A SLANDERER.
The others are seated at the breakfast-table when Treurenberg enters
the dining-room, all except Fainacky, who, true to his self-imposed
task, is still busy with the decorations of the garden-room. That
enterprising _maitre de plaisir_ has a deal to do, since there is to be
a rehearsal, as it were, in the evening of the morrow's festivities.
Various guests from far and near are expected to admire and to enhance
this prelude of coming glories.
A seat beside Selina is empty. Lato goes directly towards it. Nothing
about him betrays his inward agitation or the sleeplessness of the past
night. Rather pale, but refreshed by a long walk, and dressed with
exquisite care, he looks so distinguished and handsome in his light
summer array, that Selina is struck by his appearance. He has a rose in
his hand, and as, bending over his wife, he places it among her curls,
and then kisses her hand by way of morning greeting, she receives him
quite graciously. She is inclined to be proud to-day of her
aristocratic possession, which she is shortly to have an opportunity of
displaying before so many less-favoured friends. Half returning the
pressure of his hand, she says, "To what do I owe these conjugal
attentions?"
"The anniversary of our betrothal, Selina," he says, in the
half-jesting tone in which married people of a certain social standing
are wont to allude before witnesses to matters of sentiment, and then
he takes his seat beside her.
"True, our anniversary!" she rejoins, in the same tone, evidently
flattered. "And you remembered it? As a reward, Lato, I will butter
your toast for you."
Here the Pole comes tripping into the room. "_Changement de
decoration_. You have taken my place to-day, Treurenberg," he says, not
without irritation. "Since when have modern couples been in the habit
of sitting beside each other?"
"It is permitted now and then _en famille_," Selina informs him,
placing before Lato the toast she has just prepared for him. She
glances at Fainacky, and instantly averts her eyes. For the first time
it occurs to her to compare this affected trifler with her husband, and
the comparison is sadly to Fainacky's disadvantage. The petty
elegancies of his dress and air strike her as ridiculous. He divines
something of this, and it enrages him. He cares not the slightest for
Selina, but, since their late encounter in the park, he has most
cordially hated Lato, whom he did not like before. The friendly
demeanour of the pair towards each other this morning vexes him
intensely; he sees that his attempt to cast suspicion upon Lato has
failed with Selina; nay, it has apparently only fanned the flame of a
desire to attract her husband. It irritates him; he would be devoured
by envy should a complete reconciliation between the two be
established, and he be obliged to look on while Lato again entered into
the full enjoyment of his wife's millions. He takes the only vacant
place, and looks about him for somewhat wherewith to interrupt this
mood upon the part of the pair. Finally his glance rests upon Olga, who
sits opposite him, crumbling a piece of biscuit on her plate.
"No appetite yet, Fraeulein Olga?" he asks.
Olga starts slightly, and lifts her teacup to her lips.
"Do you not think that Fraeulein Olga has been looking ill lately?" The
Pole directs this question to all present.
Every one looks at Olga, and Fainacky gloats over the girl's confusion.
Treurenberg looks also, and is startled by her pallor. "Yes, my poor
child, you certainly are below par," he says, with difficulty
controlling his voice. "Something must be done for your health."
"Change of air is best in such cases," observes the Pole.
"So I think," says Treurenberg; and, finding that he has himself better
in hand than he had thought possible awhile ago, he adds, turning to
his mother-in-law, "I think, when everything here is settled after the
old fashion----"
"After the new fashion, you mean," Paula interposes, with a languishing
air.
"Yes, when all the bustle is over," Treurenberg begins afresh, in some
embarrassment this time, for his conscience pricks him sorely whenever
Paula alludes to her betrothal.
"I understand, after my marriage," she again interposes.
"About the beginning of November," Treurenberg meekly rejoins, again
addressing his mother-in-law, "you might take Olga to the south. A
winter in Nice would benefit both of you."
"_Tiens! c'est une idee_," Selina remarks. "Such quantities of people
whom we know are going to winter in Nice this year. Not a bad plan,
Lato. Yes, we might spend a couple of months very pleasantly in Nice."
