University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
COUNT MOSCOW'S NARRATIVE.

I am a foreigner. Observe! To be a foreigner
in England is to be mysterious, suspicious, intriguing.
M. Collins has requested the history of my complicity
with certain occurrences. It is nothing—bah—
absolutely nothing.

I write with ease and fluency. Why should I not
write? Tra la la! I am what you English call
corpulent. Ha, ha! I am a pupil of Macchiavelli.
I find it much better to disbelieve everything, and
to approach my subject and wishes circuitously, than
in a direct manner. You have observed that playful
animal, the cat. Call it, and it does not come to
you directly, but rubs itself against all the furniture
in the room, and reaches you finally—and scratches.
Ah, ha, scratches! I am of the feline species. People
call me a villain—bah!

I know the family, living No. 27 Limehouse Road,
I respect the gentleman—a fine, burly specimen of
your Englishman—and Madame, charming, ravishing,
delightful. When it became known to me that
they designed to let their delightful residence, and
visit foreign shores, I at once called upon them. I
kissed the hand of madame. I embraced the great
Englishman. Madame blushed slightly. The great
Englishman shook my hand like a mastiff.

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I began in that dexterous, insinuating manner, of
which I am truly proud. I thought madame was
ill. Ah—no. A change, then, was all that was required.
I sat down at the piano and sang. In a few
minutes madame retired. I was alone with my friend.

Seizing his hand, I began with every demonstration
of courteous sympathy. I do not repeat my
words, for my intention was conveyed more in accent,
emphasis, and manner, than speech. I hinted
to him that he had another wife living. I suggested
that this was balanced—ha!—by his wife's lover.
That, possibly, he wished to fly—hence the letting
of his delightful mansion. That he regularly and
systematically beat his wife in the English manner,
and that she repeatedly deceived me. I talked of
hope, of consolation, of remedy. I carelessly produced
a bottle of strychnine and a small vial of stramonium
from my pocket, and enlarged on the efficiency
of drugs. His face, which had gradually become
convulsed, suddenly became fixed with a frightful
expression. He started to his feet, and roared:
“You d—d Frenchman!”

I instantly changed my tactics, and endeavored to
embrace him. He kicked me twice, violently. I
begged permission to kiss madame's hand. He replied
by throwing me down stairs.

I am in bed with my head bound up, and beefsteaks
upon my eyes, but still confident and buoyant.
I have not lost faith in Macchiavelli. Tra la
la! as they sing in the opera. I kiss everybody's
hands.