Part 50 (2/2)

”Poor Ada! She was very charming, but she became interested in all sorts of free-thinking books, and they turned her head,” says the Countess Zriny. ”In my opinion a woman who reads Strauss and Renan is lost.”

”The remarks of the company are excessively interesting to me,” Kilary now strikes in, with an impertinent intonation in his nasal voice, ”but I beg to be allowed to speak, since what I have to tell is quite sensational. You know that Countess Ada has tried in vain to induce her n.o.ble husband to consent to a divorce. Meanwhile, Gladnjik's condition culminated in galloping consumption, and two days ago he died.”

”And she?” several voices asked at once.

”She?--she took poison!”

For a moment there is a bush in the brilliantly-lighted room, the soft sighing of the music in the shrubbery is again audible. Through the open windows is wafted in the beguiling charm of an Hungarian dance by Brahms.

There is a change of sentiment in the a.s.semblage: the harshness with which but now all had judged the Countess Ada gives place to compa.s.sionate sympathy.

Countess Zriny presses her lace-trimmed handkerchief to her eyes. ”Poor Ada!” she murmurs; ”I can see her now; a more charming young girl there never was. Why did they force her to marry that old Reinsfeld?”

”He had so excellent a cook,” sneers Kilary, with a glance at ”the numismatician,” from whose armour of excellent appet.i.te the dart falls harmless.

”Forced!” Paula interposes eagerly, in her deep, guttural tones. ”As if nowaday's any one with a spark of character could be forced to marry!”

Harry twirls his moustache and looks down at his plate.

”I am the last to defend a departure from duty,” the old canoness goes on, ”but in this case the blame really falls partly upon Ada's family.

They forced her to marry; they subjected her to moral force.”

”That is true,” even Kilary, heartless cynic as he is, admits. ”They forced her, although they knew that she and Niki Gladnjik were attached to each other. Moreover, I must confess that, in spite of the admirable qualities which distinguish Reinsfeld,--as, for example, his excellent cook,--it must have been very difficult for a delicate-minded, refined young creature to live with the disgusting old satyr--my expressions are cla.s.sically correct.”

”Niki took her marriage sorely to heart,” sighed the sporting Countess.

”They say he ruined his health by the dissipation into which he plunged to find forgetfulness. In that direction Ada certainly was much to blame; she was carried away by compa.s.sion.”

Meanwhile, Fainacky has made another sign for the music. The dreamy half-notes die away, and the loud tones of a popular march echo through the night.

All rise from table.

Treurenberg's brain spins, as with the Countess Zriny on his arm he walks into the garden-room, where the guests are to admire the decorations and to drink their coffee.

”The fair Olga is not seriously ill?” he hears Kilary say to Selina.

”Oh, not at all,” Selina replies. ”You need not fear anything infectious. Olga is rather overstrained and exaggerated; you cannot imagine what a burden papa left us in the care of her. But we have settled it to-day with mamma: she must leave the house,--at least for a time. My aunt Emilie is to take her to Italy. It will be a great relief to us all.”

CHAPTER XL.

A FAREWELL.

While some of the guests are contented merely to admire the decorations of the garden-room, others suggest improvements. They cannot quite agree us to where the musicians should be placed, and the band migrates from one spot to another, like a set of homeless fugitives; in one place the music is too loud, in another it is not loud enough. Hilary's nasal, arrogant voice is heard everywhere in command. At last the band is stationed just before the large western window of the room. Some one suggests trying a waltz. Kilary waltzes with Selina. Treurenberg watches the pair. They waltz in the closest embrace, her head almost resting on his shoulder.

Once Lato might have remonstrated with his wife upon such an exhibition of herself; but to-day, ah, how indifferent he is to it all! He turns away from the crowd and noise, and walks beyond the circle of light into the park. Here a hand is laid on his shoulder. He turns: Harry has followed him.

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