The following day was a Sunday. When Mascha came home from church, Anna had just returned from a ride in the Bois. The Marquis de Lusignan had come for her early with his horses, and accompanied her in the Bois. Several diplomats had there joined her; they had been attentive to her. She was in the best of humors, and so hungry that she did not take time before lunch to take off her habit, but sat down to the table in it.
Anna told of her ride, of the leaps she had taken, of the enthusiasm she had excited, and that she certainly must have a new habit from Wolmerhausen. Maschenka listened with the childish, quite reverential astonishment which the elder cousin always caused in her when she told of the triumphs she had achieved in the great world.
"Did you see Bärenburg at the ball?" asked Anna, suddenly, turning to her.
"Yes."
"Did he dance with you?"
"No; I did not dance at all."
"That is better," said Anna. "Young girls do not dance at such balls. At such bacchanals in honor of charity, all sorts of things are permitted. Have you a suspicion who the young lady was whom Bärenburg was so attentive to?"
"Miss Anthropos."
"Not she, every one knows her; a new beauty whom nobody knows. It must have been one of his Austrian cousins--a very young girl, exquisitely dressed in white, with a wreath of red flowers on her head. It seems that he had a scene on her account with Orbanoff, whom he would not permit to dance with her. Evidently, it must be a girl who is very near to him, one whom he thinks a great deal of, or else he would not have interfered with the old tiger for her sake. As it seems, Orbanoff has challenged him. It is a bad season for duelling; Monteglin told me that three men of our set have already fallen in a duel since autumn. I felt quite upset, especially as they say Orbanoff is the most unconscientious man and the best pistol shot in Paris. He seems very angry with Bärenburg-- But what is the matter? You are deathly pale. Heavens; if you take the fate of every superficial acquaintance so to heart!"
Anna has retired to her room and lain down. She is invited with her mother to a dinner, and spares her complexion. Another solitary evening for Mascha. But she does not think of that. Only of one thing does she think: "He fights for my sake; fights on account of my arrogant, obstinate lack of tact! Why would I not understand him; why did I not let it pass when he said he was already engaged to me for that dance? But no, I would not let him dispose of me as of an unresisting child, and must show him that I thought nothing of him, and now--oh, my God! now perhaps he will die, and it is my fault."
Uneasily she walks up and down, quicker and quicker. She sees nothing in the future but a horrible, cold void, where he will no longer be, and nothing will be left to her heart but the consciousness that she has offended and misunderstood him, and that he died for her. His death has ceased to be a fearful possibility for her; it is something that must come if she does not prevent it. But how can she prevent it? If Colia were here, she would beg him to arrange the affair, to speak to Bärenburg or Orbanoff.
Oh! there must be some way of escape which he could find. But Colia is away. She cannot longer bear her despair. She must confide in some one, ask advice, seek consolation, or, at least, pity.
She goes down in the drawing-room to speak to her aunt. Her aunt has a visitor, an old Russian friend.
With a kind of rage, she closes the scarcely opened door of the drawing-room, and hurries back to her room.
A half-hour passes, a desolate, endless half-hour. It is half-past four. Before the house still stands the visitor's cab. Ever more restlessly Mascha wrings her poor little white hands; ever more reproachfully every unkind word that she has said to him comes back to her memory; her heart grows heavier. Oh! if she could only see him, at least beg his forgiveness before he dies! No, he shall not die; she cannot let it happen. Colia's farewell words come to her mind: "If you should ever be in any embarrassment, go to Fräulein von Sankjéwitch."
Yes, she will speak with her; Nita is his cousin, she knows his affairs; Nita will advise, will help.
"Hurry, Eliza, you must go out with me," says she, going into the maid's room. But near the maid stands Anna.
"Must you go out just now?" says she, vexedly; "my dress is not ready. Where are you going?"
"To Fräulein von Sankjéwitch."
"Eliza has not time. You can go the few steps alone."
And she goes alone, fairly runs through the Rue de la Prony, through the Parc Monceau. She pants for breath, there is a ringing in her ears. Now she has reached No. 8 of the Avenue Murillo. She hurries up the steps, rings. The maid opens the door. "The ladies have gone out; they will not be back before evening."
Quite crushed, Mascha stands there in the pretty little ante-room.
"Has mademoiselle any message for the ladies?" asks the maid.
