"Ah, Sophie, it is only a mistaken idea; he does not know his own heart. It will all pass. He must return to you, learn to love you," assures Nita.
"Never! If you had seen him go down the steps slowly, step for step, as if carrying something wounded, you would not say that. Poor Colia!" And, suddenly raising her voice, quite reproachfully: "It is terrible that he must suffer so. Heavens! do you really not understand what the love of such a man is worth?"
A shudder ran over Nita's slender limbs. "Leave me alone, my dear, brave Sonia; only for a little while," murmured she. "Leave me alone."
XXII.
How he passed this long, terrible Sunday afternoon, what he did during these endless hours, Nikolai could later not have told. He walked--walked without looking round, like a man who has no more aim in the world, who seeks nothing but weariness.
If she had given him a friendly word! But no! He does not understand, does not understand! Somewhere there is a secret.
It is dark when he returns to the Hôtel Westminster. He finds his servant in the middle of his room, on his knees before an open trunk. Clothes hang over all the chair backs. Nikolai remembers that he is to travel to-morrow evening. At first he wishes impatiently to send away the servant, who conscientiously questions him about the packing. Then he draws himself up. Life must still be borne, even if there were no more joy in it. He gives orders as to the arrangement of his things.
The windows of his room are open. A carriage stops before the hotel. That voice! He leans out of the window, but sees nothing but an open cab; from without approaches a step, the door opens, Lensky enters. "Colia!" The musician's rough voice expressed such hearty, violent joy that Nikolai quite forgets his despair. Never before has he had the feeling of close, intimate relationship with his father so warmly as now. With unspeakable joy his gaze rests on the old artist. It seems to him as if there were something new, noble about him. He has grown thin, the furrows in his forehead are deeper, his hair is gray. He has aged greatly. But how well it becomes him! The lovable, benevolent expression of the lips, the patient, one might almost say pardoning, sadness of his gaze.
"Father! You--what a surprise!" fairly rejoices Nikolai, and rushes in the arms which his father stretches out to him. And Lensky, however spoiled he is otherwise, each time rejoices anew when his children show their love for him.
"I came upon the message which you sent me of your transferment. I wished to be with you at least twenty-four hours before you leave. Naturally you have already dined. I have ordered the waiter to bring my supper up here, that is, if I am welcome to my son. Send away your valet," with a glance over his shoulder at the servant; "we will wait on ourselves. We could go down-stairs, but then Braun would appear with my travelling accounts, and--and we would like to be alone, my boy, eh?"