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 Baerenburg 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 Baerenburg
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 Baerenburg-- 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
Baerenburg 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 Fraeulein von Sankjewitch."
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 Fraeulein von Sankjewitch."
"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 Baerenburg, Attache, 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 Baerenburg enters the room.
"Fraeulein--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. Baerenburg
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?"