She stands at the hedge of the park, looks out on the street, gazes, waits, sees the people return from the railroad. Now he must come! but no, the white, dusty street is empty; a scornfully whispering breeze blows away the footprints of the last passer-by, a couple of white linden-blossoms fall from the tree-tops--he has not come!
And with slow steps, as one wearily drags himself along after a great disappointment, she turns toward the house. Kolia gives a deep sigh. "I don't understand it, mamma," says he.
"Papa will come with the next train; he has missed this one," his mother consoles him.
For a while he trips silently beside her, then suddenly raising his head and looking at her with his earnest, thoughtful child's eyes, he says:
"We would not have missed the train, would we, mamma?"
And once more the bell sounds in the solemn quiet, and Natalie's heart beats loudly--and he comes not.
Ever sadder, she wanders through the empty rooms, into which the sunlight presses through a shady, cool, perfumed curtain of foliage.
"How can one stay an hour longer than one must in the sultry, dusty, sunny, wearying Paris?" she asks herself.
* * * * * *
Meanwhile Lensky sits with his colleagues in the Trois Frères at a breakfast which began at one o'clock, and now at five o'clock has not yet ended. A breakfast at which all laugh and make jokes--only he broods silently.