XVII.
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.