"This fresh proof that I require of you is not to question me on the events of last night, to be calm, not to doubt me, and to have full confidence in the future. The mysterious trial that my selfishness has condemned you to must last some weeks longer. During this time we shall not be separated; we shall still live the life in common that we have lived since our arrival in Paris; you will still be my dear, my tenderly loved daughter. Do you consent to this?"
"I will do all that you wish," said the young girl, lifting her eyes to his. "I will ask no questions; I will wait. But, my father—"
Pierre Olsdorf could not but tremble slightly. He went on quickly:
"I will tell Soublaieff what it is needful for him to know, that he may continue to love and respect you as you deserve. In the future every one will respect and love you as I do; I will not fail in my duty to you. Meanwhile, I want you to go out, to amuse yourself, and be as happy as possible."
"I shall be happy, for am not I to stay with you?"
And, as if ashamed of these words, drawing herself from the arms of the prince, who was holding her to his heart, Vera ran to her room to give herself up wholly, in solitude, to the great joy that had taken possession of her.
Henceforward, in accordance with Pierre Olsdorf's will, she continued her drives to the Bois, through which she passed swiftly, shrinking back in the carriage, an object of curiosity for the idlers of Paris, who sought vainly to discover whence came this beautiful foreigner who was so indifferent about the sensation she created. Sometimes she went to the theater with the prince; and these hours were the best of her rather lonely life, for Pierre's tenderness for her then was more real and apparent than ever.
All this, however, was not enough for Vera, whose heart, though she herself was only vaguely conscious of the truth, desired more. Often her eyes would fill with tears, and her smile had lost something of its old-time frankness. Her affection, too, for the prince had grown uneasy and nervous. When he did not lunch or dine at home she eat scarcely anything; and at night, if he were late in coming in, she could not sleep until she had heard him return and had received his affectionate "Good-night," waved to her with his hand as he passed through her room into his own. Since the night of the judicial inquisition, however, Pierre had never gone near Vera's bed. Indeed, he seemed to pass more rapidly through the room than he did formerly.
These successive and constant emotions, the unconscious and irrational aspirations that she felt, all had an injurious effect upon the young girl's health. If the prince, seeing her every day, did not notice the change in her looks, the moral and physical sufferings of Vera were none the less real. She took no interest now either in her drives or the theaters. She would lie for hours at a time on a sofa, scarcely thinking, and not daring to question her own heart.
In such a state of prostration Pierre Olsdorf found her on his return from the house of the arch-priest Wasilieff.