"I was worried about you, my heart," says Nita. She kneels down near the child, and puts her arms round the trembling young form. "Mascha," whispers she, holding the girl closely to her, "tell me--with me you can speak as if I were your mother--are you ill only, or is there something else which torments you?"
But Mascha, who used so tenderly to lean on Nita, pushes her roughly and angrily from her. "Leave me," she cries, "I am ill, I wish to be alone--go!"
Without paying the slightest attention to Mascha's repellant rudeness, Nita holds the girl still closer to her breast. "I cannot see you so silently martyr yourself, such a poor mite of seventeen, who has no one on whose breast she can really cry herself out! Confide in me. Your grief is certainly not worth the trouble. It is only because you shut it up so in your heart that it seems great to you, my pretty little mouse, my dear little bird!" And Nita kisses her on her curly hair, on both eyes.
All at once Maschenka begins to sob, but so convulsively, so hoarsely and gaspingly, as Nita has never heard any one sob before. It goes to her heart.
"How stupid I was!" she thinks, suddenly. "It is Karl Bärenburg's betrothal which pains her. Is it really possible that this fiery, generous little heart wounds itself for the superficial dandy? Poor little goose!"
She no longer urges the girl to confess her sorrow, she only silently caresses her; and when she sees that her caresses only excite the unhappy child instead of calming her, she sadly withdraws.
"You can speak to me as if I were your mother!" The words ring through Mascha's soul. And if her own mother still lived, as if she could confess what tormented her! It is not possible! There must be a mistake somewhere. He cannot be so bad; no man can be so bad!
She seats herself at her writing-table, dips her pen in the ink; but the words will not come. No; she must go to him, see him, speak personally with him. She takes her hat and jacket and hurries out.
However quickly she made and carried out her resolution to visit him the first time, it is hard for her now. She has taken a thick veil with her, loses her way, takes a carriage and bids it wait on the Place Malesherbes. In the carriage she ties the veil over her face. Now she gets out, gives the driver five francs, and does not wait for him to give her back anything. She notices the strange shake of the head with which he looks after her and turns away.
Now she has retched the No. ---- of the Avenue Messine. Her feet are weighted to the ground like lead. Five, six steps she ascends--stands still. A cold shudder runs over her. No, she cannot, she cannot meet him. She turns round, is back in the Avenue Wagram before they have missed her.