"Ridiculous indeed--most ridiculous--to dream of rivalling Sonja. Wherever she appears, we ordinary women are nowhere."
"Verviers--Paris--Brussels!" the porter shouts into the room.
All rise, and pick up plaids and travelling-bags; the porters hurry in; a lanky footman and a sleepy-looking maid wait upon the Princess Oblonsky, who nods graciously as they all crowd out upon the railway-platform. The Meinecks enter a coupé where an American whose trousers are too short, and his wife whose hat is too large, have already taken their seats. The pianist looks in at the door, but as soon as she perceives Stella starts back with horror in her face.
"I seem to have made an enemy of that woman," Stella thinks, negligently. What does it matter to her? Poor Stella! Could she but look into the future!
The train starts; while the Baroness, neglectful of the simplest precautions with regard to her eyes, continues to peruse her masterpiece by the yellow light of the coupé lamp, the American goes to sleep, hat and all, upon her companion's shoulder, and Stella sits bolt upright in the cool draught of night air by the window, repeating to herself alternately, "I long for a resurrection!" and "Wherever Sonja appears, we ordinary women are nowhere!"
She, then, is the enchantress who has ruined the happiness of his life,--she the---- She is indeed beautiful; but how hollow,--how false! Everything about her--soul, heart, and all--is painted, like her face. Could he possibly be her dupe a second time? Suddenly the girl feels the blood rush to her cheeks.
"What affair is it of mine? What do I care?" she asks herself, angrily. "He too is false, vain, and heartless; he too can act a part."
CHAPTER XIX.
[PARIS.]
Stella has scarcely closed her eyes, when the train reaches Paris, about six o'clock. The morning is cold and damp, the usual darkness of the time of day disagreeably enhanced by the white gloom of an autumn fog,--a gloom which the street-lamps are powerless to counteract, and in which they show like lustreless red specks.