"No, no!" sadly Mascha shakes her head. She trembles in her whole body, rests her hand on a little table on which stands a plate with visiting cards.
Her eyes mechanically dwell on one which lies uppermost:
Le Comte Charles De Bärenburg, Attaché, etc.Avenue de Messine, No. ----.
Then suddenly a new thought comes to her. Roughly she repels it; she cannot make up her mind to do that. But why not? How cowardly, how small she is! Only a few hours before she had longed for an opportunity to prove to him her love by some painful sacrifice, and now, from foolish fear that people might talk, she suddenly hesitates to do something so simple. The accusations which her father used to hurl at cold, calculating wisdom of the heart, and the scorn with which he condemned women who could not once yield to inspiration, comes to her mind. How does she know what he means by that? She creeps down the steps slowly, as if in a dream. Now she is on the street. An empty close cab comes rolling over the pavement. The coachman looks at Mascha. Irresolutely she stands there; he drives up to her, opens the door, looks at her, with lifted hat, questioningly.
"Avenue de Messine, No. ----," murmurs she, and springs into the carriage.
The coachman dismounts and opens the door. Pale, with gloomy but not at all ashamed--rather proud--resolve in her face, Mascha gets out and goes up the steps. She reads the cards on the doors; there it is! She rings loudly, violently. A servant opens. "Is the Count at home?"
"Yes, but he has company," replies the servant, and looks at her in astonishment. It must certainly be his master's sister, he thinks. She is too young for an adventuress of good society, too unembarrassed; she does not even wear a veil.
"If mademoiselle wishes to go in the dining-room, I will tell Monsieur le Comte," says he, and takes her into one of those gloomy Paris dining-rooms, which even by day must be artificially lighted. The curtains are drawn. The light of a hanging lamp falls over a table on which stand the picturesque remnants of a recently left, abundant dessert.
Suddenly a great confusion and even a painful shame overcome Mascha. Perhaps it is all not true! How can one lunch so gayly if one is in mortal danger? Shyly she turns to the door; she would like to escape. Then Bärenburg enters the room.
"Fräulein--you!" comes from his lips. But even in his startled surprise he speaks softly, evidently from prudence.
She stammers something; her voice is so choked with shame and excitement that he scarcely understands her.
The light of the hanging lamp falls on her deathly pale face, the little, soft, childish face with the great, tender eyes. Bärenburg grows hot and cold. He is in the pleasantly excited mood in which an excellent meal and a couple of bottles of fine wine place men of his kind. Coming up to her, he bends over her, and taking her hand kindly in his, he says warmly: "You are certainly in some great difficulty in which you wish to turn to me. I thank you for your confidence; you know my life is at your disposal."
She comes to herself a little. "Ah, no!" says she. "It is about you, not about me. They told me that through my obstinacy I had put you in a painful position with Prince Orbanoff--that you are to fight a duel with him. Is that true?"
He is silent a moment, then he says calmly: "Yes, it is true."
"Oh, my God!" she cries out, and then is silent, as if petrified by pain.
His eyes rest on her in indescribable surprise.
"Did you come on that account?" murmurs he, warmly, and kisses her hands again and again. "Oh, you dear, lovely being; and you have forgotten the whole world from anxiety for me! I know no second girl who would be capable of such generosity!"
But she scarcely notices these words, which would once have filled her with pride. "So it is true," she murmurs to herself, "it is true! But it shall not happen. You must give up the duel!"
"That is impossible," replies he, and smiles as one smiles at a pretty child who desires the moon. "My life is at your disposal, but not my honor."
"Oh, heavens! And if you fall it is my fault!" cries she, violently. "But no; I must save your life. Now, how foolish it was of me to turn to you. I must go to Orbanoff. I will write to him, I will beg-- When is the duel?"
The affair begins to be unpleasant for Bärenburg. He had not considered of what such a warm-hearted little barbarian is capable when he told her that he should fight for her. Why had he told her? It was overhasty--it was more, was tactless, tasteless. He had not even tried to resist the temptation to excite her tender despair to the utmost. He had succeeded. She is beside herself; she does not know what she is about. At the same time her overstrained nerves give way, she trembles in her whole frame, and with a tottering movement she passes her hand over her temples. Her little fur cap falls from her head. How very beautiful she is!
