Yes, she will speak with her; Nita is his cousin, she knows his affairs; Nita will advise, will help.
"Hurry, Eliza, you must go out with me," says she, going into the maid's room. But near the maid stands Anna.
"Must you go out just now?" says she, vexedly; "my dress is not ready. Where are you going?"
"To Fräulein von Sankjéwitch."
"Eliza has not time. You can go the few steps alone."
And she goes alone, fairly runs through the Rue de la Prony, through the Parc Monceau. She pants for breath, there is a ringing in her ears. Now she has reached No. 8 of the Avenue Murillo. She hurries up the steps, rings. The maid opens the door. "The ladies have gone out; they will not be back before evening."
Quite crushed, Mascha stands there in the pretty little ante-room.
"Has mademoiselle any message for the ladies?" asks the maid.
"No, no!" sadly Mascha shakes her head. She trembles in her whole body, rests her hand on a little table on which stands a plate with visiting cards.
Her eyes mechanically dwell on one which lies uppermost: