To her great astonishment, Lensky remains silent. She pouts, and Nikolai continues: "Father was so touched by your tenderness that he forgot everything else, but I a.s.sure you that the thought that you could a second time go about in the world so unprotected is just as fearful to him as to me."

"G.o.d knows it," Lensky a.s.sures her emphatically.

Maschenka's childish self-sufficiency diminishes considerably; she lowers her head and bites her under lip; she fights back tears. She had been so proud of her stroke of genius, and now----

"I do not want to quarrel with you," continues Nikolai, kindly, "only warn you. You imagine that I am displeased with you for worldly reasons, which you despise. Oh! we know that. But this time I have nothing to say of the gossip to which you expose yourself. The princ.i.p.al thing with me is, that by such wrong precipitation as your flight from Arcachon you run the risk of dangers and embarra.s.sments of which you have no suspicion, and which could destroy all happiness in your existence for you. Therefore, Maschenka, be wise, give me your hand upon it, and your word of honor that you will never again run away from home secretly and unprotected."

The tender tone in which Nikolai has delivered his little lecture has evidently gone to Mascha's heart.

"Well, Maschenka, darling, will you give me your word of honor?" asks Nikolai, earnestly.

She is just about to stretch out her hand to him to seal the solemn promise he has asked; then suddenly her manner changes, she throws back her head. "I will promise nothing," says she, looking at her brother out of her dark blue eyes with tender roguishness--"nothing at all."

"But, Mascha!"

"No, no, no," says she. "Why should I? It would be no use, Nikolai.

For, do you see, if I should ever be in a similar fit of anxiety about you, then, then, Colia, I should lose my head again, and not only run away a second time, but, if it was necessary, break my word of honor."

And laughing, but with eyes full of tears, she throws both arms around Nikolai's neck and says: "Now be angry, very angry, quickly!"

Lensky laughs his good-natured, deep laugh, and repeats mockingly: "So, please be angry, Colia, really." And Nikolai draws himself up, wishes to once more explain to his sister more emphatically and severely how perfectly unsuitable he has found her behavior, and instead of that--yes, instead of that--he only kisses her tenderly, and murmurs: "Ah! you dear, good-for-nothing little witch, you, if you were only half so wise as you are good and charming--or, or if one could always be with you to protect you!"

At these loving words, Maschenka bursts into tears. "What is the matter, darling?" asks Nikolai.

"But, my little dove!" says Lensky, quite amazed.

She turns from one to the other. "You are both too good to me, and I am too happy," sobs she. While father and brother are still occupied in calming her with jests and caresses, the rustle of a silk dress causes them to turn their heads.

Down the broad oak stairs came two ladies, Madame Jeliagin and her daughter Anna; the first, her hair arranged in the fashion of twenty years ago, in a faded violet silk dress; the second, a brilliant apparition in faultless morning dress, tall, blonde, with regular features, which, alas! are disfigured by an expression of great arrogance.

Barbara Jeliagin throws herself upon Lensky, and kisses him on both cheeks. Anna scarcely gives him her finger-tips. She cannot bear these barbarous caresses which are repeated at all Russian family scenes.

Lensky himself feels a little surprised at his sister-in-law's affectionateness; he looks at her in astonishment. Is it possible that this withered old woman in the faded dress is really the Barbe Jeliagin formerly celebrated for the luxuriance of her toilets, the exotic unusualness of her entertainments, his wife's sister, the arrogant "Princess Barbe," who had never ceased to regard her sister's marriage to the violinist as a _mesalliance_?

"My poor sister! You know that she refused Pierre Trubezkoy. We were horrified at her marriage. Lensky is really a great genius!" He knew that she used to say this to all her distinguished acquaintances. He had heard her say it himself once, and now----

* * * * *

"Was I right with regard to the Jeliagins?" Nikolai asks his father, when, an hour later, they leave the pretty house.

"Yes," replied Lensky, thoughtfully. He did not tell his son that Barbara had made use of the first moment when she was alone with him to ask him for money, but he murmured frequently to himself: "Things have gone down with Barbe. Who would have thought it? Life has not used her tenderly!" He remembered his son's words, who had boldly a.s.serted that Mascha could nowhere be worse taken care of than with this good-natured, characterless woman, who turned with the wind, and who was completely without will opposed to her daughter's arrogance.

"Not worse!" repeated Lensky. Now that was exaggeration. Still he must try to seek another home for Mascha. But where, then, where? On the whole, Colia's plan was not so bad. In spite of the extravagant generosity which he had always shown to his family, in spite of the unlimited benevolence which would have put many princes to shame, his means sufficed to make Mascha's life as happy, as comfortable as the vain little thing could wish. And how delightful it would be to have this charming little being always about him, to be able to pet her from morning to evening! That was his manner of loving a child! But that would be all the same if it did not happen to-day or to-morrow. No; only this one more last time would he loose the reins, satiate himself with the mad, gipsy life.

The virtuoso tour which Herr Braun had planned for him lasted into June. That was not much longer, scarcely six months. With that he would finish, in order to then found a calm, quiet home somewhere.

VIII.

If any one had ventured to tell Nikolai that he would fall in love at first sight with a girl with whom he had not exchanged a word, he would really have laughed in the person's face.