She staggers.
"Drink a drop of wine," says he, really anxious And taking a silver goblet from the sideboard, he fills it with champagne. Thirsting with inward fever, she places it to her lips, without knowing in her excitement whether she drinks water or wine. He lays his arm round her to support her; he does not as yet think of misusing her confidence.
Then he hears a whispering in the adjoining room, then a quick succession of steps; the entrance door opens and closes. His friends have withdrawn discreetly.
His blood burns in every finger-tip. He has forgotten Sylvia Anthropos, all clear idea of life and its duties has left him.
"Mascha, oh, my sweet little angel! Do you suspect how I love you?" whispers he. "Do not reproach yourself, even if I should die for you; it seems to me beautiful to be able to surrender my life for you. But Mascha, my angel, my treasure, do not grudge me one more happy moment before I die. Maschenka, my darling, my love--one kiss!"
Without hesitating, sobbing, beside herself, with a passionate vehemence of which a few minutes before she had had no suspicion, she throws both arms round his neck.
The Jeliagins had gone when Mascha came home. With deeply lowered head, hurriedly, without looking to the right or left, she went up to her room.
The lamp burned. The young Russian's glance was gloomy and defiant. She held her head high. What had happened had happened, she would not be ashamed of it. She loved him, indeed, and he was in mortal danger.
Why did her heart beat so loudly? Why did the light pain her so? Why was it as if she could never raise her eyes to any one? Aimlessly, with weary steps, she crept about her room. She put out the light and got into bed and turned her face to the wall.
And the hours dragged on and would not end. How long the night was!
Toward morning she fell asleep. She dreamed that her mother came to her bed, in a white dress and with large, beautiful wings, and whispered to her:
"Wake up, wake up, long sleeper; have you forgotten that to-day is your wedding-day? I have come down from heaven to dress you and to bless you!" And then she sprung out of her bed, and her mother dressed her. Ah! how sweet it was to feel the soft, delicate hands once more about her as formerly! All at once her mother grew uneasy. "I cannot find your wreath," she murmured, and wandered round the room seeking the wreath, and wept bitterly.
"Here it is, little mother, there," cried Mascha, and handed her the wreath which she had worn to the ball. Then the mother was frightened and said:
"Oh, no, that is not your wreath, it is torn and red with shame; hide it, Maschenka, hide it. Your wreath must be white as my wings, and like a crown, so round and firm, a crown of thorns concealed under roses; that is the bridal wreath, thus we bind it for you poor mortals in heaven. I will bring you one from above, and will break out all the thorns for you, my treasure, my darling!" And her mother wished to spread out her wings and ascend, but she could not, her wings were broken. And she looked at Mascha with such large, helpless, sad, deathly, frightened eyes, and then turned away.
"Mother!" cries Mascha, in her sleep; "mother!" She awoke. The sunbeam which waked her every morning penetrated the curtains of her bed.
She hid her face in the pillow and wept.
If it had seemed to Bärenburg, on the evening before the duel, that there could be no more endurable hours for him without Mascha, and as if the betrothal with Sylvia Anthropos, which had been forced upon him, must be broken off at the cost of the roughest brutality even, on the day after the duel, when he lay in bed with a wounded shoulder, he had other views.
The recollection of his adventure with Mascha filled him with vexation, almost with rage. If Mascha had formerly been for him the most peculiarly charming being whom he had ever met, she was now in his eyes nothing more than a pretty, badly watched, badly brought up being, whom in his magisterial Austrian manner he described as a true Russian.
The thought of his astonishing experiences with "young girls" in St. Petersburg came to his mind, and did its share in throwing a distorting light on Mascha's exaltation.
He is vexed at what has happened; more than that, he is ashamed of it; but he denies any obligation to expiate his precipitation by a marriage.
It is the Jeliagins' reception day. As usual, Mascha makes the tea. In vain has she begged to be excused from this to-day. Anna, who hates to do it, would hear nothing of this.
Eight days have passed since she went to him; she is wholly without news of him. Only through strangers has she learned he is wounded, slightly, not dangerously.
Mechanically she fulfils her duty. She looks no one in the face; she does not hear if they speak to her.
