"He was very nice," affirmed Mascha. "He took the ticket for me--he spoke English to me; only think, papa, he took me for an Englishwoman. Then I left him and hurried into a coupé, and away we went. In my coupé sat an old man and an old woman. I thought they were married, because they quarrelled incessantly, but the old woman got out at Bordeaux. I remained alone with the old man. For one moment I was afraid."
"Of what, then?" asks the journalist in an unpleasant tone.
"It was just before a tunnel; he drew out a large pocket-knife. I thought he would murder me, but no, it was only to peel a pear. He wished to force half of it upon me. When I refused, he offered me chocolate; he became very insolent. I cannot bear that, and threatened to signal for help." She interrupts her confession with a pretty little shudder. "I did not know that it would be so unpleasant to travel alone."
"In a ladies' coupé you would have been spared these unpleasantnesses," said Madame Grévin, provincially stiffly.
"Ah, madame!" says Mascha, with her soft eyes looking first at Lensky and then at the old woman, "I had quite forgotten that there were ladies' coupés. I only thought to come to Paris as quickly as possible. It all turned out well, you shall see. God be thanked, just then the train stopped. I opened the window, called to the conductor to open the door; he did not hear me. French conductors never hear one. Then my young gentleman discovered me. You know the one from the station in Arcachon, who was walking up and down the platform smoking. He threw away his cigar and hurried to my help. I would like to change my coupé, I said, with a glance at my objectionable travelling companion. He understood, took me in another compartment, said I was evidently not accustomed to travelling alone, and asked if I would permit him to offer me his protection. I was very thankful to him, and then I told him my whole story, and that I was your daughter, papa. He said that he was an old friend of yours, Nikolinka"--to her brother. "He told me his name, Count Bärenburg. He is a diplomat, was in St. Petersburg, and said he had often met you at Uncle Sergeis. Do you remember him, Nikolinka?"
"I believe it," said Nikolai. "He is a man who saved my life on a bear hunt. I was in very close quarters with a wounded beast."
"And he shot the bear?" said Lensky.
"No," replied Nikolai; "he was, as he modestly expressed it, too cowardly to discharge his gun--the ball might have hit me. 'Every one who will cannot be a William Tell,' said he, afterward, laughing. He stabbed the brute with his hunting-knife, in danger of being strangled with me."
"He saved you with danger to his life? Then he must like you very much," bursts out Maschenka.
"He scarcely knew me."