XXIV.
"Well?" Nikolai cries out to his father.
For an hour he has been sitting in the virtuoso's parlor, impatiently awaiting his return; sits there with a newspaper in his hand, with a high-beating heart, which he tries to persuade that hope is a frivolous deceiver on which one should not rely. One glance at Lensky's face suffices to convince the formerly so obstinate heart.
"It is nothing," murmured Lensky, quite confusedly; "nothing. It cannot be; you must submit; it is never otherwise!" And, as if to cut off all further explanation, he asks: "Was no one here in my absence? No visitor?"
"No one came up here," replies Nikolai. "I thought it would be in vain," stammered he, with difficulty preserving his composure. "But you were so convinced. So, then, nothing--no reason?" And, with a pitiable smile, he adds: "It must be borne! A very good article in the Times, on Hector Berlioz; you should read it. How stupid I am, I have torn the sheet. Pardon!" He still rests his eyes supplicatingly on his father, as if he hoped he would tell him more explicitly how it had all been. But the virtuoso is silent. He only murmurs something to himself, then sits down, with his back to Nikolai, near the chimney, and stares into the dull fire-place.
"Did--did she displease you?" asks Nikolai.
Lensky does not reply.
Meanwhile, there is a loud knock at the door. Every one comes to see Lensky without being announced; that is an acknowledged custom.
"Come in!" calls he, harshly.
A tall, slender man, dressed in the latest fashion, enters. Valerian Kyrillowitch Kasin, Sonia's father.
"What joy to meet you here in Paris!" he says to the virtuoso. "We two have enjoyed life together here in our time, you and I!"
"Yes, very much," murmurs Lensky.
"What an atmosphere!" raves Kasin. "It goes to one's head like champagne. I am intoxicated, fairly intoxicated. Guess whom I found again in Paris--our Senta, from Vienna."
"I have no idea whom you mean," says Lensky, with poorly concealed uneasiness.
"The charming girl whose acquaintance we made at the Njikitjin's in Vienna. We named her Senta, because she fell in love with your picture, Boris, quite like the Wagnerian enthusiast with the picture of the Flying Dutchman. I scarcely knew that she had another name."
"It is unbearably close here," murmurs Lensky, and pulls at his collar. "Please open the window, Nikolai."
Nikolai does so, and remains standing near the window.
"I do not remember," says Lensky.
"Really, you do not remember? But, à propos, if it does not inconvenience you, could you lend me one or two thousand francs? I have already telegraphed to St. Petersburg."
"I beg you, Nikolai, take two thousand-franc notes from the desk in my bed room. Here is the key."
Nikolai takes the key and goes in the adjoining room, the door of which, as his father notices not without vexation, he leaves open.
"So you no longer remember her!" goes on Kasin. "That is incomprehensible to me; you were quite wild about her, enthusiastic. I had never seen you thus before about a girl. I met her one evening at Njikitjin's, only one evening, but I remember her very well. She had, indeed, no incense for me; she saw and heard at that time nothing but Lensky. You must remember her. They called her Senta in the Njikitjin set."
"Have you found the money, Colia?" calls Lensky, irritably, to his son.
"At once, father. The lock is rusty. I--I made a mistake in the key."
"Now her name is Fräulein von Sankjéwitch, and she is the most intimate friend of my daughter," explains Kasin. "The strangest of all is that she has never said a word about you to Sonia. Young girls usually tell each other everything. And, as she fainted last winter at one of your concerts, she has evidently not forgotten you. And you, ungrateful one, is it really worth while to please you--to please you thus? All the music-mad ladies were beside themselves with jealousy. Besides--who knows?--if you see her again she will turn your head once more. She is more charming than ever, greatly changed, but grown prettier."
Then Nikolai enters and brings the money. Soon after, Kasin leaves. Nikolai politely accompanies him to the door, which he locks behind him. In what he now has to discuss with his father he does not wish to be disturbed.
"So that was it--that," he says, slowly, as he goes up to Lensky.
"I do not understand what you mean," stammers Lensky, uneasily, but his eyes fall before the accusing glance of his son.
For a short moment deep silence rules. The blood has rushed to the virtuoso's face. He breathes heavily; wishes to say something, but does not bring it out.
"You have guessed!" cries out Nikolai. "But it was only a trifle! It was six years ago--she was a child at that time, a child intoxicated with music, irresponsible from enthusiasm. One must not be too severe! Ah!" with a hoarse groan. "Still, it is all the same, and you were right, and I was a fool!" He hurries out. Then a heavy hand seizes him by the shoulder.
"Colia, stay!" cries Lensky.
"Father!"
"It is not as you think," says Lensky, slowly, raising his bowed head. He is now deathly pale.
"So it was only mere gossip on Kasin's part?" says Nikolai. "You have never seen her, or, at least, she never pleased you?"
Lensky shakes his massive head. "Yes, she pleased me," said he, hoarsely, "very much; in that Kasin spoke the truth. She pleased me indescribably. There was something unusual about her, something warmer, more natural than the others, and such a peculiar way of looking at one, as you know. I thought--but I was mistaken." He pauses.
"Well, father?" Nikolai urges.
"One evening I found her alone," murmurs Lensky, scarce audibly. "Njikitjin had arranged it so. Oh! the lowness, the commonness of such a woman, who will flatter one at any price! I lost my head. She did not at first understand me--I thought it was affectation. Must you know all?"
"Yes!"
"Well"--Lensky gasps the words more than speaks them--"I was like a wild animal. She cried for help. I heard some one come, fortunately for her. And I was as frightened as a thief, and left. Now, have you heard enough?" he fairly screams, and stamps on the floor.
Lensky is silent. Nikolai's face is ashy, as that of a man whose heart has ceased beating with horror.
"Now I know why she shrank from me," says he, dully, without looking at his father. Then he leaves him.