’
The light in the hall brings Izabela to her senses somewhat. She smiles. ‘Flora, bring a lamp to my room. Is Papa in?’
‘He just went out.’
‘And Mikołaj?’
‘He’ll be back directly, he took a letter for delivery. Is your headache worse?’ asks Flora.
‘No,’ Izabela smiles. ‘I dozed off, and had a dream.’
Flora takes the lamp and Bela goes with her cousin into the boudoir. Izabela sits down on the chaise-longue, shields her eyes from the light with one hand, and says: ‘You know, Flora,