"Will you walk in?" said Ernestine with icy repose of manner and with a dignity that evidently impressed the countess greatly. Ernestine stood aside to allow her to pass, and motioned her towards a small sofa filling a recess of the room, while she herself took a seat opposite. Her lips were closed; no conventional grimace, usual upon the reception of a visitor, distorted the pure beauty of her grave countenance. She awaited in silence the stranger's communication; she was too unfamiliar with the forms of society to excuse herself for having kept her waiting in the antechamber. The countess at last understood that she must be the first to speak. She felt, too, in the presence of such a woman as Ernestine that her coming hither was a mistake, and it made her falter. For the first time in her life she was confused. The tables were turned. Ernestine was already the victor in this silent encounter. Hers was the victory of true self-respect over the frivolous conceit of a jealous coquette.
The Worronska had failed in her part even before she began to play it. She had heard Möllner's voice and his step as he left the room. The affair, then, had gone farther than she had thought. Anger had put her off her guard, and given her a hostile air when she had come to allure and perhaps lead astray. Her error must be rectified at all hazards. She held out her hand to Ernestine and said, in her melodious Russian-German, "I am the Countess Worronska."
Ernestine slightly inclined her head, and the expression of her face grew colder and more forbidding than before. "And what is your pleasure with me, Countess Worronska?"
"What? Oh, that is soon told. I seek from you amusement, instruction, excitement,--everything that so talented a companion as you are, and one so entirely of my way of thinking, can bestow."
Ernestine recoiled almost perceptibly. "Of your way of thinking?" she asked.
"Most certainly! We are both advocates of the emancipation of women, each in her own way, but our object is the same. We are both adherents of the great champion of women's rights, Louisa A----, who is my intimate friend. How charming it would be to enlist you also! We could then labour in concert,--I in action, Louisa through the daily press, you by your books."
Ernestine listened with the same unmoved countenance to what the countess said. When she had finished, Ernestine was silent for a moment, as if seeking some fitting form of speech for what she wished to say. The countess watched her eagerly. At last Ernestine replied, "Countess Worronska, I must decline your proposal,--I am resolved to pursue my path alone."
The Worronska bit her lips. "Indeed? You are afraid of sharing your laurels?"
"Not so," rejoined Ernestine calmly. "I am afraid of sharing the laurels of a Louisa A----."
"Oh! would you think that a disgrace?"