“She is very religious; but it is terrible to think of this.”
“Let us walk through the town a little,” said Bukatski; “one might stifle here.”
They went out.
“And a man in such straits is not to be a pessimist!” exclaimed Bukatski. “What is Litka? Simply a dove! Every one would spare her; but death will not spare her.”
Pan Stanislav was silent.
“I know not myself now,” continued Bukatski, “whether to go to Reichenhall or not. In Warsaw, when Pani Emilia is there, even I can hold out. Once a month I propose to her, once a month I receive a refusal; and thus I live from the first of one month to the first of the next. The first of the month has just passed, and I am anxious for my pension. Is the mother aware of the little girl’s condition?”
“No. The child is in danger; but perhaps a couple of years remain yet to her.”
“Ah! perhaps no more remain to any of us. Tell me, dost thou think of death often?”
“No. How would that help me? I know that I must lose the case; therefore I do not break my head over it, especially before the time.”
“In this is the point,—we must lose, but still we keep up the trial to the end. This is the whole sense of life, which otherwise would be simply a dreary farce, but now it is a dull tragedy as well. As to me, I have three things at present to choose from: to hang myself, go to Reichenhall, or go to Monachium to see Boecklin’s pictures once more. If I were logical, I should choose the first; since I am not, I’ll choose Reichenhall. Pani Emilia is worth the Boecklins, both as to outline and color.”