Scarcely has she spoken the word when she would like to recall it. She
knows that it is not permissible from a social standpoint for her to
receive him, but for eight days she has longed so unspeakably to see
him again, to thank him for the bear-skin, and then, why was Anna so
hateful to her?
He enters, very handsome, very distinguished, very respectful. She
forgets all the _traits d'esprit_ prepared for him, and as if paralyzed
with shyness, she stammers:
"My aunt is not at home; had you perhaps a message for her which I can
deliver?" And with a charmingly diffident gesture she stretches out her
hand to him. He takes it in his, holds it a moment longer than is
absolutely necessary.
"Do you find it absolutely necessary to send me away again?" asks he.
Ah! she feels so happy in his presence. "At least not before I have
expressed my thanks for your gift," she stammers.
Braeenburg, to whom it would be indescribably vexatious to be forced to
break off his conversation with this strange, interesting little being,
seeks some pretext to prolong his visit. His glance falls on the tea
apparatus.
"Would your thankfulness go so far as to give me a cup of tea?" he
remarks, and adds with genial inspiration: "Perhaps your aunt will
return meanwhile."
"Yes; aunt said she would soon return," assured Mascha, gayly. The
situation is justified; how happy she is to dare keep him there, were
it only for a quarter of an hour.
She gives him his tea, he sits down in an arm-chair near the chimney
opposite her. A deep silence follows. In vain does she try to find
something suitable to the occasion in her carefully collected hoard of
intellectual anecdotes. At length she says simply: "It must have been a
splendid bear."
"Yes," replied the count. "It also was Russian boldness to creep into
the thicket after the beast. Poor Nikolai, how the brute had cornered
him! Really, I owed him the skin; but as I know him, he is always ready
to share the best of everything with his little sister."
"Yes; he spoils me very much," says Mascha, moved. "I shall miss him
fearfully--fearfully. You know, perhaps, that he has left the city
to-day. You cannot think how unpleasant it is for me to be so quite
alone."
"Alone?" repeated he.
"That is--well, yes, I am with relatives," Mascha hastens to explain.
"Aunt is very good to me, but I cannot warm to my cousin; I do not like
her. She is very beautiful, but intolerable. And you, Count Baerenburg,
how do you find Anna?"
"She has a very decorative effect," says he, dryly. "She reminds me of
an aloe, she is so stiff and pointed. She would do very well on a
terrace."
"I am only surprised that she has not yet married," remarks Mascha,
very pleased at Baerenburg's cool description of Anna's charms.
"I am not at all surprised," replies he. "I have often noticed that
these acknowledged beauties usually marry very late. They are like the
too beautiful apples on the dessert dishes, which remain because no one
has the courage to reach for them. And then, finally, to kindle a flame
one must have somewhere a spark about one; and your cousin is of ice."
"Yes, that is true," laughs Mascha; then, restraining herself, she
adds: "But I really should not speak so of my nearest relatives to a
stranger. I--I always forget that you are a stranger; you seem to me
like--a friend."
He smiles at her, and says softly: "When I so soon feel such warm
sympathy for any one as for you, it seems to me as if we had long been
good friends in heaven, and had found each other again on the earth."
"Really?"
"Certainly," says he, earnestly. "I can distinctly remember our
acquaintance up there. You were a lovely, gay, half-grown little angel,
with short, unformed wings, with which you could not yet majestically
sail about in the air, but only helplessly flutter a little. But every
one loved you, and all the other angels were jealous of you. Then--now
the affair becomes considerable; shall I go on?" he smilingly
interrupts his improvisation.
"Oh, yes, yes, please," begs she. She looks charming, leaning back in
the immense chair, with curious, friendly gay expression in the eyes
fixed on him. "Yes, yes, please!" And unconsciously she makes a
movement as if she would push the chair nearer the young man.
"Well," Baerenburg continues, "one day the devil presented himself in
Paradise and demanded you for himself. He said you were his property,
and had only by chance got into Paradise. We did not want to give you
up, but as it could not be agreed upon, it was decided to send you back
to earth so that you might make a second decisive trial of life and
show whose being you were. I was so frightfully bored without you that
I hurried down to earth to seek you."
"How droll you are!" says Maschenka, laughing loudly and childishly,
and again she makes a movement as if she would draw nearer to him. "And
do you think that I will go back to heaven?"
"I hope so." Meanwhile the clock strikes--eleven.
