The Countess began to undress before her looking-glass. Her rose-
bedecked cap was taken off, and then her powdered wig was removed
from off her white and closely cut hair. Hairpins fell in showers
around her. Her yellow satin dress, brocaded with silver, fell
down at her swollen feet.

Hermann was a witness of the repugnant mysteries of her toilette;
at last the Countess was in her night-cap and dressing-gown, and in
this costume, more suitable to her age, she appeared less hideous
and deformed.

Like all old people, in general, the Countess suffered from
sleeplessness. Having undressed, she seated herself at the window
in a Voltaire armchair, and dismissed her maids. The candles were
taken away, and once more the room was left with only one lamp
burning in it. The Countess sat there looking quite yellow,
mumbling with her flaccid lips and swaying to and fro. Her dull
eyes expressed complete vacancy of mind, and, looking at her, one
would have thought that the rocking of her body was not a voluntary
action of her own, but was produced by the action of some concealed
galvanic mechanism.

Suddenly the death-like face assumed an inexplicable expression.
The lips ceased to tremble, the eyes became animated: before the
Countess stood an unknown man.

"Do not be alarmed, for Heaven's sake, do not be alarmed!" said he
in a low but distinct voice. "I have no intention of doing you any
harm; I have only come to ask a favor of you."