"My husband takes no pleasure in my singing; at the first sound of my voice he leaves the room, as you have just seen. He has no more taste for music than my poodle."

"Extraordinary!" the Pole says, indignantly. And then, after a little pause, he adds, musingly, "I never should have thought it. The day I arrived here, you remember, I came quite unexpectedly; and, looking for some one to announce me, I strayed into this very room----" He hesitates.

"Well?--go on."

"Well, Nina, or Olga--what is your _protge's_ name?" He snaps his fingers impatiently.

"Olga! Well, what of her?"

"Nothing, nothing, only she was sitting at the piano strumming away at something, and Lato was listening as devoutly as if she----"

But Selina has risen hastily and is walking towards the door into the garden with short impatient steps, as if in need of the fresh air. Her face is flushed, and she plucks nervously at the lace about her throat.

"What have I done? Have I vexed you?" the Pole whines, clasping his hands.

"Oh, no, you have nothing to do with it!" the Countess sharply rejoins.

"I cannot understand Lato's want of taste in making so much fuss about that slip of a girl."

"You ought to try to marry her off," sighs the Pole.

"Try I try!" the Countess replies, mockingly. "There is nothing to be done with that obstinate thing."

"Of course it must be difficult; her low extraction, her lack of fortune,----"

"Lack of fortune?" Selina exclaims.

"I thought Olga was entirely dependent upon your mother's generosity,"

Fainacky says, eagerly.

"Not at all. My father saved a very fair sum for Olga from the remains of her mother's property. She has the entire control of a fortune of three or four hundred thousand guilders,--quite enough to make her a desirable match; but the girl seems to have taken it into her head that no one save a prince of the blood is good enough for her!" And the Countess actually stamps her foot.

"Do you really imagine that it is Olga's ambition alone that prevents her from contracting a sensible marriage?" Fainacky drawls, with evident significance.

"What else should it be?" Selina says, imperiously. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing, nothing; she seems to me rather exaggerated,--overstrained.

Let us try this duet of Boito's."

"I do not wish to sing any more," she replies, and leaves the room.

He gazes after her, lost in thought for a moment, then snaps his fingers.

"Four hundred thousand guilders--by Jove!"

Whereupon he takes his seat at the piano, and improvises until far into the night upon the familiar air, "In Ostrolenka's meads."

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

EARLY SUNRISE.

It is early in the morning of the day before the famous betrothal festivity. The town-clock of X---- strikes three as Treurenberg, his bridle hanging loose, is riding along the lonely road towards Dobrotschau. He has pa.s.sed the night with a few officers at the rooms of the Countess Wodin, his cousin and former flame, who "threw him over" because her views of life were more practical than his,--that is to say, than his were at that period; for he soon followed her example, and was very practical too. But it does not suit every man to be so.

The a.s.semblage at the Countess Wodin's was unusually lively. She was the only lady present, with the exception of the major's wife, an insignificant, awkward woman, who was usually endowed with the Countess's cast-off gowns. A large number of men made up the gathering,--almost the entire corps of officers, and a couple of gentlemen from the neighbourhood. The time was whiled away with cards.

At first Lato did not join the players, simply looking on at one and another of the tables; but by and by he took the cards for his cousin, who, suddenly possessed by an intense desire to dance, rose from her place, "just to take a couple of turns around the room." She waltzed until she was breathless with Ensign Flammingen, Treurenberg's relative, who was apparently head over ears in love with her. An officer of dragoons meanwhile droned out the music for them upon a little drawing-room hand-organ. When the Countess again took her place at the card-table Lato had won a small fortune for her. She congratulated him upon his luck, and advised him to try it in his own behalf. He did so.

Between the games a good deal of wine had been drunk, and various questionable witticisms had been perpetrated. Treurenberg laughed louder than the rest, although all such jesting was distasteful to him, especially when women were present. But the Countess had expressly requested to be treated as a man; and the major's wife, after an unfortunate attempt to smoke a cigarette, had retired to a sofa in the adjoining room to recover from the effects of the experiment.

In the absence of this victim of an evil custom for which she was evidently unfitted, the merriment grew more and more boisterous, until suddenly young Flammingen, who had but a moment before been waltzing gaily with the hostess, fell into a most lachrymose condition. The rest tried, it is true, to regard it as only an additional amus.e.m.e.nt, but it was useless: the mirth had received a death-blow. Some one began to turn the hand-organ again, but without cheering results. All were tired. They found the air of the room suffocating; the smoke was too thick to see through. Then the unfortunate idea occurred to one of the party to open a window. The fresh air from without wafted in among the fumes of wine and cigar-smoke had a strange effect upon the guests: they suddenly fell silent, and in a very short time vanished, like ghosts at c.o.c.k-crow.

Lato took his leave with the rest, disappearing from his cousin's drawing-room with the consciousness of being a winner,--that was something. He rode through the quiet town, and on between the desolate fields of rye, where not an ear was left standing, between dark stretches of freshly-ploughed land, whence came the odour of the earth with its promise of renewed fertility. The moon was high in the colourless sky; along the eastern horizon there was a faint gleam of yellow light. The dawn enveloped all nature as in a white semi-transparent veil; every outline showed indistinct; the air was cool, and mingled with it there was a sharp breath of autumn. Here and there a dead leaf fell from the trees. The temperature had grown much cooler in the last few days; there had been violent storms in the vicinity, although the drought still reigned at Dobrotschau.

