“That is due from you both to her.”
Pan Stanislav bought more flowers on the way, added a note to them that he would come soon, and dropped in to see Mashko. Mashko was notably better, under the care of Pani Kraslavski, and was looking for her arrival every moment. When he had heard the news, he pressed Pan Stanislav’s hand with emotion, and said,—
“I will tell thee only one thing,—I do not know whether she will be happy with thee, but certainly thou wilt be happy with her.”
“Because women are better than men,” answered Pan Stanislav. “After what has happened to thee, I hope that thou art of this opinion.”
“I confess that to this moment I cannot recover from astonishment. They are both better, and more mysterious. Imagine to thyself—” Here Mashko halted, as if hesitating whether to continue.
“What?” inquired Pan Stanislav.
“Well, thou art a discreet man, and hast given me, besides, such proofs of friendship that there may not be secrets between us. Imagine, then, that yesterday, after thy departure, I received an anonymous letter. Here, as thou art aware, the noble custom of writing such letters prevails. In the letter were tidings that Papa Kraslavski exists, is alive, and in good health.”
“Which, again, may be gossip.”
“But also may not be. He lives, probably, in America. I received the letter while Pani Kraslavski was here. I said nothing; but after a time, when she had examined those portraits, and began to inquire of my more distant family relations, I asked her, in turn, how long she had been a widow. She answered,—
“‘My daughter and I have been alone in the world nine years; and those are sad events, of which I do not wish to speak to-day.’