"That is better," said Anna. "Young girls do not dance at such balls. At such bacchanals in honor of charity, all sorts of things are permitted. Have you a suspicion who the young lady was whom Bärenburg was so attentive to?"
"Miss Anthropos."
"Not she, every one knows her; a new beauty whom nobody knows. It must have been one of his Austrian cousins--a very young girl, exquisitely dressed in white, with a wreath of red flowers on her head. It seems that he had a scene on her account with Orbanoff, whom he would not permit to dance with her. Evidently, it must be a girl who is very near to him, one whom he thinks a great deal of, or else he would not have interfered with the old tiger for her sake. As it seems, Orbanoff has challenged him. It is a bad season for duelling; Monteglin told me that three men of our set have already fallen in a duel since autumn. I felt quite upset, especially as they say Orbanoff is the most unconscientious man and the best pistol shot in Paris. He seems very angry with Bärenburg-- But what is the matter? You are deathly pale. Heavens; if you take the fate of every superficial acquaintance so to heart!"
Anna has retired to her room and lain down. She is invited with her mother to a dinner, and spares her complexion. Another solitary evening for Mascha. But she does not think of that. Only of one thing does she think: "He fights for my sake; fights on account of my arrogant, obstinate lack of tact! Why would I not understand him; why did I not let it pass when he said he was already engaged to me for that dance? But no, I would not let him dispose of me as of an unresisting child, and must show him that I thought nothing of him, and now--oh, my God! now perhaps he will die, and it is my fault."
Uneasily she walks up and down, quicker and quicker. She sees nothing in the future but a horrible, cold void, where he will no longer be, and nothing will be left to her heart but the consciousness that she has offended and misunderstood him, and that he died for her. His death has ceased to be a fearful possibility for her; it is something that must come if she does not prevent it. But how can she prevent it? If Colia were here, she would beg him to arrange the affair, to speak to Bärenburg or Orbanoff.
Oh! there must be some way of escape which he could find. But Colia is away. She cannot longer bear her despair. She must confide in some one, ask advice, seek consolation, or, at least, pity.
She goes down in the drawing-room to speak to her aunt. Her aunt has a visitor, an old Russian friend.
With a kind of rage, she closes the scarcely opened door of the drawing-room, and hurries back to her room.
A half-hour passes, a desolate, endless half-hour. It is half-past four. Before the house still stands the visitor's cab. Ever more restlessly Mascha wrings her poor little white hands; ever more reproachfully every unkind word that she has said to him comes back to her memory; her heart grows heavier. Oh! if she could only see him, at least beg his forgiveness before he dies! No, he shall not die; she cannot let it happen. Colia's farewell words come to her mind: "If you should ever be in any embarrassment, go to Fräulein von Sankjéwitch."