is the secret of all the disorders which you may observe in my poor
machine."

"No, Count Kostia, this is not your secret!" I was tempted to
answer. "It is not your nerves which torment you. I would wager
that in despite of your cynicism and skepticism, you have once
believed in something, or in some one who has broken faith with
you," but I was careful not to let him suspect my conjectures. I
believe he would have devoured me. The anger of this man is
terrible, and he does not always spare me the sight of it.
Yesterday especially, he was transported beyond himself, to such an
extent that I blushed for him. Stephane had gone to ride with
Ivan. The dinner-bell rang and they had not returned. The Count
himself went to the entrance of the court to wait for them. His
lips were pale, his voice harsh and grating, veiled by a hoarseness
which always comes with his gusts of passion. When the delinquents
appeared at the end of the path, he ran to them, and measured
Stephane from head to foot with a glance so menacing that the child
trembled in every limb; but his anger exploded itself entirely upon
Ivan. The poor jailer had, however, good excuses to offer:
Stephane's horse had stumbled and cut his knee, and they had been
obliged to slacken their pace. The Count appeared to hear nothing.
He signed to Ivan to dismount; which having done, he seized him by
the collar, tore from him his whip and beat him like a dog. The
unhappy serf allowed himself to be whipped without uttering a cry,
without making a movement. The idea of flight or self-defense
never occurred to him. Riveted to the spot, his eyes closed, he
was the living image of slavery resigned to the last outrages.
Indeed I believe that during this punishment I suffered more than
he. My throat was parched, my blood boiled in my veins. My first