Treurenberg felt weary in every limb; the hand holding the bridle dropped on his horse's neck. On either side stood a row of tall poplars; he had reached the avenue where Olga's white figure had once come to meet him. The castle was at hand. He shivered; a mysterious dread bade him turn away from it.

The half-light seemed to roll away like curling smoke. Lato could clearly distinguish the landscape. The gra.s.s along the roadside was yellow and dry; blue succory bloomed everywhere among it; here and there a bunch of wild poppies hung drooping on their slender stalks.

The blue flowers showed pale and sickly in the early light; the poppies looked almost black.

On a sudden everything underwent a change; broad shadows stretched across the road, and all between them glowed in magic crimson light.

From a thousand twittering throats came greetings of the new-born day.

Treurenberg looked up. Solemn and grand, in a semicircle of reddish-golden mist, the sun rose on the eastern horizon.

Yes, in a moment all was transformed,--the pale empty skies were filled with light and resonant inspiration, the earth was revivified.

Why languish in weary discouragement when a single moment can so transfigure the world? For him, too, the sun might rise, all might be bright within him. Then, at a sharp turn of the road, the castle of Dobrotschau appeared, interposing its ma.s.s between him and the sun. The crimson light, like a corona, played about the outlines of the castle, which stood out hard and dark against the flaming background.

Treurenberg's momentary hopefulness faded at the sight,--it was folly to indulge in it: for him there was no sunrise; there was nothing before him but a dark, blank wall, shutting out light and hope, and against which he could but bruise and wound himself should he try to break through it.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

STRUGGLES.

As Lato trotted into the court-yard of the castle a window was suddenly closed, the window above his room,--Olga's. She had been awaiting his return, then. He began to shiver as in a fever-fit.

"There must be an end to this," he said to himself, as he consigned his horse to a sleepy groom and entered the castle.

His room was on the ground-floor; when he reached it he threw himself, still dressed, on the bed, in a state of intolerable agitation; by degrees he became calmer, his thoughts grew vague; without sleeping soundly he dreamed. He seemed to be swimming with Olga in his arms through a warm, fragrant lake, upon the surface of which pale water-lilies were floating. Suddenly these pale lilies turned to greedy flames, the lake glowed as with fire, and a stifling smoke filled the air. Lato started up, his heart beating, his brow damp with moisture.

His fatigue tempted him to try again to rest, but he tossed about restlessly; thinking himself still awake, he listened to the ticking of his watch, and looked at Lion, who lay crouched beside his bed, when suddenly Olga stood there gazing at him, her eyes transfigured with heavenly compa.s.sion, as she murmured, "Will you not share your woe with me?" She stretched out her arms to him, he drew her towards him, his lips touched hers--he awoke with a cry. He rose, determined to dream no more, and, drawing up one of his window-shades, looked down into the courtyard. It was barely six o'clock. All was quiet, but for one of the grooms at work washing a carriage. The fountain before the St. John rippled and murmured; a few brown leaves floated in its basin. The silvery reflection from the water dazzled Lato's eyes; he turned away, and began slowly to pace the room. The motion seemed to increase his restlessness; he threw himself into an arm-chair, and took up a book.

But he was not in a condition to read a line; before he knew it the volume fell from his hand, and the noise it made in falling startled him again. He shook his head in impatience with his nervousness; this state of affairs could not be longer endured, he must bring about some change; matters could not go on thus. He thought and thought. What could be patched up from the ruins of his life? He must try to stand on a better footing with his wife, to leave Dobrotschau as soon as possible. What would be his future? could he ever become reconciled to his existence? Oh! time was such a consoler, could adjust so much, perhaps it would help him to live down this misery.

Then, like an honourable merchant who sees bankruptcy imminent, he reckoned up his few possessions. His wife had certainly loved him once pa.s.sionately. It was long since he had recalled her former tenderness; he now did so distinctly. "It is not possible," he thought to himself, "that so strong a feeling can have utterly died out;" the fault of their estrangement must be his, but it should all be different. If he could succeed in withdrawing her from the baleful influences that surrounded her, and in awakening all that was honest and true in her, they might help each other to support life like good friends. It was impossible to make their home in Vienna, where his sensitive nature was continually outraged and at war with her satisfied vanity. Under such circ.u.mstances irritation was unavoidable. But she had been wont to talk of buying a country-seat, and had been eloquent about, the delights of a country life. Yes, somewhere in the country, in a pretty, quiet home, forgotten by the world, they might begin life anew; here was the solution of the problem; this was the right thing to do! He thought of his dead child; perhaps G.o.d would bestow upon him another.

What would, meanwhile, become of Olga? Like a stab, the thought came to him that with her fate he had nothing to do. Olga would miss him, but in time, yes, in time she would marry some good man. He never for an instant admitted the idea that she could share his sinful affection.