“I love mamma very much,” said she, “and I love Pan Stas, and I love Marynia.”
CHAPTER XVII.
Professor Vaskovski inquired every day about the health of the little one; and though most frequently they did not receive him, he sent her flowers. Pan Stanislav, meeting him somewhere at dinner, began thanking him in Pani Emilia’s name.
“Asters, only asters!” said Vaskovski. “How is she to-day?”
“To-day not ill, but, in general, not well; worse than in Reichenhall. Fear for each coming day seizes one; and at the thought that the child may be missing—”
Here Pan Stanislav stopped, for further words failed him; at last he burst out,—
“What is the use in looking for mercy? There is nothing but logic, which says that whoso has a sick heart must die. And may thunderbolts split such existence!”
Now came Bukatski, who, when he had learned what the conversation was, attacked the professor; even he, as he loved Litka, rebelled in his soul at thought of that death which was threatening her.
“How is it possible to deceive oneself so many years, and proclaim principles which turn into nothing in view of blind predestination?”