In love with an unknown, he, Nikolai, the prudent Nikolai Lensky, doubly prudent from opposition to his easily excited father, giving way unresistingly to every momentary impression? Nonsense! And still he could not deny it. For a week he had thought of nothing but Nita.

Besides, it must be said that fortune seemed to have given herself the task of exciting into uproar his power of imagination, of fanning into a flame the slight fire within him, by continually letting her appear before him like a lovely _Fata Morgana_, without granting him an opportunity of meeting her.

The day after the concert he had presented himself at the two young ladies' studio, to inquire after Nita's health. He had not seen Nita, only Sophie, who told him that her friend had kept her room on account of a severe headache.

Dear, good Sophie! How glad she was to see him, so heartily, so truly.

She had grown much prettier in this last year; he told her so to her face, at which she blushed charmingly. Then he asked about all kinds of things: how she liked the modern Babylon, where she had learned to know her friend, what kind of a person she was. That he naturally did only in the interest of his little adopted sister. He must convince himself whether a.s.sociation with the young Austrian was desirable for her.

Sophie did not need to be urged to tell him of her idolized friend. The harshness, and at the same time the boundless goodness, of her nature she described to him, the strange mixture of man-like strength of decision and the charming loveliness with which she could make good her vexing roughness. She repeated to him Nita's gay _traits d'esprit_, she showed him Nita's studies.

An hour, an hour and a half he remained in the studio. Sophie made him a cup of tea, told him of Nita's family, that she had a cousin in Paris whose name was Count Barenburg, _attache_ to the Russian emba.s.sy, a very good-looking man, and very amusing in conversation, without much depth. He often visited Nita in the studio. Nikolai must know him.

Yes, Nikolai said he knew him, and Sophie talked on until at length twilight fell. Nikolai accompanied her to the house-door in the Rue Murillo, and a.s.sured her that for a long time nothing had so truly pleased him as to see her again.

What conclusions Sonia might draw from this unusual warmth of her cousin he did not for a moment consider.

Two days later, at the opera--he sat in the parquet--he heard some Paris dandies whispering of the beauty of a new apparition. These young men's opera-gla.s.ses all aimed at the same front row box. He looked up.

There, near an old lady whom he had seen as a child in St. Petersburg with his mother, and had recently met again in Raris, Lady Barenburg, he saw Nita. She wore a white low-neck dress, and a few red roses on her breast.

Meanwhile the representation of "L'Africaine" went on with all the effect which is given to a Meyerbeer opera in Paris. Nikolai scarcely noticed it. Unchangedly he looked up and observed the young girl, each characteristic movement, the incessantly changing expression of her face, on which light and shade seemed to chase each other.

She attracted him as everything mysterious attracts one. Why did she affect this mocking coldness? he asked himself. Why did she conceal the most beautiful part of herself?

At the close of the performance, he stood at the edge of the broad stairs to see her pa.s.s by. From afar he discovered her gold-lit hair.

Now she came by him. She was leaning on Barenburg's arm. She was wrapped in a white wrap whose fur border came up to her ear tips and concealed half her face.

His look met that of the young girl. Before he had time to remove his hat Nita had turned away her head with a short, repellant gesture.

The sweetness of fresh roses pa.s.sed by him with her. He stood there as if rooted to the ground. Why had she avoided his greeting? What had he done? Rage gnawed at his heart; no longer would he trouble himself about this arrogant girl; it was indeed scarcely worth the trouble to rack his brains as to what secret lay hidden in her cold gray eyes.

The next day he met her again unexpectedly on the Boulevard de Courcelles. She wore the same simple dress in which he had seen her the first time at the concert, and walked very quickly without looking to the right or the left, like some one who has a significant aim and a fixed time before her.

A little child, frightened by a large dog, slipped and fell down on the sidewalk, crying loudly. Nikolai wished to pick it up. Nita was before him. She picked up the child and asked if she had hurt herself. She had only scratched her hands and chin a little, but she was very dirty.

She soiled Nita's dress while she leaned close up to her in her four-year-old sobbing, childish fear. But Nita did not seem to notice that, or, at least, to pay any attention to it, and calmed her with all kinds of caressing talk. Then she wiped the child's face with her handkerchief, kissed her, and finally she took one of her hands, red with cold, in hers, and quite unembarra.s.sed, pursued her way with the poorly dressed little thing to a cake-shop.

There she seated the child at a table. The child drank chocolate from a large, thick cup which she had to hold with both hands; then she set down the cup with a sigh of deep satisfaction, and consumed a cake with the thoughtful slowness of a child unaccustomed to the enjoyment of such luxuries, who seeks to prolong it as long as possible, while Nita looks at her pleasantly, nothing less than sentimental.

Nikolai's heart beat loud. He left his post as listener from fear that she would discover him at his lover's watch. For he was in love, that he now knew himself; he no longer denied it, for he knew better; he knew very well that the girl with the pale face and the brilliant eyes held the happiness of his life in her hands, that great, warm happiness for which his care-laden youth longed in vain.

IX.

There is a great uneasiness in the ladies' studio in the Avenue Frochot. In spite of its being merely the beginning of December, already many of the students have begun to think of the great yearly exhibition of sending to the Salon.