Part 44 (1/2)
”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.