“Poor Marynia! but he, poor man too. If even a child should be left him, he might find strength to bear the blow.”
And when she had dried her tears, she added,—
“As it is, I do not understand how he endures it all.”
That was true; Pan Stanislav did not eat and did not sleep. He had not shown himself at the counting-house for a long time; he went out only for flowers, which Marynia loved always, and the sight of which cheered her. But she was so sick that whenever he went for a bunch of chrysanthemums he returned with the terrible thought that perhaps he was bringing it for her coffin. Marynia’s own eyes opened to this,—that perhaps her death was coming. She did not wish to speak of this to her husband; but before Pani Bigiel she fell to weeping one day in grief for her own life and for “Stas.” She was tortured by the thought, how would he bear it, for she wanted that he should be awfully sorry for her, and at the same time, that he should not suffer much. Before him she pretended yet a long time to feel sure that all would end happily.
But later, when fainting spells came, she summoned courage to talk with him openly; this seemed to her a duty. Therefore one night, when Pani Bigiel, overcome by drowsiness, went to sleep, and he was watching near her as usual, she stretched her hand to him, and said,—
“Stas, I wanted to talk with thee, and beg for one thing.”
“What is it, my love?” asked Pan Stanislav.
She thought for a time evidently how to express her prayer; and then she began to speak,—
“Promise me—I know that I shall recover surely—but promise me that should it be a boy, thou wilt love and be kind.”
Pan Stanislav, by a superhuman effort, restrained the sobbing which seized his breast, and said calmly,—