The opening of a door, the entrance of a visitor, causes her each time a painful excitement. She does not know who comes, nor to whom she gives tea, nor what the people say. She has the same thought, the same feeling of being plunged in a black, miry abyss in which she can find no ground for her feet.
Sophie and Nita have both come to-day. Nita, who has visited Mascha many times already since Lensky's departure, inquires after her health, and why she has not let herself be seen in the last week.
"How troubled you look to-day," whispers she, taking the child's pale face--they are a little apart from the others--between her hands, "and how pale! Do you want anything, my angel? Are you vexed over anything?"
"No, no; I do not know what you mean," replies Mascha, irritably, and frees herself.
New guests come, Madame Jeliagin desires tea for a lady. Mascha again steps to the samovar.
Suddenly she hears Bärenburg's name.
"Have you seen Countess Bärenburg yet, Madame Jeliagin?" asks a certain Mrs. Joyce.
"No; I did not think that she was in Paris."
"She is only here for a short time," continues Mrs. Joyce; "she has come from Vienna."
"To take care of her son?" asks Madame Jeliagin. "As I hear, he was wounded in a duel."
"Ah! that was nothing; he has already recovered. He indeed still carries his arm in a sling, but I met him yesterday in the Bois. The Countess has come here to her son's betrothal. Bärenburg is betrothed to Sylvia Anthropos."
"Since when?" asks Anna, sharply.
"Since about ten days; Sylvia told me to-day," says Mrs. Joyce.
"You know that the Countess Bärenburg is an Englishwoman."
"Yes, Lady Banbury's sister."
"And Lady Emily Anthropos's cousin," says Mrs. Joyce. "She is charmed with the betrothal--an extremely suitable match. Bärenburg has received a furlough. Day after to-morrow he goes with his mother and the Anthropos to England. The wedding is to be in June."
Then a short, crashing sound--a cup has fallen from Mascha's hand and broken to bits.
"You are intolerably awkward," says Anna. "Fortunately, the cup was empty."
Mrs. Joyce looks up; her eyes rest on Mascha, who looks pitiable. Her lips are blue, she trembles in her whole frame.
"You have a chill, poor child," says Mrs. Joyce, compassionately.
But, blushing deeply, Mascha turns away her face.
"I begged you to let me stay up-stairs, Anna," she gasps out. "You know that I am ill." And, tottering, she leaves the room.
"She is laughable," murmurs Anna. The old Madame Jeliagin is confusedly silent.
Nita and Sophie took leave. "Poor child," remarked Sophie; "how could Lensky leave her with these people? They torment her crazy."
"Wait for me a little, I would like to see her," says Nita, and hurries up-stairs to the door of Mascha's room. She opens it without knocking. Mascha crouches in an arm-chair, trembling, her teeth chattering. "What do you want?" asks she of Nita.
"I was worried about you, my heart," says Nita. She kneels down near the child, and puts her arms round the trembling young form. "Mascha," whispers she, holding the girl closely to her, "tell me--with me you can speak as if I were your mother--are you ill only, or is there something else which torments you?"
But Mascha, who used so tenderly to lean on Nita, pushes her roughly and angrily from her. "Leave me," she cries, "I am ill, I wish to be alone--go!"
Without paying the slightest attention to Mascha's repellant rudeness, Nita holds the girl still closer to her breast. "I cannot see you so silently martyr yourself, such a poor mite of seventeen, who has no one on whose breast she can really cry herself out! Confide in me. Your grief is certainly not worth the trouble. It is only because you shut it up so in your heart that it seems great to you, my pretty little mouse, my dear little bird!" And Nita kisses her on her curly hair, on both eyes.
All at once Maschenka begins to sob, but so convulsively, so hoarsely and gaspingly, as Nita has never heard any one sob before. It goes to her heart.
"How stupid I was!" she thinks, suddenly. "It is Karl Bärenburg's betrothal which pains her. Is it really possible that this fiery, generous little heart wounds itself for the superficial dandy? Poor little goose!"
She no longer urges the girl to confess her sorrow, she only silently caresses her; and when she sees that her caresses only excite the unhappy child instead of calming her, she sadly withdraws.
"You can speak to me as if I were your mother!" The words ring through Mascha's soul. And if her own mother still lived, as if she could confess what tormented her! It is not possible! There must be a mistake somewhere. He cannot be so bad; no man can be so bad!
