“No, no, he is not dead,” gasps Elise in a toneless whisper, “he is not dead. We are going to him. He is wounded ... he has been telegraphing to you for three days, begging you to come. And you would not move, you would not understand....” Elise is crying again.
But perfect peace has descended into my soul. Paul is not dead. He lives! he lives! Nothing else matters but this—he lives.
The train still rushes along, beating rhythmic time to many tunes that are in my head; I gaze out of the window, at the whirling landscape that swings past like a giant chess-board, at the telegraph wires that dip, and then ascend slowly and dip again. Hours pass or days pass.... And the train stops.
Elise is hurriedly collecting cloaks and satchels.
“Where are we, Elise? Are we in Venice?”
“Not yet; not yet. We are in Vienna.”
As I step from the train, two men whom I do not know approach me. One of them asks me if I am the Countess Tarnowska. He has not taken his hat off, and I do not deign to reply.
As I am about to pass him he lays his hand on my arm. The other man also comes forward, and, one on each side, they conduct me along the platform. I notice many people stopping to look at me.
Nothing seems to matter. I do not remember why we are in Vienna, nor whither we are bound. I notice that it is a bright, hot day, and I feel that I am walking in a dream.... I find myself thinking of Vassili; I wish he would come, and send these men away and take me home. I shall be glad when I am at home with Vassili and the children and Aunt Sonia.... Safely at home!