There is no doubt in Stella"s mind that he is reconciled with Sophie Oblonsky.
A man will forgive a very beautiful woman everything, even the evil which he has heard of her, nay, he may find a mysterious charm in her transgressions, if she takes pains to win his favour with intelligence, prudence, and the necessary degree of reserve. This piece of wisdom Stella has gained from the French romances of which she has read extracts out of pure ennui as they appear daily in "Figaro" and the "Gaulois."
That a man must find it difficult to shake off an old friend who approaches him with imploring humility, that he cannot well refuse when she requests him to bring her an ice, and that should she hand him her fan he cannot possibly lay it down on a table with a proudly forbidding air and then take his leave with a formal bow,--all this Stella never takes into consideration; and this is why she is so wretchedly unhappy as she seats herself beside Natalie Lipinski on a plush ottoman, near a table of flowers.
A young Russian, a friend of the Lipinskis, begs Natalie for a waltz, and she takes his arm and goes into the adjoining dancing-room. Stella is left alone, beside old Madame Lipinski, who is just getting ready to relate something extremely entertaining about the Emperor Nicholas, when Rohritz suddenly perceives Stella. With a smiling remark he hands the white feather fan to a gentleman standing beside him, and hastens towards the young girl, paying his respects, of course, first to the elder lady, and then to her. If he has reckoned upon her old-time child-like, confiding smile, he is disappointed. She answers him stiffly, and thanks him for his flowers without cordiality. "How pale she looks!" he says to himself. "What can be the matter with her? Can she have cried her eyes out because she must dance the cotillon to-night with me instead of with Zino Capito?"
""Tis very hard that poor Capito should be disabled just at this time,"
he remarks.
"Yes, because the burden of dancing the cotillon with me devolves upon you," Stella replies, betraying, for the first time since he has known her, a degree of sensitiveness that is almost ridiculous. "I am, of course, perfectly ready to release you from the obligation."
"That would be a readiness to rob me of a pleasure to which I had looked forward eagerly," he replies, gravely.
"You had looked forward to it?--really?" Stella asks, with genuine surprise in her eyes. "Really?" And she looks down with a shake of the head at her poor white dress, at her entire toilette, in which nothing is absolutely modern save the long gloves that reach to her shoulders.
It is rather remarkable that these gloves are the only thing about her with which Edgar Rohritz finds fault.
"What charming dimples that Swedish kid must hide!" he says to himself.
A seat beside Stella hitherto occupied by an Englishwoman with very sharp red elbows is vacated. Edgar takes possession of it.
"Yes, I had looked forward to it," he says, "although I do not dance, and you will consequently be obliged to talk with me through the cotillon."
A pause ensues. She looks down; involuntarily he does the same. His eyes rest upon her foot that peeps out beneath the hem of her ball-dress. He recalls how once, on a meadow beneath a spreading oak, kneeling before her he had held that foot in his hands. What a charming, soft, warm little foot it was! She suddenly perceives that he is looking at it; she withdraws it hastily, and with a half-wayward, half-distressed air pulls her skirt farther over her knee. Of course he does not smile, but he wants to. And he could reproach this girl for accidentally in the outline of her features recalling a woman who from all that he could discover concerning her was more to be pitied than blamed. It was odious, cruel; more than that, it was stupid!
Leaning towards her, and speaking more softly than before, he says, gravely, "And I hope that during the cotillon you will confide to me, as an old friend, why you look so sad to-night."
Any other girl would have understood that these words from a man of Edgar"s great reserve of character were to pave the way for a declaration.
Stella understands nothing of the kind.
"Why I am so sad?" she replies, simply. "Because----"
At this moment Natalie approaches on the arm of a blonde young man.
"Count Kasin wishes to be presented to you, Stella," she says.
The young man bows, and begs for a dance. Stella goes off upon his arm, not because she has any desire to dance, but because it would be disgraceful for a young girl to sit through an entire ball.
"Who is that young lady?" asks an Englishman of Edgar"s acquaintance.
"She is an Austrian,--Baroness Stella Meineck."
"Strange how like she is to that famous Greuze in the Louvre,--"_La Cruche ca.s.see_"! She is charming."
The words were uttered without any thought of evil, but nevertheless Edgar feels for a moment as if he would like to throttle the Hon. Mr.
Harris.
And why is he suddenly reminded of the girl whom he had seen this afternoon in the twilight hurrying along the street to vanish in the house where Zino has his apartments? How very like she was to Stella!