She seats herself at her writing-table, dips her pen in the ink; but the words will not come. No; she must go to him, see him, speak personally with him. She takes her hat and jacket and hurries out.
However quickly she made and carried out her resolution to visit him the first time, it is hard for her now. She has taken a thick veil with her, loses her way, takes a carriage and bids it wait on the Place Malesherbes. In the carriage she ties the veil over her face. Now she gets out, gives the driver five francs, and does not wait for him to give her back anything. She notices the strange shake of the head with which he looks after her and turns away.
Now she has retched the No. ---- of the Avenue Messine. Her feet are weighted to the ground like lead. Five, six steps she ascends--stands still. A cold shudder runs over her. No, she cannot, she cannot meet him. She turns round, is back in the Avenue Wagram before they have missed her.
In the beginning of February, the news of the death of Sergei Alexandrovitch Assanow arrived in Paris. Early in March Nikolai returned to Paris as a wealthy young man wholly independent of his father. His uncle had provided for him brilliantly in his will. Anna Jeliagin and Mascha were wholly excluded. Anna was in despair. Mascha cared nothing about it. She no longer cared about anything--poor little Mascha!
"What have you done with my little bird?" Nikolai had exclaimed when he saw her again for the first time after his return to Paris. Instead of the round-faced child whom he had looked forward to seeing, a weary, sad person had come to meet him, who did not fall jubilantly on his neck, as he was accustomed to from his little sister, but only wearily, quite vexatiously gave him her cheek to kiss. When he wished to fathom the cause of her sadness, she grew angry, quite wild, so that, offended and at the same time frightened, he turned from her, and then--it was perhaps half an hour later, at twilight, and he did not know she was in the room--she crept softly up to him and kissed his hand silently and humbly. That went to his heart more than her rudeness. He wished to take her in his arms and caress her, but she escaped and left the room, with a soft, whimpering cry of pain. He inquired of his relatives whether they suspected the cause of the great change. Madame Jeliagin was silent, troubled. But Anna, with a scornful shrug of her shoulders, told him "Mascha had certainly set her hopes on Count Bärenburg, for her lack of spirits dated from his betrothal to Sylvia Anthropos, which really showed a great imagination, for she could boast of no remarkable attentions on his part."
At first Nikolai was relieved by Anna's explanation. "Such a heartache, which is really no heartache, but an imagined affliction, can be cured with a little distraction and much loving patience," he thought. But whatever he tried to amuse his sister failed.
The child grew daily more pale and miserable; her breath was short, she dragged her feet along. Nikolai consulted a physician. After a few superficial questions he prescribed iron and quinine. She took the medicine patiently, without attaining a favorable result, but when Nikolai proposed to her to consult another learned man, she grew painfully excited, and said: "Wait till father comes." So everything was postponed until then. They expected the virtuoso back early in June.
If he had not been so occupied and self-absorbed, the child's condition would have caused Nikolai more anxiety. But like all lovers, he had grown selfish, and his sharp sight was obscured by passion. The only reality in life, the fixed point about which everything revolved, was Nita. Everything else was of secondary consideration to him.
Had he approached his aim? On the whole he was contented. Nita had greeted him cordially when he appeared in her studio for the first time after his return, and since then had daily been more friendly to him.
He came frequently to the studio, was a kind of privileged guest. He did commissions for the ladies at the color dealers, grew very learned in all technical expressions of the trade. He brought them models from places where respectable women can scarcely go. He soon knew all the models by name; they smiled at him on the streets, and spoke to him when they met him.
At first he had often gone for Mascha before he went to the Avenue Frochot, but it became ever more difficult for him to induce the girl to accompany him. Mascha grew daily more gloomy and reserved. She ate nothing, she neglected her dress. Day by day she sat in the library and read--read everything that she could find, she, who formerly, as a thoroughly well brought up girl, had read only what Nikolai had proposed.
She slept badly, and never without being tormented by fearful dreams, from which she awoke always with the same cry for help on her lips which rang out into vacancy, and was always the same tender word, "Mother!"
That was an old custom. She had suffered from bad dreams from childhood, and had then always called her mother. As long as she had been able, Natalie had risen and gone to the child's bed and petted her, told her all sorts of foolish trifles, until at length she had calmly fallen asleep.
