He started suddenly and
rose from his seat, trying to count the strokes, but he had not heard the
first ones and was astray in his reckoning. It was very late, that was
certain, and not many minutes could elapse before the door would open and
his friends would enter. He hastily smoothed his hair, looked to the flame
of his bright little lamp and made a trip of inspection round the room.
Everything was in order. He was almost glad that they were to come at
night, for the lamplight seemed to lend a more cheerful look to the room.
The Turkey-red cotton counterpane on the bed looked particularly well, the
Count thought. During the next fifteen minutes he walked about, rubbing
his hands softly together. At the first stroke of the following quarter he
stood still and listened intently.
Four quarters struck, and then the big bell began to toll the hour. It
must be eleven, he thought, as he counted the strokes. Eleven--twelve--he
started, and turned very white, but listened still, for he knew that he
should hear another clock striking in a few seconds. As the strokes
followed each other, his heart beat like a fulling-hammer, giving a
succession of quick blows, and pausing to repeat the rhythmic tattoo more
loudly and painfully than before. Ten--eleven--twelve--there was no
mistake. The day was over. It was midnight, and no one had come. The room
swam with him.
Then, as in a vision of horror, he saw himself standing there, as he had
stood many times before, listening for the last stroke, and suddenly
awaking from the dream to the crushing disappointment of the reality.
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