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“I desire to know,” repeated the Count.
“One does not ask leave of the fox to take his
skin,” said Beerencreutz.
The Count laid his hand on his narrow chest.
“I have the reputation of being a just man,” he
cried. “I judge my servants, why cannot I judge
my wife? You cavaliers have no right to judge her.
The punishment you meted out to her, I put aside.
It has never taken place, gentlemen, it has never
taken place.”
Count Henrik shrieked out the words in the highest
falsetto. Beerencreutz sent a rapid glance over
the company. There was not one of them—Sintram
and Daniel Bendixand Dahlberg, and whoever they
all were who had followed them in—who was not
grinning at the way he was outwitting the stupid
young Count.
The Countess did not understand at first. What
was it that had never taken place? Her fear, the
hard grip of the cavaliers’ hands upon her, the wild
songs, the wild words and kisses, were they all to
be brushed aside? Was there nothing in this
evening’s events that was not influenced by the grey
goddess of twilight?
“But, Henrik—”
“Silence!” he said, straightening himself to pass
sentence upon her! “Woe to you, a woman, who
have wished to be a judge over men. Woe to you,
my wife, who have dared to insult a man whose hand
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