"Ah, if it could only be true!" she exclaimed in a voice more than half full of hope, as she quickly brushed away the drops.
"But it is true, indeed it is," answered the Count. "Oh, Vjera, do you think I would deceive you? Do you think I could tell you a story in which there is no truth whatever? Do not think that of me, Vjera."
The tears broke out afresh, but from a different source. For some seconds she could not speak.
"Why do you cry so bitterly?" he asked, not understanding at all what was passing. "I swear to you it is all true—"
"It is not that—it is not that," cried Vjera. "I know—I know that you believe it—and I love you so very much—"
"But then, I do not understand," said the Count in a low voice that expressed his pitiful perplexity. "How can I not believe it, when it is all in the letters? And why should you not believe it, too? Besides, Vjera dear, it will all be quite clear to-morrow. Of course—well, I can understand that having known me poor so long, it must seem strange to you to think of me as very rich. But I shall not be another man, for that. I shall always be the same for you, Vjera, always the same."
"Yes, always the same," sighed the girl under her breath.
"Yes, and so, if you love me to-day, you will love me just as well to-morrow—to-morrow, the great day for me. What day will it be? Let me see—to-morrow is Wednesday."
"Wednesday, yes," repeated Vjera. "If only there were no to-morrow—" She checked herself. "I mean," she added, quickly, "if only it could be Thursday, without any day between."
"You are a strange girl, Vjera. I do not know what you are thinking of to-day. But to-morrow you will see. I think they will come for me in the morning. You shall see, you shall see."