“Ah, they have set him free, poor man! Does he wear chains on his ankles—is his hair long? My poor Stipan! Ah, but what a stupid man!”
The countess collapsed into a soft chair. She chose a soft one, obviously. It has to be recorded here that she did not receive the news with unmitigated joy.
“When he was in Siberia,” she gasped, “one knew at all events where he was; and now, mon Dieu! what an anxiety!”
“I have come over to see whether you will join him to-night and go with him to America,” said Paul, looking at her.
“To—America—to-night! My dear Paul, are you mad? One cannot do such things as that. America! that is across the sea.”
“Yes,” answered Paul.
“And I am such a bad sailor. Now, if it had been Paris——”
“But it cannot be,” interrupted Paul. “Will you join your father to-night?” he added, turning to Catrina.
The girl was looking at him with something in her eyes that he did not care to meet.
“And go to America?” she asked, in a lifeless voice.