“Permit me the honor of doing so myself,” said the bewildered colonel; instructed his and the count’s servants to take charge of his baggage; and led him to the guest quarters, where he dryly took his leave. The count changed his uniform; left the house to report to the Russian commander of M . . . ; and absent for the rest of the day, only returned for dinner.

The family, meanwhile, was profoundly upset. The forest warden pointed out how precisely the count’s replies had complied with the commandant’s presuppositions; maintained that his behavior appeared to bespeak a clearly planned course of action; and inquired as to what in Heaven’s name might be the reasons for such a packhorse-driven courtship. The commandant said that he had no idea what to make of it and insisted that the family speak no more of the matter in his presence. His wife kept peering every so often out the window, convinced she’d find him hastening back, regretting his rash action, and hoping to set things aright. Finally, as darkness set in, she sat herself down beside the marquise, who was bent over a table diligently engaged in some business, and seemed to be avoiding conversation. As the father paced back and forth, she asked her daughter in a hushed voice if she had any idea of what might come of all this. Casting a timid look at the commandant, the marquise replied: “If father had managed to make him go to Naples, then everything would be alright.” “To Naples indeed!” the commandant, who had heard this, cried back. “Should I have called for the priest? Or should I have had him locked up and arrested and sent under armed guard to Naples?” “No,” replied the marquise, but consumed by vivid and pressing fancies, she looked back, with some reluctance, upon her work. At last, at nightfall, the count appeared. Following an exchange of social niceties, the family waited only for this business to be brought up again to press him in a unified effort, should it still be possible, to retreat from the ill-advised step he’d taken. But for naught, throughout the entire meal, did the family await this moment. Studiously avoiding any subject that might lead to this, he kept the commandant entertained with talk of war and the forest warden with talk of the hunt. When he touched upon the battle at P . . . , in which he was wounded, the mother implored him to speak of his injuries, inquired as to the adequacy of his treatment in that remote place, and whether he had found all the essential comforts. Hereupon he told of many things relating to his passion for the marquise: how she had tirelessly been there at his bedside throughout his sickness; how, in the grip of a burning fever, he had kept confusing her with the image of a swan that he had seen as a boy on his uncle’s estate; that one memory was particularly stirring to him, of his once having tossed a handful of mud at it, whereupon it dove and reemerged clean as a whistle; that it had always swum around in a foamy ferment, and he had called out “Thinka!” which is what they called it, but that he was never able to draw the swan near him, though the splashing and neck-craning must have pleased it no end; and all of a sudden, red in the face, he swore that he loved her dearly, looked back down at his plate and said no more. The meal having been completed, it was finally time to rise from the table; and since, following a brief exchange with the mother, the count bowed to all present and once again withdrew to his room, the family members were left standing around, not knowing what to think. The commandant was of the opinion that they would simply have to let the matter run its course. The rash young man was probably counting on the intercession of his relatives. Or else he faced a dishonorable discharge. Madame von G . . . asked her daughter what she made of him, and if she could see clear to giving him an answer that would avoid a great misfortune. To which the marquise replied: “Dearest mother, I simply cannot do so.