Maschenka suddenly grows red. "How long aunt stays!" murmurs she, and
rises.
Baerenburg also rises. "I really cannot longer wait for the ladies,"
says he in an undertone, and gives her his hand. She sinks her head.
"I--I really should not have received you," stammers she with
confusion.
"Why not?" says he, impatiently.
"No, I know it--but--" and suddenly raising her head, she looks at him
from a pair of such wonderful, tearfully bright eyes that his senses
swam--"but, I so longed to speak to some one who sympathizes with me a
little," whispers she.
The whole pitiful neglect of the poor child dawns upon him, and a great
compassion overcomes him. "You really need not fear being misunderstood
by me," says he. "Oh! if you only had a suspicion of how lovely you
are-- Good-night. And if you ever need a man who would go through fire
for you, you know where to seek him."
He kisses her hand tenderly, passionately, and goes.
Long after he has gone Maschenka stands on the same spot, frightened,
paralyzed, and looks at her hand.
A little later she goes up to her room.
"Has mademoiselle amused herself well?" asks the maid, while she helps
her undress. "I was so sorry that, mademoiselle must pass the evening
alone. Naturally, I will say nothing of it to madame."
"And why not?" burst out Mascha, violently.
"Oh! as mademoiselle wishes. I only thought----"
"I shall tell aunt myself that Count Baerenburg was here," says Mascha,
defiantly. "And now go!"
In the midst of all her tender-heartedness she has fits of harsh,
repellant roughness, which, like so much about her, are an inheritance
from her father.
With loosened hair, half undressed, she sits before the fire, with her
bare feet resting on the bear-skin. "Ah, it was lovely!" A great
embarrassment robs her of breath. Again she looks at her hand. "He
loves me!" And suddenly an uneasiness, something like dissatisfaction,
creeps over her. Why had he not immediately told her that he loved her?
Why had he not drawn her to his breast and kissed her?
She kneels down on the bear-skin, draws the shaggy head of the beast to
her breast, and kisses it on the forehead.
* * * * *
"Why are you so out of temper; is anything the matter?"
This question Karl Baerenburg hears to annoyance in the days which
follow his visit in the Avenue Wagram. And old friend even asked him:
"Have you gambling debts? Confide in me."
He looks badly, and his manner is absent-minded.
He does not show himself in the Avenue Wagram. The recollection of the
scene with Mascha is painful to him. He repeats to himself incessantly
that he has behaved perfectly correctly, that every other man would
have taken the situation differently. He would have given his life for
a kiss, and--really, she would not have fought against it. To have
renounced that was an heroic deed which bordered on quixotism. Why,
then, was he not satisfied with himself?
He was not a bad, but only a weak, wavering man, a man without any
originality, who, of his own inclination, had courage neither to do
anything good nor bad which was not on the fixed programme of life of
his companions in rank.
Still, he had fallen desperately in love with this little Russian. It
was really fatal, for he could not marry her. In principle he was
resolved to marry, to marry soon; he was urged on all sides to marry.
What could he wish better than Sylvia Anthropos? She was beautiful,
wealthy, of very good family, and, more than all this, she was wise,
practical, and possessed the strength of will which he lacked. She
would take the responsibility of his existence upon herself, think for
him, act for him, resolve for him. There had formerly been a time when
he was one of her most ardent admirers. She had refused him, but that
was long ago, full three years, and in the life of a young diplomat
that is an eternity. She had done her best to recompense him for her
former unkindness and win him back; but the charm was gone. He knew
that if he offered her his hand to-day it would not be refused. But
never had he felt such a warm feeling for any one as for Mascha. With
all her unconventional impulsiveness, her lack of restraint and social
routine, her physical and moral personality was yet penetrated by such
a subtle refinement! Shame, eternal shame! Well, he did not need to
decide to-day or to-morrow. Perhaps it would pass. Before he had made
up his mind he courted Sylvia Anthropos, and in a sympathetic hour, in
the Hotel Meurice, she laughed at him quite unexpectedly, and suddenly
resting her large eyes very seductively upon him, she said: "You good,
faithful, stupid man! Can you then never find courage to tell me that
you love me?"
When, about an hour later, he left the Hotel Meurice he was betrothed,
and carried away with him a comfortable feeling of general satisfaction
with himself. At least, all was now settled!
Between his betrothal and the moment when he had murmured to Mascha,
"If you ever need a man who would go through fire for you, you know
where to seek him!" scarcely five days had elapsed!