All my care was for her. Before this new feeling of mine for her had forced itself upon me, the situation had been really a game of wits with my life as the stake; but now Olga's life, or at least her liberty, was also at stake. It was there the crisis pinched me till I winced and writhed under it. Fear had got hold of me at last and I tugged restlessly at the chain.
That night and the next day, the day of Christian Tueski's funeral, were occupied with heavy duties, because the authorities, both military and civil, persisted in believing there was danger of an émeute. I could have counselled them differently if I had dared to open my lips. At least I thought I could; although I did not then hold the key to the mystery.
I got it from Paula Tueski.
In the afternoon of the day but one after the funeral, I had a brief note asking me to call on her.
I went and found her surrounded by all the signs and trappings of the deepest mourning. She received me very gravely, and while there was anyone in the room, she played the part of the sorrowing, disconsolate widow: but the instant we were alone she shewed a most indecent and revolting haste to let me know her mind.
"We are alone, now, Alexis," she said.
"I have called as you asked and because I wished to express my sympathy...."
"Psh! Don't let us be hypocrites, you and I," she exclaimed, half angrily, and with great energy. "I do not pretend to you that I am sorry to be free, and don't you pretend to me either."
I didn't answer, and my silence irritated her.
"Would you have me weep, tear my hair, put ashes on my head and grovel in the dust because the biggest villain and coward and beast that ever lived in human shape is dead? I hated him living; shall I love him dead?"