I never knew him harsh or unkind to the child; he
seemed simply indifferent to her as to everything else. He had exhausted
life and he hated it; and he knew that death was on him, and he hated
that even more. And yet he was careful of her after a fashion, buying her
_bon-bons_ and little costumes, when he was in the vein, pitching his voice
softly when he would stay and talk to me, as though he relished her sleep.
One night he did not come to fetch her at all, I had wrapped a blanket
round the child where she lay on my bed, and had sat down to watch by her
and presently I too fell asleep. I do not know how long I slept but when I
woke there was a gray light in the room, I was very cold and stiff, but I
could hear close by, the soft, regular breathing of the child. There was a
great uneasiness on me, and after a while I stole out across the passage
and knocked at the Count's door, there was no answer but it gave when I
tried it, and so I went in. The lamp had smouldered out, there was a sick
odour of _petrol_ everywhere, and the shutters were closed: but through the
chinks the merciless gray dawn streamed in and showed me the Count sitting
very still by the table. His face wore a most curious smile, and had not
his great cavernous eyes been open, I should have believed him asleep:
suddenly it came to me that he was dead.
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