But now all that was over. "Oh, if you had only been with me, mother! Why must you leave me?" sobbed Maschenka often. It was the only reproach she uttered during the long, inconsolable months.
And Nikolai, formerly the tenderest brother, now contented himself with from time to time giving his pale little sister a compassionate caress, and had something more important to do than incessantly to ponder whether unfortunate love for a man whom she had only slightly known could really suffice to so completely change his gay little sister. The only one who thought much about the strange change in her little favorite was Nita. But however she tried, by caresses and persuasion, to win Mascha's confidence, all failed. Maschenka even opposed her with a certain hostility; at least, Nita could ascribe her manner to nothing else, so violently and with such gloomy, irritable obstinacy did she repulse all advances.
And at length Nita also grew weary of knocking at a heart which would not open to her. All went its way. The sun shone, spring blossomed, and Nikolai went oftener and oftener to the Avenue Frochot, just as if a poor little girl were not tormenting herself into despair.
Yes, the world went its way, and Nita and Sophie had all sorts of things to do, for it was an important time for artists, the time for sending to the Salon. Nikolai shared the excitement.
Nita was really an unusual being, and about this time others beside those belonging to her intimate circle began to find it out. The picture which she had prepared for the exhibition had not only received the congratulations of all her colleagues, but had induced M. Sylvain to bring to Nita's studio the best-known art lovers and most famous artists in Paris to pass judgment on her picture.
All were surprised at the young Austrian's achievement. But she shook her head quite vexedly at their extravagant praise. It seemed to her that they were mocking her. It was such a simple picture.
Nikolai was there at the studio when a messenger brought Nita, one afternoon, a note from M. Sylvain, which, having scarcely opened, she handed to Sophie, who read it aloud:
"Vous êtes reçue avec acclamation No. 1.Espère une medaille.Sylvain."
Nita grew very pale; she trembled in her whole frame, and began suddenly to cry. This triumph, which he had been the first to prophesy, and which made him proud and happy for her, at the same time made Nikolai's heart very heavy. "She is through and through an artist nature," said he to himself as he observed her great excitement; "much more than she herself knows." And in that he was not mistaken.
Naturally, on varnishing day he was at the Palais de l'Industrie. Not without a certain excitement, he wandered up the great steps between painters, journalists, models, and curious ones. Three times he made the rounds through all the rooms seeking her picture, and as yet he had not found it. But there! Was not that the picture almost concealed by a crowd of admirers and critics? Nikolai found his way through and gazed at the picture. It hung on the middle of the wall, on the line.
For Nikolai naturally the whole Salon was a mere trifle to her picture, and if the admiration of others was of no such large dimension, the success of the picture was still great, decisive.
And Nikolai sat down opposite the picture, listened to every word, every enthusiastic expression, and imprinted them upon his memory so as to tell them to her. He waited for her. She would surely come in the course of the day to see her work. The crowd had not diminished. A critic took notes of it, a painter, with nose close to the canvas, made gestures expressive of his delight at the drawing.
Then Nikolai heard a step, looked round--yes, there she was, tall, slender, with the proud carriage of her head, and her never-to-be-forgotten eyes. The gloomy shadow was still in her eyes, the shadow which never left them. Nevertheless, she enjoyed her triumph, and it became her. She bore it modestly, but still as if it were perfectly natural.
Nikolai had never seen her so charming. She wore a simple, soft, clinging woollen dress, a little bonnet fastened under her chin.
He sprang up. "An immense success," cried he to her. She laid her finger on her lips.
"Please hush, I have no wish to assemble a court of journalists and colleagues about me!" said she in Russian. She spoke in Russian sometimes, and it always pleased Colia to hear her attempt his dearly loved mother tongue.
Then one of the men turned round from her picture. He was a famous critic who knew her. "C'est elle," whispered he to the others. Bowing deeply, he stepped up to her and asked if he might introduce several of her particular admirers.
She could not refuse. She was surrounded. Nikolai remained respectfully in the background and watched her. At length she freed herself. He came up to her again.
"Why are you laughing?" she asked him, quite vexedly.
"You look so unhappy," he replied. "I have never seen any one who could have received an ovation with such an expression of mere tolerance."
She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "H-m! And you perhaps think that I am above such flatteries, that they are wearisome to me?" she asked.
"It had that appearance."
