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 Baerenburg's name.
"Have you seen Countess Baerenburg 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. Baerenburg 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 Baerenburg 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. Baerenburg 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 Baerenburg'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.