Part 24 (1/2)
”Do you know the words too?” Olga exclaims, turning towards him.
”If you but knew how often I have heard that song sung!” he replies, with the absent air of a man whose thoughts are straying in a far past.
”At concerts?”
”No, in private.”
”By a lady?” she asks, half persistently, half hesitatingly.
”Yes, grand inquisitor, by a lady; by a lady for whom I had a little _tendresse_--h'm!--a very sincere _tendresse_. She sang it to me every day. The very evening before her betrothal she sang it to me; and how deliciously sweet it was! Would you like to know who it was?”
”Yes.”
”The Countess Wodin.”
”The Countess Wodin!” Olga exclaims, amazed.
Lato laughs. ”You cannot understand how any one could take any interest in such a flirt?”
”Oh, no,” she says, thoughtfully, ”it is not that. She is very pretty even yet, and gay and amusing, but--he is horrible, and I cannot understand her marrying him, when----”
”When she might have had me?” he concludes her sentence, laughing.
”Frankly, yes.” As she speaks she looks full in his face with undisguised kindliness.
He smiles, flattered, and still more amused. ”What would you have?
Wodin was rich, and I--I was a poor devil.”
”Oh, how odious!” she murmurs, frowning, her dark eyes glowing with indignation. ”I cannot understand how any one can marry for money----”
She stops short. As she spoke her eyes met his, and his were instantly averted. An embarra.s.sing pause ensues.
Olga feels that she is upon dangerous ground. They both change colour,--he turns pale, she blushes,--but her embarra.s.sment is far greater than his. When he looks at her again he sees that there are tears in her eyes, and he pities her.
”Do not vex yourself, Olga,” he says, with a low, bitter laugh. And taking one of her slender hands in his, he strokes it gently, and then carries it to his lips.
”Ah, still _aux pet.i.ts soins_?--how touching!” a harsh nasal voice observes behind the pair. They look round and perceive a young man, who, in spite of his instant apology for intruding, shows not the slightest disposition to depart. He is dressed in a light summer suit after the latest watering-place fas.h.i.+on. He is neither tall nor short, neither stout nor slender, neither handsome nor ugly, but thoroughly unsympathetic in appearance. His very pale complexion is spotted with a few pock-marks; his light green eyes are set obliquely in his head, like those of a j.a.panese; the long, twisted points of his moustache reach upward to his temples, and his hair is brushed so smoothly upon his head that it looks like a highly-polished barber's block. But all these details are simply by the way; what especially disfigures him is his smile, which shows his big white teeth, and seems to pull the end of his long, thin nose down over his moustache.
”Fainacky!” exclaims Treurenberg, unpleasantly surprised.
”Yes, the same! I am charmed to see you again, Treurenberg,” exclaims the Pole. ”Have the kindness to present me to your wife,” he adds, bowing to Olga.
”I think my wife is dressing,” Treurenberg says, coldly. ”This is a young relative,--a cousin of my wife's.--Olga, allow me to introduce to you Count Fainacky.”
In the mean time Paula is occupied with her betrothed's education. In tones that grow drowsier and drowsier, while his articulation becomes more and more indistinct, Harry stumbles through Shakespeare's immortal verse.
Paula's part is given with infinite sentiment. The thing is growing too tiresome, Harry thinks.