"How appearances deceive!" sighed she, humorously. "No one is more susceptible to flattery than I; but, quite aside from the fact that many of these men said coarse things which they considered compliments to me, the expressions of merely two or three of them were agreeable to me. Men artists with us women artists completely ignore that thus far and no further, that atmosphere of apartness, which forms a convenient barrier between a modest woman and a man. Whatsans gênertheir conversation requires; they treat us as men, and that is unbearable."
Nikolai smiled still more. He was indescribably pleased at her unvanquishable maidenly sensitiveness.
She thrust her hands thoughtfully in the pockets of her jacket. "Do not ridicule me," sighed she; "but how agreeable it is to associate with a really well-bred man like you, for instance. One feels that first when one is an artist."
"You are a droll artist," said he, and laughed quite heartily.
She shrugged her shoulders comically, and said: "It seems so to me sometimes."
His heart was in his mouth. Was not that the moment? But before he could have said a word, she turned away her head and said: "Ah! there is Sonia."
Sonia perceived her friend. "Ah! there you are at last," cried she, gayly. "I have sought you for an hour. Your picture is splendid; your success indescribable. You cannot imagine how proud I am of you."
Her true, unselfish enthusiasm became her so well that Nikolai could not help pressing heartily her cordially outstretched hand.
"They are closing," said Nita, and they turned to the entrance.
"A true success, a great success," repeated Sophie to her friend as they went out. "Are you not a little glad, you pale sphinx?"
"Certainly," replied Nita, "certainly I am glad; but I cannot understand it. I would like to give myself a treat after all this past anxiety. Suppose we make an excursion to some of the Paris suburbs. Are you of the party, Monsieur Nikolas?"
And Nikolai's head swam with happiness.
"Adieu, Nikolai! Adieu, Mascha! Thank you many times. I have enjoyed myself wonderfully, splendidly! Good-night."
It is Sonia's voice on the steps of the house in the Avenue Murillo. She had gone to the theatre with Nikolai and his sister. A month has passed since the opening of the Salon, the whole wonderful month of May.
On the stair landing stands Nita, who, on account of great weariness, had refused to go with them--a lamp in her hand. Nikolai sees her white face, surrounded with light, over an abyss of blackness. "Good-night, Fräulein," calls he. "Good-night," repeats a hoarse, weary little voice--Mascha's.
Then brother and sister depart, and Sonia hurries up the stairs.
"Did you enjoy yourself?" asks Nita, in her sympathetic, motherly way, while she embraces her friend.
"Splendidly; it was charming," says Sonia, enthusiastically.
"What was the play?"
Sonia is silent a moment, confusedly. "'Les deux Orphelines,'" murmured she, hesitatingly, ponderingly. Then she corrects herself. "No, no; how stupid I am! 'Les Pilules du Diable.'"
And Nita strokes her flushed cheeks laughingly, and kisses her on her eyes. "How pretty you are; you grow prettier every day," she whispers to her.
"Nikolai said that to me to-day also," says Sonia, proudly, and blushes deeply.
"So! And did he not say something more significant?" laughs Nita.
"What should he say?" stammers Sonia. "I do not know."
"What droll people you two are!" says Nita, shaking her head. "To think that this moonlight-twilight has lasted since December. Pardon me, Sonia, but Nikolai is a riddle to me. How can one be so nice, so clever, and at the same time so slow and awkward? How can one need so long a time to bring something from the heart to the lips?"
"How do you know what he has in his heart?" replies Sonia, with a frown, but with only half-repressed joy in her voice. "And now, tell me, have you nothing for me to eat? I am fearfully hungry."
"I was prepared for that; come in our cosey corner."
The cosey corner is a little three-cornered room off of the drawing-room. A piano, a chair almost breaking under its load of music, a single sofa, a large arm-chair, and a little Japanese table, all grouped about a Parisian fire-place, form the furniture.
On the miniature table stands a little repast prepared--a dish of strawberries, sandwiches, little cakes, and, amongst all these delicacies, a sensible silver tea-pot.
"Ah, how nice you are!" says Sonia, pleased. "A mother could not care for me better; I cannot bear to think how horrible it was before I was with you! I live as if in Paradise with you!"
"Did poor little Mascha become at all gayer in the course of the evening?" asked Nita, as she poured tea for her friend.
