pickax in hand, and, without a word, struck it violently into the
middle of a tuft of verbenas which grew at one end of the plot of
ground. Stephane raised himself briskly, and, believing him
stupid, threw himself upon him, crying out:

"Wretch, what are you doing there?"

"I am doing what his excellency ordered me to," answered the
gardener.

At this moment the Count strolled toward us, his hands in his
pockets, humming an aria, and an expression of amiable good humor
on his face. Stephane extended his arms towards him, but one of
those looks which always petrifies him kept him silent and
motionless in the middle of the pathway. He watched with wild eyes
the fatal pickax ravage by degrees his beloved garden. In vain he
tried to disguise his despair; his legs trembled and his heart
throbbed violently. He fixed his large eyes upon his dear,
devastated treasures; two great tears escaped them and rolled
slowly down his cheeks. But when the instrument of destruction
approached a magnificent carnation, the finest ornament of his
garden, his heart failed him, he uttered a piercing cry, and
raising his hands to Heaven, ran away sobbing. The Count looked
after him as he fled, and an atrocious smile passed over his lips!
Ah! if this father does not hate his son, I know not what hatred
is, nor how it depicts itself upon a human face. Meantime I threw
myself between the carnation and the pickax, as an hour before
between the knout and Ivan. Stephane's despair had rent my heart;
I wished at any cost to preserve this flower which was so dear to
him. The face of Kostia Petrovitch took all hope from me. It