"Oh, I have other plans for ourselves, Lina," Treurenberg says,
hastily.
"Ah, I begin to understand," Frau von Harfink observes: "we are
to be got out of the way, Olga, you and I." And she smiles after a
bitter-sweet fashion.
"But, Baroness!" Lato exclaims.
"You entirely misunderstand him, Baroness," Fainacky interposes: "he
was only anxious for Fraeulein Olga's health; and with reason: her want
of appetite is alarming." Again he succeeds in attracting every one's
attention to the girl, who is vainly endeavouring to swallow her
breakfast.
"I cannot imagine what ails you," Paula exclaims, in all the pride of
her position as a betrothed maiden. "If I knew of any object for your
preference, I should say you were in love."
"Such suppositions are not permitted to the masculine intelligence,"
the Pole observes, twirling his moustache and smiling significantly,
his long, pointed nose drooping most disagreeably over his upper lip.
Olga trembles from head to foot; for his life Lato cannot help trying
to relieve the poor child's embarrassment.
"Nonsense!" he exclaims; "she is only a little exhausted by the heat,
and rather nervous, that is all! But you must really try to eat
something;" and he hands her a plate. Her hand trembles so as she takes
it that she nearly lets it fall.
Frau von Harfink frowns, but says nothing, for at the moment a servant
enters with a letter for Treurenberg. The man who brought it is waiting
for an answer. Lato hastily opens the missive, which is addressed in a
sprawling, boyish hand, and, upon reading it, changes colour and
hastily leaves the room.
"From whom can it be?" Selina soliloquizes, aloud.
"H'm!" the Pole drums lightly with his fingers on the table, with the
air of a man who knows more than he chooses to tell. A little while
afterwards he is left alone with Selina in the dining-room.
"Have you any idea of whom the letter was from?" the Countess asks him.
"Not the least," he replies, buttoning his morning coat to the throat,
an action which always in his case betokens the possession of some
important secret.
"Will you be kind enough to inform me of what you are thinking?" Selina
says, imperiously, and not without a certain sharpness of tone.
"You are aware, Countess, that ordinarily your wish is law for me," the
Pole replies, with dignity, "but in this case it is unfortunately
impossible for me to comply with your request."
"Why?"
"Because you might be offended by my communication, and it would be
terrible for me were I to displease you."
"Tell me!" the Countess commands.
"If it must be, then----" He shrugs his shoulders as if to disclaim any
responsibility in the matter, and, stroking his moustache affectedly,
continues: "I am convinced that the letter in question has to do with
Treurenberg's pecuniary embarrassments,--_voila_!"
"Pecuniary embarrassments!" exclaims the Countess, with irritation.
"How should my husband have any such?"
She is vexed with the Pole, whose affectations begin to weary her, and
she is strangely inclined to defend her husband. Her old tenderness for
him seems to stir afresh within her. Fainacky perceives that his game
to-day will not be easily won; nevertheless he persists.
"Then you are ignorant of the debts he contracts?"
"If you have nothing more probable to tell me, you need trouble
yourself no further," the Countess angrily declares.
"Pardon me, Countess," the Pole rejoins, "I should not have told you
anything of the kind were I not sure of my facts. Treurenberg has
accidentally had resort to the same usurer that transacts my little
affairs. For, I make no secret of it, I have debts, a necessary evil
for a single man of rank. Good heavens! we gentlemen nowadays----" he
waves his hand grandiloquently. "Yet, I assure you, my friendship with
Abraham Goldstein is a luxury which I would gladly deny myself. I pay
four per----"
"I take not the slightest interest in the percentage you pay,"
interposes Selina, "but I cannot understand how you venture to repeat
to me a piece of gossip so manifestly false."
Her manner irritates him extremely, principally because it shows him
that he stands by no means so high in her favour as he had supposed.
The fair friendship, founded upon flattery, or at least upon mutual
consideration for personal vanity, is in danger of a breach. Fainacky
is consumed by a desire to irritate still further this insulting woman,
and to do Treurenberg an injury.
"Indeed!--a manifestly false piece of gossip?" he drawls,
contemptuously.
