Part 52

The two continued to stand there in the brown evening, and they had some further conversation, of a desultory and irrelevant kind. At the end of ten minutes the Princess broke out, in a low tone, laying her hand on her companion’s arm, “Mr Schinkel, this won’t do. I’m intolerably nervous.”

“Yes, that is the nature of ladies,” the German replied, imperturbably.

“I wish to go up to his room,” the Princess pursued. “You will be so good as to show me where it is.”

“It will do you no good, if he is not there.”

The Princess hesitated. “I am not sure he is not there.”

“Well, if he won’t speak, it shows he likes better not to have visitors.”

“Oh, he may like to have me better than he does you!” the Princess exclaimed.

“_Das kann sein—das kann sein_.” But Schinkel made no movement to introduce her into the house.

“There is nothing to-night—you know what I mean,” the Princess remarked, after looking at him a moment.

“Nothing to-night?”

“At the Duke’s. The first party is on Thursday, the other is next Tuesday.”

“_Schön_. I never go to parties,” said Schinkel.

“Neither do I.”

“Except that _this_ is a kind of party—you and me,” suggested Schinkel.

“Yes, and the woman of the house doesn’t approve of it.” The footstep of the personage in question had been audible in the passage, through the open door, which was presently closed, from within, with a little reprehensive bang. Something in this incident appeared to quicken exceedingly the Princess’s impatience and emotion; the menace of exclusion from the house made her wish more even than before to enter it. “For God’s sake, Mr Schinkel, take me up there. If you won’t, I will go alone,” she pleaded.

Her face was white now, and it need hardly be added that it was beautiful. The German considered it a moment in silence; then turned and reopened the door and went in, followed closely by his companion.

There was a light in the lower region, which tempered the gloom of the staircase—as high, that is, as the first floor; the ascent the rest of the way was so dusky that the pair went slowly and Schinkel led the Princess by the hand. She gave a suppressed exclamation as she rounded a sharp turn in the second flight. “Good God, is that his door, with the light?”

“Yes, you can see under it. There was a light before,” said Schinkel, without confusion.

“And why, in heaven’s name, didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I thought it would worry you.”

“And doesn’t it worry _you?_”

“A little, but I don’t mind,” said Schinkel. “Very likely he may have left it.”

“He doesn’t leave candles!” the Princess returned, with vehemence. She hurried up the few remaining steps to the door, and paused there with her ear against it. Her hand grasped the handle, and she turned it, but the door resisted. Then she murmured, pantingly, to her companion, “We must go in—we must go in!”

“What will you do, when it’s locked?” he inquired.

“You must break it down.”

“It is very expensive,” said Schinkel.

“Don’t be abject!” cried the Princess. “In a house like this the fastenings are certainly flimsy; they will easily yield.”

“And if he is not there—if he comes back and finds what we have done?”

She looked at him a moment through the darkness, which was mitigated only by the small glow proceeding from the chink. “He _is_ there! Before God, he is there!”

“_Schön, schön_,” said her companion, as if he felt the contagion of her own dread but was deliberating and meant to remain calm. The Princess assured him that one or two vigorous thrusts with his shoulder would burst the bolt—it was sure to be some wretched morsel of tin—and she made way for him to come close. He did so, he even leaned against the door, but he gave no violent push, and the Princess waited, with her hand against her heart. Schinkel apparently was still deliberating. At last he gave a low sigh. “I know they found him the pistol; it is only for that,” he murmured; and the next moment Christina saw him sway sharply to and fro in the gloom. She heard a crack and saw that the lock had yielded. The door collapsed: they were in the light; they were in a small room, which looked full of things. The light was that of a single candle on the mantel; it was so poor that for a moment she made out nothing definite. Before that moment was over, however, her eyes had attached themselves to the small bed. There was something on it—something black, something ambiguous, something outstretched. Schinkel held her back, but only for an instant; she saw everything, and with the very act she flung herself beside the bed, upon her knees. Hyacinth lay there as if he were asleep, but there was a horrible thing, a mess of blood, on the bed, in his side, in his heart. His arm hung limp beside him, downwards, off the narrow couch; his face was white and his eyes were closed. So much Schinkel saw, but only for an instant; a convulsive movement of the Princess, bending over the body while a strange low cry came from her lips, covered it up. He looked about him for the weapon, for the pistol, but the Princess, in her rush at the bed, had pushed it out of sight with her knees. “It’s a pity they found it—if he hadn’t had it here!” he exclaimed to her. He had determined to remain calm, so that, on turning round at the quick advent of the little woman of the house, who had hurried up, white, scared, staring, at the sound of the crashing door, he was able to say, very quietly and gravely, “Mr Robinson has shot himself through the heart. He must have done it while you were fetching the milk.” The Princess got up, hearing another person in the room, and then Schinkel perceived the small revolver lying just under the bed. He picked it up and carefully placed it on the mantel-shelf, keeping, equally carefully, to himself the reflection that it would certainly have served much better for the Duke.