There was another awkward pause; Aleksij's heart began to beat much faster, the perspiration was gathering on his brow in much bigger drops.
"Count Yarnova was not your daughter's father, you say?" He would have liked to add: "Who was, then?" but he durst not.
"No, Aleksij Orsinski, he was not."
A feeling of sickness came over the Baron; he hardly knew whether he was awake, or asleep and dreaming. Who was that woman in the dark?
The Countess, after a while, resumed her story: "I was born in St. Petersburg, of a wealthy and honourable, but not of a noble family. I, too, was but a child when I fell in love, deeply in love, with a neighbour's son. Unlike yours, Baron, and I suppose all men's, a woman's first love is the only real one. I was then somewhat younger than my daughter now is, for I had barely reached my thirteenth year, and as for my lover, he was fifteen. We often met, unknown to our parents, in our garden; I saw no harm in it—I was too young, too guileless, not to trust him——"
She stopped.
"And he?" asked the Baron, as if called upon to say something.
"He, like Romeo, whispered vows of love, of eternal fidelity. He believed in his vows just then, as you did, Aleksij Orsinski; for I daresay that with you, as with all men, the last love is the only true one."
"Then?" asked the Baron.
"Once we stepped out of the garden together; a carriage was waiting for us; we drove to a lonely chapel not far from our house; a priest there blessed us and made us man and wife. Our marriage, however, was to be kept a secret till we grew older, or, at least, till my husband was master of his actions, for he knew that his parents would never consent to our union."