If you are, dive right in. We're back at the beginning...
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The Bet - Part Three
By Anton Chekhov
The old banker remembered
all this, and thought:
"To-morrow at twelve o'clock he will regain his freedom. By
our agreement I ought to pay him two millions. If I do pay him, it is all over
with me: I shall be utterly ruined."
Fifteen years before, his millions had been beyond his
reckoning; now he was afraid to ask himself which were greater, his debts or
his assets.
Desperate gambling on the Stock Exchange, wild speculation and
the excitability which he could not get over even in advancing years, had by
degrees led to the decline of his fortune and the proud, fearless,
self-confident millionaire had become a banker of middling rank, trembling at
every rise and fall in his investments.
"Cursed bet!" muttered the old man, clutching his head
in despair "Why didn't the man die?
He is only forty now. He will take my last penny from me, he
will marry, will enjoy life, will gamble on the Exchange; while I shall look at
him with envy like a beggar, and hear from him every day the same sentence: 'I
am indebted to you for the happiness of my life, let me help you!' No, it is
too much! The one means of being saved from bankruptcy and disgrace is the
death of that man!"
It struck three o'clock, the banker listened; everyone was asleep
in the house and nothing could be heard outside but the rustling of the chilled
trees. Trying to make no noise, he took from a fireproof safe the key of the
door which had not been opened for fifteen years, put on his overcoat, and went
out of the house.
It was dark and cold in the garden. Rain was falling. A damp
cutting wind was racing about the garden, howling and giving the trees no rest.
The banker strained his eyes, but could see neither the earth
nor the white statues, nor the lodge, nor the trees. Going to the spot where
the lodge stood, he twice called the watchman.
No answer followed.
Evidently the watchman had sought shelter from the weather, and
was now asleep somewhere either in the kitchen or in the greenhouse.
"If I had the pluck to carry out my intention,"
thought the old man, "Suspicion would fall first upon the watchman."
He felt in the darkness for the steps and the door, and went
into the entry of the lodge. Then he groped his way into a little passage and
lighted a match.
There was not a soul there. There was a bedstead with no bedding
on it, and in the corner there was a dark cast-iron stove. The seals on the
door leading to the prisoner's rooms were intact.
When the match went out the old man, trembling with emotion,
peeped through the little window.
A candle was burning dimly in the prisoner's room. He was
sitting at the table.
Nothing could be seen but his back, the hair on his head, and
his hands. Open books were lying on the table, on the two easy-chairs, and on
the carpet near the table.
Five minutes passed and the prisoner did not once stir. Fifteen
years' imprisonment had taught him to sit still.
The banker tapped at the window with his finger, and the
prisoner made no movement whatever in response. Then the banker cautiously
broke the seals off the door and put the key in the keyhole.
The rusty lock gave a grating sound and the door creaked. The
banker expected to hear at once footsteps and a cry of astonishment, but three
minutes passed and it was as quiet as ever in the room.
He made up his mind to go in.
At the table a man unlike ordinary people was sitting
motionless. He was a skeleton with the skin drawn tight over his bones, with
long curls like a woman's and a shaggy beard.
His face was yellow with an earthy tint in it, his cheeks were
hollow, his back long and narrow, and the hand on which his shaggy head was
propped was so thin and delicate that it was dreadful to look at it.
His hair was already streaked with silver, and seeing his emaciated, aged-looking face, no
one would have believed that he was only forty.
He was asleep. . . . In front of his bowed head there lay on the
table a sheet of paper on which there was something written in fine
handwriting.
***
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