Boris Lensky Part 28

Nothing further. What could have happened? He took his hat, followed quite on the waiter's heels, and sprang in the carriage.

"Avenue Wagram, No. ----," he called to the driver, "as fast as you can."

The cab stops, Lensky plunges out, the house door was open. An unpleasant smell of mire met him.

From the entrance, along the hall, he saw great drops of mud. He noticed it without thinking particularly of it. A feeling of painful discomfort grows in him with every step which he takes, and yet he could not have said what he feared.

He found no one to announce him, to tell him where his sister-in-law, where any one could be found. The whole household is in commotion.

Uncertainly he stands still for a moment. Then he notices that these same large, black mud-drops which he has seen in the vestibule had soiled the linen stair-covering.

And suddenly he remembers how he had already seen such a train of muddy spots--in Moscow, on a hot summer night, when they carried a drowned person through the streets. He followed the drops, went up the stairs, still following them to one door; he knew in which room the door opened.

For one moment he hesitates, as if he could not face the horror which awaited him. Then he bursts open the door. The room is dimly lighted. A single candle flickers near the bed, from which the white curtains are remorselessly pushed back, and there on the bed lies something--he cannot exactly decide it. Trembling in her whole frame, Madame Jeliagin stands before it. Great, wet, black drops are on her dress, as if she had handled a mud-covered body.

"Mascha!" he groans, beside himself, seizing his sister-in-law by her thin arm and pus.h.i.+ng her away from the bed.

Yes, there lies Mascha, waxy pale, with closed eyes and wet hair clinging to her cheeks.

"She is dead!" he gasps.

"No, no; she lives," a.s.sures Madame Jeliagin, but there is no joy in her voice, but uneasiness and discomfort.

Mascha opens her eyes, turns them away from her father, and shudders.

Lensky has seated himself on the edge of the bed near her. One of her little hands lies on the counterpane; he takes it in his, kisses and strokes it.

"How did it happen?" he asks, bent over the child.

"When I came home she was not here," declares Madame Jeliagin, hastily.

There is something flattering, dog-like, whining in her tone, as if she feared being blamed. "She had left word with the maid that she would not return to dinner, as she was to dine with you and Nikolai. I sat calmly down to dinner--alone, Anna dines with friends--about half-past ten. I had just sent the servant for Anna; a carriage stopped before the door. I heard a heavy stamping in the vestibule; voices speaking together. The maid said they desired madame. I rush out; then I see two men who carry in the child. They told me--from a steamer--somewhere near Pa.s.sy--a girl had been seen to fall into the water--Mascha--only at the right time they plunged after her--saved her. Fortunately, there was some one among the pa.s.sengers who knew her, a servant who sometimes a.s.sists here, who brought her here, or else they would have taken her to the police station. It is fearful--an accident, a terrible accident, an imprudence--the gate of the steamer was badly secured she leaned against it--and----"

With deeply bent head Lensky has listened to the simple report. He still rubs and strokes his daughter's little hand. "What, accident!"

murmured he. "How did she come on the s.h.i.+p? She wished to kill herself from grief. Poor little dove! What grief can one have at seventeen? Oh, my petulant, gay darling, my tender, defiant little curly head, who has grieved you so?" Then, again turning to his sister-in-law: "Have you, at least, sent for a physician?" he says, imperiously.

"I did not know," murmurs she, confusedly.

Mascha trembles from head to foot, and drawing her hand away from her father, she hides her face in the pillows and groans: "No--no--no doctor!"

Lensky looks at her more attentively; he has understood! It is no human sound; it is the cry of a wild animal which now escapes his breast; then he rushes upon his daughter, seizes her by the throat, strikes her in the face. "Shameless one!" he screams.

"_Pas de violence_, for G.o.d's sake!" stammers Madame Jeliagin, anxiously.

But he does not listen to her.

"Who was it?" he gasps. "Who was it?" he thunders at his sister-in-law.

"I do not know--I had no suspicion--I never noticed the slightest,"

stammers she.

"So! You never noticed anything," he repeats after her. "Noticed nothing! So! Did you, perhaps, pick up a lover on the streets?" he sneers at Mascha.

