"Never before—no, never!" uttered the woman in the dark.
The Baron almost started to his feet; that voice so silvery clear, so mournfully sweet, actually seemed to come from the far-off regions from where the dead do not return. After a short silence, only interrupted by two sighs, he went on:
"There were, of course, other loves between the first and the last —swift, evanescent shadows, leaving no traces behind them. And now that I have made a full confession of my sins, Countess, can I not see my Anya?"
"Your Anya?"
This was carrying a joke rather too far.
"Well, my fiancee?" said he, rather abruptly.
"No, Aleksij Orsinski, not yet. You have spoken, and I have listened to you; it is my turn to speak. I, too, have something to say about Anya's father."
The Baron had always been considered as a brave man, but now either the darkness oppressed him, or the past arose in front of him threateningly, or else the strange and almost weird behaviour of his future mother-in-law awed him; but, somehow or other, he had never felt so uncomfortable before. Not only a disagreeable feeling of creepiness had come over him, but even a slight perspiration had gathered on his brow. He almost fancied that, instead of a woman, a ghost was sitting there in front of him echoing his words. Who was that ghost? Perhaps, he would not—probably, he dared not recognise it. He tried, however, to shake off his nervousness, and said, with forced lightness:
"I have had the honour of knowing Count Yarnova personally; he was somewhat eccentric, it is true; still, a more honourable man never——"
"He was simply mad," interrupted the Countess; "anyhow, it is not of Count Yarnova, but of Anya'a father of whom I wish to speak." Then, after a slight pause, as if nerving herself to the painful task, the woman in the dark added: "For you must know that not a drop of the Count's blood flows in my daughter's veins."