The Princess Oblonsky has left Paris for Naples; the Fuhrwesen accompanied her. Monsieur de Hauterive is said to have followed her. Stasy is left behind in Paris, where she meditates sadly upon the ingratitude of human nature. She is no longer an ardent admirer of the Oblonsky.
And the lovers?
The scene is the little drawing-room with the blue furniture and bright carpet at the "Three Negroes." The Baroness is sitting at her writing-table, scribbling away with all her wonted energy at something or other which is never to be finished; the floor around her is strewn with torn and crumpled sheets of paper.
From without come the sound of heavy and light wheels, the echo of heavy and light footsteps. But through all the noise of the streets is heard a dreamy, monotonous murmur, the slow drip of melting snow. A thaw has set in, and the water is dripping from the roofs. Sometimes the Baroness pauses in her writing and listens. There is something strangely disturbing to her in the simple sound: she does not clearly catch what the water-drops tell her; she no longer understands their speech.
Beside the fire sit Edgar and Stella. His left arm is in a sling. In the duel with small-swords which took place a couple of days after the Fanes' ball he received a slight wound. Therefore there is an admixture of grateful pity in Stella's tenderness for him. They are sitting, hand clasped in hand, devising schemes and building airy castles for the future,--the long, fair future.
"One question more, my darling," Rohritz whispers to his beautiful betrothed, who still conducts herself rather shyly towards him. "How do you mean to arrange your life?"
"How do I mean--have I any decision to make?"
"Indeed you have, dearest," he says, smiling. "My part in life is to see you happy."
"How good and dear you are to me!" Stella murmurs. "How could you torment me so long,--so long?"
"Do you suppose I was happy the while, dear love?" he whispers. Her reproach touches him more nearly than she thinks. How could he hesitate so long, is the question he now puts to himself. What has he to offer her, he with his weary, doubting heart, in exchange for her pure, fresh, untouched wealth of feeling? "But to return to my question," he begins afresh. "Will you live eight months in society and four months in the country?--or just the other way?"