Then she opens her eyes, rests them on him with a touchingly sad, supplicating, humble, reproachful glance. It seems to him that something has snapped within him. The anger is gone; only a great pity yet lives in him, and he bends over the child and takes her in his arms, clasps her to his breast, sobs and covers her pale little face with kisses and tears. Meanwhile he notices that Madame Jeliagin still stands near him, that she watches him. He stands up. "What have you to do here now, you--you who did not know how to guard my child? Go!" And imperiously he points to the door.

Still murmuring, explaining, excusing herself, she vanishes.

The door has closed behind her.

"Mascha, how was it possible?" he asks, softly.

She is silent.

"Mascha, for G.o.d's sake, say it, or else I shall go mad," he implores.

"There must be something which excuses you. How did it happen? who was it?"

"I will not say; it is no use. You will harm him; I do not wish that any harm should happen to him."

In vain does he urge her further; she gives him no answer. Her little face turned to the wall, she lies there motionless and silent, like a corpse. And at length he is weary of questioning her, and sits by her, weary, relaxed, with the confused expression of a man who has been struck on the head. His thoughts wander to indifferent things. He asks himself if he has taken the key out of his trunk; whether the waiter will post the letter which lies on his desk. Then he hears the house-door open, hears the rustle of a silk dress. Anna has returned.

Cold s.h.i.+vers run down his back. Now she will hear it, the arrogant creature who has always looked down upon his darling. He would like to go out and close old Jeliagin's mouth, forbid her to speak.

Can he, indeed, close the mouth of all Paris? To-morrow the gossips will tell it to each other before the house-doors in the half light--it will be in all the newspapers.

And he sits there as if petrified, and does not move; listens--listens as if he could hear up-stairs what they say to each other. Sweat is on his brow, the blood burns in his cheeks, and now he really hears something, Anna's thin, icy voice, which cries out: "_Quelle honte, quelle horreur!_"

Mascha holds her hands over her ears. Lensky springs up, hurries to the door which Madame Jeliagin has neglected to close tight behind her. He closes it carefully, draws the portiere over it, only that Mascha may not hear anything else offensive. Then he goes up to her bed again, and notices that she is glowing with fever. He pa.s.ses his hand over her cheeks; she clutches his hand, presses it first to her mouth, and then holds it before her eyes.

"Shall I put out the light?" he asks, gently.

She nods. Then he sits by her in the dark. Ever stronger he has the feeling as if the despotic yoke of a misfortune to which he must bow because he is powerless against it, were weighing down upon him. In all his nerves trembles the fearful shock. It seems to him that he has seen something fall together before him--all that he clung to, the future of his child!

He thinks of his ambitious dreams; of the money he has saved for her--he, who formerly squandered everything. A boundless shame torments him; it is all over--all.

The whole night long, restless, without peace, he seeks only a hand-breadth of blue sky for his child, seeks no great, brilliant happiness such as he has dreamed of for Mascha; no, the most moderate, only a tolerable life--seeks a salvation--in vain--nothing--nothing!

His mind is like a captive bird which wounds itself at every beat of its wings against the bars of a too small cage. And yet he is not weary of seeking, of tormenting himself.

The longest night has an end, and the nights in early June are not long. Morning dawns. In ruthlessly plain outlines, all the objects in Mascha's room meet Lensky's eyes. All looks soiled, everywhere the dark spots of mud; there the shawl in which the men had wrapped the suicide after they drew her from the water, there a heap of soiled, wet clothes. It goes to his heart. On that morning when he took leave of his darling, on the same spot lay a dress also, but as white, as pure, as fresh as spring blossoms.

The picture of the light, fragrant room, the dear picture which he had continually carried about in his heart during his last journey, rises in his mind. It is indeed the same room, the same girl. She sleeps as also at that time--no, not as at that time. Her cheeks are flushed with fever, her limbs twitch incessantly. Softly he draws the covers up over her uncovered shoulders. She murmurs something in her sleep; he listens; always the same word: "Mother--mother!"

XXVII.

In the fire-place of Nita's pretty little drawing-room crackles a gay wood fire. Everything in the room is attractive and pretty, as usual.

In the midst of these cosey surroundings sits Sonia, s.h.i.+vering, with bent head. Nita enters the room, goes up to her, and lays a hand on her shoulder. Sonia looks up; her eyes meet those of her friend almost anxiously.

"Ah! you know it already?" murmurs she. Nita nods. For a moment they are both silent.