They look up, and see two ladies: one is no other than Frau von Geroldstein, very affected, and looking about, as usual, for fine acquaintances; the other is very much dressed, rouged, and very pretty. Frau von Geroldstein is enthusiastically glad to see her Berlin friends, and presents her companion,--the Princess Gregoriewitsch.
The old Countess, however, is not very amiably disposed towards the new-comers. "Do not let us keep you from your friends," she says to the artist: "it is late, and we must go. Adieu. I should be glad if you could find time to come and see us."
Count Treurenberg conducts the grandmother and grand-daughter to their gondola. Lozoncyi remains with his two admirers.
"Who was that queer Princess?" Countess Anna asks of Count Treurenberg, in a rather depreciative tone, just before they reach their gondola.
"Oh, one of Lozoncyi's thousand adorers. She has a huge palace and entertains a great deal. A pretty woman, but terribly stupid. Lozoncyi is tied to a different apron-string every day."
The table-d'hôte is long past: the Lenzdorffs are dining in a small island of light at one end of the large dining-hall.
They are unusually late to-night. After their return from the Armenian monastery both ladies have dressed for the evening, before coming to table. At the old Countess's entreaty, Erika has consented to go into society this evening,--that is, to the Countess Mühlberg, who has been legally separated from her husband for some time and is living very quietly at Venice, where she receives a few friends every Wednesday. The old Countess is unusually gay; Erika scarcely speaks.
The glass door leading from the dining-hall into the garden has been left open for their special benefit. The warm air brings in an odour of fresh earth, mossy stones, and the faintly impure breath of the lagoons, which haunts all the poetic beauty of Venice like an unclean spirit. The soft plash of the water against the walls of the old palaces, the creaking of the gondolas tied to their posts, a monotonous stroke of oars, the distant echo of a street song, are the mingled sounds that fall upon the ear.
When the meal is ended the old Countess calls for pen and ink, and writes a note at the table where they have just dined. Erika walks out into the garden. With head bare and a light wrap about her shoulders, she strolls along the gravel path, past the monthly roses that have scarcely ceased to bloom throughout the winter, past the taller rose-trees in which the life of spring is stirring. From time to time she turns her head to catch the distant melody more clearly, but it comes no nearer. Above her arches the sky, no longer pale as it had been to-day amid the boughs of the historic tree, but dark blue, and twinkling with countless stars.
She has walked several times up and down the garden as far as the breast-work that separates it from the Grand Canal. Now as she nears the dining-room she hears voices: her grandmother is no longer alone; beside the table at which she is writing stands Count Treurenberg. He is speaking: "'Tis a pity! he really is a very clever fellow with men, but the women spoil him. Just now he is the plaything of all the women who think themselves art-critics in Venice."