"Yes, nothing else," she declares; "apart from the fact that my
husband has personal control of a considerable income,--my father made
sure of that before he gave his consent to my marriage; he never
would have welcomed as a son-in-law an aristocrat without independent
means,--apart from this fact, of course my money is at his disposal."
"Indeed! really? I thought you kept separate purses!" says the Pole,
now--thanks to his irritation--giving free rein to his impertinence.
Selina bites her lips and is silent.
Meanwhile, Fainacky continues: "I can only say that my information as
to Treurenberg's financial condition comes from the most trustworthy
source, from Abraham himself. That indiscreet confidant informed
me one day that the husband of 'the rich Harfink'--that was his
expression--owed him money. The circumstance seemed to gratify his
sense of humour. He has a fine sense of humour, the old rascal!"
"I cannot understand--it is impossible. Lato cannot have so far
forgotten himself!" exclaims the Countess, pale and breathless from
agitation. "Moreover, his personal requirements are of the fewest. He
is no spendthrift."
"No," says the Pole, with an ugly smile, "he is no spendthrift, but he
is a gambler! You may perhaps be aware of this, Countess, ignorant as
you seem to be of your husband's private affairs?"
"A gambler!" she breaks forth. "You are fond of big words, apparently."
"And you, apparently, have a truly feminine antipathy to the truth. Is
it possible that you are not aware that even as a young man Treurenberg
was a notorious gambler?"
"Since his marriage he has given up play."
"Indeed? And what carries him to X---- day after day? How does he pass
his mornings there? At cards!" Selina tries to speak, but words fail
her, and the Pole continues, exultantly, "Yes, he plays, and his
resources are exhausted,--and so is Abraham Goldstein's patience,--so
he has taken to borrowing of his friends, as I happen to know; and if I
am not vastly mistaken, Countess, one of these days he will swallow
his hidalgo pride and cry _peccavi_ to you, turning to you to relieve
his financial embarrassments; and if I were you I would not repulse
him,--no, by heaven! not just now. You must do all that you can to keep
your hold upon him just at this time."
"And why just at this time?" she asks, hoarsely.
"Why?" He laughs. "Have you no eyes? Were my hints, my warnings, the
other evening, not sufficiently clear?"
"What do you mean? What do you presume to----" Selina's dry lips refuse
to obey her; the hints which had lately glanced aside from her armour
of self-confidence now go to the very core,--not of her heart, but of
her vanity.
Drawing a deep breath, she recovers her voice, and goes on, angrily:
"Are you insane enough to imagine that Lato could be seriously
attracted for one moment by that school-girl? The idea is absurd, I
could not entertain it for an instant. I have neglected Lato, it is
true, but I need only lift my finger----"
"I have said nothing," the Pole whines, repentantly,--"nothing in the
world. For heaven's sake do not be so angry! Nothing has occurred, but
Treurenberg has no tact, and Olga is the daughter of a play-actor, and
also, as you must admit, and as every one can see, desperately in love
with Lato. All I do is to point out the danger to you. Treat
Treurenberg with caution, and then----"
"Hush! Go!" she gasps.
He rises and leaves the room, turning in the doorway to say, with a
voice and gesture that would have won renown for the hero of a
provincial theatre at the end of his fourth act, "Selina, I have ruined
myself with you, I have thrown away your friendship, but I have perhaps
saved your existence from shipwreck!"
Whereupon he closes the door and betakes himself to the garden-room to
have a last look at the decorations there. He does not think it worth
while to carry thither his heroic air of self-sacrifice; on the
contrary, as he gives an order to the upholsterer, a triumphant smile
hovers upon his lips. "It will surprise me if Treurenberg now succeeds
in arranging his affairs in that quarter," he thinks to himself.
Meanwhile, Selina is left to herself. She does not suffer from wounded
affection; no, her heart is untouched by what she has just heard. But
memory, rudely awakened, recalls to her a hundred little occurrences
all pointing in the same direction, and she trembles with rage at the
idea that any one--that her own husband--should prefer that simpleton
of a girl to her own acknowledged beauty.