That was an old custom. She had suffered from bad dreams from childhood, and had then always called her mother. As long as she had been able, Natalie had risen and gone to the child's bed and petted her, told her all sorts of foolish trifles, until at length she had calmly fallen asleep.
But now all that was over. "Oh, if you had only been with me, mother! Why must you leave me?" sobbed Maschenka often. It was the only reproach she uttered during the long, inconsolable months.
And Nikolai, formerly the tenderest brother, now contented himself with from time to time giving his pale little sister a compassionate caress, and had something more important to do than incessantly to ponder whether unfortunate love for a man whom she had only slightly known could really suffice to so completely change his gay little sister. The only one who thought much about the strange change in her little favorite was Nita. But however she tried, by caresses and persuasion, to win Mascha's confidence, all failed. Maschenka even opposed her with a certain hostility; at least, Nita could ascribe her manner to nothing else, so violently and with such gloomy, irritable obstinacy did she repulse all advances.
And at length Nita also grew weary of knocking at a heart which would not open to her. All went its way. The sun shone, spring blossomed, and Nikolai went oftener and oftener to the Avenue Frochot, just as if a poor little girl were not tormenting herself into despair.
Yes, the world went its way, and Nita and Sophie had all sorts of things to do, for it was an important time for artists, the time for sending to the Salon. Nikolai shared the excitement.
Nita was really an unusual being, and about this time others beside those belonging to her intimate circle began to find it out. The picture which she had prepared for the exhibition had not only received the congratulations of all her colleagues, but had induced M. Sylvain to bring to Nita's studio the best-known art lovers and most famous artists in Paris to pass judgment on her picture.
All were surprised at the young Austrian's achievement. But she shook her head quite vexedly at their extravagant praise. It seemed to her that they were mocking her. It was such a simple picture.
Nikolai was there at the studio when a messenger brought Nita, one afternoon, a note from M. Sylvain, which, having scarcely opened, she handed to Sophie, who read it aloud:
"Vous êtes reçue avec acclamation No. 1. Espère une medaille. Sylvain."
Nita grew very pale; she trembled in her whole frame, and began suddenly to cry. This triumph, which he had been the first to prophesy, and which made him proud and happy for her, at the same time made Nikolai's heart very heavy. "She is through and through an artist nature," said he to himself as he observed her great excitement; "much more than she herself knows." And in that he was not mistaken.