Le Comte Charles De Bärenburg, Attaché, etc. Avenue de Messine, No. ----.
Then suddenly a new thought comes to her. Roughly she repels it; she cannot make up her mind to do that. But why not? How cowardly, how small she is! Only a few hours before she had longed for an opportunity to prove to him her love by some painful sacrifice, and now, from foolish fear that people might talk, she suddenly hesitates to do something so simple. The accusations which her father used to hurl at cold, calculating wisdom of the heart, and the scorn with which he condemned women who could not once yield to inspiration, comes to her mind. How does she know what he means by that? She creeps down the steps slowly, as if in a dream. Now she is on the street. An empty close cab comes rolling over the pavement. The coachman looks at Mascha. Irresolutely she stands there; he drives up to her, opens the door, looks at her, with lifted hat, questioningly.
"Avenue de Messine, No. ----," murmurs she, and springs into the carriage.
The coachman dismounts and opens the door. Pale, with gloomy but not at all ashamed--rather proud--resolve in her face, Mascha gets out and goes up the steps. She reads the cards on the doors; there it is! She rings loudly, violently. A servant opens. "Is the Count at home?"
"Yes, but he has company," replies the servant, and looks at her in astonishment. It must certainly be his master's sister, he thinks. She is too young for an adventuress of good society, too unembarrassed; she does not even wear a veil.
"If mademoiselle wishes to go in the dining-room, I will tell Monsieur le Comte," says he, and takes her into one of those gloomy Paris dining-rooms, which even by day must be artificially lighted. The curtains are drawn. The light of a hanging lamp falls over a table on which stand the picturesque remnants of a recently left, abundant dessert.
Suddenly a great confusion and even a painful shame overcome Mascha. Perhaps it is all not true! How can one lunch so gayly if one is in mortal danger? Shyly she turns to the door; she would like to escape. Then Bärenburg enters the room.
"Fräulein--you!" comes from his lips. But even in his startled surprise he speaks softly, evidently from prudence.
She stammers something; her voice is so choked with shame and excitement that he scarcely understands her.
The light of the hanging lamp falls on her deathly pale face, the little, soft, childish face with the great, tender eyes. Bärenburg grows hot and cold. He is in the pleasantly excited mood in which an excellent meal and a couple of bottles of fine wine place men of his kind. Coming up to her, he bends over her, and taking her hand kindly in his, he says warmly: "You are certainly in some great difficulty in which you wish to turn to me. I thank you for your confidence; you know my life is at your disposal."