"No; I am sorry for the child. She looks badly, pale, her face so lengthened and aged. I do not understand how she can take the affair so to heart. She scarcely knew Bärenburg. His wedding must be soon."
"Poor midget!" murmurs Nita.
"Nikolai is very anxious about her," goes on Sonia. "It is touching to see her with him. At every funny part of the piece his eyes rested on her face to see if she would laugh, but she never did."
Nita hands her friend a letter. "From Berlin; it is your father's writing," says she.
Sonia opens it. "Yes, from papa. He is coming here in a day or two; he may be here tomorrow."
"And then you will be untrue to me," says Nita, smilingly. "Have you finished your supper? Do you not wish to retire?"
"No, no; I am not sleepy, and it is so nice to talk," replies Sonia. "Come out on the terrace for a little."
Silently Nita follows. The heavens are cloudless. It is bright moonlight.
"Only think whom I saw in the theatre this evening," begins Sonia. "As you do not know the person, my communication will, alas! lack the impressive effect."
"Well?"
"The most singular woman--a certain Njikitjin."
"Marie Petrovna Njikitjin?" says Nita, who until then has been dreamily looking over the terrace railing. "Is she in Paris?"
"Yes. Do you know her?"
"A little," murmurs Nita.
"I know her well," sighs Sonia.
"How so?" asks Nita shortly, quite cuttingly.
"Papa left me with her before he left Paris."
"That is incredible," says Nita, shocked. "He certainly must know--" She hesitates.
"Naturally, I also wondered at this choice of a protector," says Sonia, evenly.
"At first it was all very well; she only seemed a little peculiar and very untidy. She passed the whole morning in a wrapper, nibbling now atpaté de foie gras, now at bonbons. In the afternoon she slept, and in the evening she by turns wrote letters and played the piano, especially Beethoven's sonatas. But at the full moon she became terribly abnormal. The whole night long she rushed here and there, wringing her hands, threw herself on my bed, demanded promises of friendship from me, which she returned with the most fiery kisses, and finally--you will not believe it, Nita, and you are the first to whom I tell it, but I still remember the petrified horror which seized me at that time--she confessed to me, minutely, it was in vain to wish to restrain her, her love affair with Lensky!"
"Shameless woman!" murmured Nita, angrily.
"Think of my position," continued Sonia. "How could I free myself? I could not repeat her confession. Then she herself helped me out of the difficulty--in what a manner! Three days after the moonlight scene, she told me, in the greatest excitement, Lensky was to give a concert in Berlin, and asked me to travel after him with her. When I refused, she travelled alone. Heavens! how pale you are! My story has angered you. No wonder; I know what an effect the thing had on me! And only think, Njikitjin had the shamelessness to speak to me this evening as we left the theatre. She wishes to visit me; what do you say to that?"
"She dare not cross my threshold," burst out Nita, with flashing eyes. "That is what I say."
"When did you, then, learn to know her?" asks Sonia, confidentially.
"I? As a very young girl in Vienna. I visited her then for a short time," says Nita, tonelessly.
"And have you never met Lensky at her house?"
"Yes, certainly."
"You never told me that," says Sonia astonished. "Why should I?" says Nita, very harshly. "It is no pleasant recollection."
When Sonia again looks round for Nita, she has vanished. She is about to hurry after her. Then she hears a voice from below call: "Good-night, good, good-night!"
"Good-night, Colia," says Sonia, joyfully, as answer.
"Is it you?" calls Nikolai, slowly, disappointedly.
"Whom else should it be?" asks she, frightened, fearfully. And softly whispering, she repeats: "Who--who----"
Yes, it is Nikolai, haunting the Pare Monceau at midnight. After he had taken his sister home, he had returned to the park to look up at Nita's windows.
He stands before a decisive point in his life. The sudden illness of the Russian diplomat in Washington has caused him to be sent there. He is advanced from attaché to second secretary.
Time presses. Affairs must be quickly decided; before his departure he must have spoken to Nita.
But if his happiness should escape him now, at the last moment; if he frightens it away by some foolish, violent word!
On the other hand, if she says yes! His heart beats high. He builds the most fantastic air castles, and, charmed by his own fancies, he says to himself: "How beautiful, ah, how beautiful!"
And around him the spring dies and the blossoms fall--fall--they all fall!