The Icelandic Canadian - 01.06.1967, Side 113

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
111
The Imposter
i
(continued from Spring 1967 issue)
One day toward evening not long
after his return home he took his
horse, saddled it, and, without telling
anyone, rode off straight to the Valdai
farm. He gave no thought to what he
should say or do, simply rode directly
into the yard. There was no one
around the house though he saw some
people working in the hay just outside
the home field.
He knocked on the door—three hard
blows—but no one answered. He enter-
ed the passageway as he had so often
done, in former days, without an-
nouncing himself. He went past the
pantry and the kitchen; no one was
there either. So he mounted the stairs
leading to the sitting room and threw
open the door.
He had somehow dimly suspected
what he would find. There sat Mon-
sieur Lavatte in Mr. and Mrs. Valdai’s
room with Sara on his lap. She had
her arms around his neck. Over them
and behind them hung an old circular
curtain, almost shutting out the light
of the day. Flies buzzed against the
window and a June bug droned out-
side on the wall of the house. Other-
wise peace and quiet surrounded the
lovers.
Sara stood up slowly as though half
against her will, walked toward Sigurd
and tentatively stretched out her hand.
He ignored it, pushed her aside and
crossing to the Count, seized him by
the shoulder. He felt that he was
on the verge of flinging him against
the wall—maybe even of killing him.
He saw red and there was a buzzing
in his ears, perhaps from anger or
something even worse. But the
Frenchman was completely unmoved.
Staring with abominable calm into
Sigurd’s face which was distorted with
passion, he said, “You’ll make an ass
of yourself, fighting with me. I am
considered to be very strong—and
Mademoiselle Valdai will hate you
afterwards.”
Sigurd drew back his hand. What
the count had said was true. He had
to admit that his conduct was more
to be censured than that of the count;
vet it was degrading to yield to this
dog of a Frenchman. He turned to
Sara to see whether she was laughing
at him. She stood there exactly as he
had left her, staring first at one and
then at the other, oftener and longer
at the count, Sigurd noticed.
To him her beauty seemed even
more seductive and perfect than ever.
It was no longer that cold, pure
maidenly beauty which had lived in
his memory while he was abroad, and
had lured him home despite the entice-
ments of Copenhagen. No, she had
now assumed another charasteristic—
an expression often seen on the face
of a woman in love for the first time.
Sigurd felt the blood boiling in his
veins as the full realization came upon
him, and he remembered how Sara
was treating him. It came to him that
the whole thing was indeed a comedy
—a farce wherein everyone acted as
the mood seized him.
Aping the accent of the Count he
said in a mocking tone: “My mother
has informed me that your count is
supposed to have come here to search
for old shells in the comb of the hill,
but that he cannot even tell a scallop
from an ordinary shell and he has be-
come notorious in other parts of the
country. Where do you suppose his
countship has its estates?”