An hour has pa.s.sed. Stella has walked through two quadrilles, has walked and polked with various partners, as well as she could,--that is, conscientiously and badly, just as she learned from a dancing-master eight years before, and, try as she may, she is conscious that she never shall take any real pleasure in this hopping and jumping about. Now, when the rest are just beginning fairly to enjoy the ball, she is tired,--quite tired. With her last partner, a good-humoured, gentlemanly young Austrian diplomatist, she has become so dizzy that in the midst of the dance she has begged to be taken back to Madame Lipinski. But Madame Lipinski has left her place; some one says she has gone to the conservatory; and thither Stella and her partner betake themselves.
They do not find Madame Lipinski, but Stella feels decidedly better.
The green, fragrant twilight of the conservatory has a soothing effect upon her nerves. The air is cool, compared with that of the ball-room; the roughened surface of the mosaic floor affords a pleasant change after the slippery smoothness of the dancing-room. Stella sinks wearily into an inviting low chair.
"Are b.a.l.l.s always so terribly fatiguing?" she asks her companion, with her usual frankness.
He bows.
"I did not mean to be rude," she hastily explains, "but you must confess that it is much pleasanter to talk comfortably here than to whirl about in there," pointing with her fan in the direction of the dancing-room.
The attache, quite propitiated, takes his place upon a low seat beside her, and prepares for a sentimental flirtation. To his great surprise, Stella seems to have as little enthusiasm for flirting as for dancing.
"A charming spot!" he begins. "The fragrance of these orange-blossoms reminds me of Nice. You have been at Nice, Baroness?"
"I have been everywhere, from Madrid to Constantinople," Stella sighs; "and I wish I were at home. My head aches so!"--pa.s.sing her hand wearily across her brow.
"Shall I get you an ice, or a gla.s.s of lemonade?" he asks, good-naturedly.
"I should be much obliged to you," Stella replies.
"Hm! it does not look as if she were very anxious for a _tete-a-tete_ with me," he thinks, as he leaves her.
He has gone: she is alone among the fragrant flowers and the larged-leaved plants. Softened, but distinctly audible, the sound of hopping and gliding feet reaches her ears, while, now sadly caressing and anon merrily careless, the strains of a Strauss waltz float on the air. For a while she sits quite wearily, with half-closed eyes, thinking of nothing save "I hope the attache will stay away a long time!" Mingling softly and tenderly with the music she hears the dreamy murmur of a miniature fountain. Why is she suddenly reminded of the melancholy rush of the Save, of the little canoe by the edge of the black water? Suddenly she hears voices in her vicinity, and, raising her eyes to a tall, broad mirror opposite, she beholds, framed in by the gold-embroidered hangings of a heavy portiere, a striking picture,--the Princess Oblonsky and Edgar. They are in a little boudoir separated from the conservatory by an open door. Without stirring, Stella watches the pair in the treacherous mirror. Edgar sits in a low arm-chair, his elbow on his knee, his head propped on his hand, and the Princess is opposite him. How wonderfully beautiful she is!--beautiful although she is just brushing away a tear.
"It always makes me so ugly to cry!" Stella thinks, not without bitterness.
The Princess"s gloves and fan lie beside her; her arms are bare. With an expression of intense melancholy, an expression not only apparent in her face and in the listless droop of her arms, but also seeming to be shared by every fold of her dress, she leans back among the soft-hued, rose-coloured and gray satin cushions of a small lounge.
"Strange, that we should have met at last!--at last!" she sighs. Stella cannot distinguish his reply, but she distinctly hears the Princess say, "Do you remember that waltz? How often its notes have floated towards us upon the breath of the roses in the long afternoons at Baden! How long a time has pa.s.sed since then! How long----"
A black mist rises before Stella"s eyes. She puts up her hands to her ears, and, thrilling from head to foot, springs up and hurries away,--anywhere, anywhere,--only away from this spot,--far away!
At the other end of the conservatory she is doing her best to regain her composure and to keep back the tears, when suddenly she hears a light manly tread near her and the clinking of gla.s.ses.
"Ah! "tis Binsky: he has found me," Stella thinks, most unjustly provoked with the good-humoured attache.
"I really believe, Baroness, you are playing hide-and-seek with me,"
the young diplomatist addresses her in a tone of mild reproof.
There is nothing for it but to turn round. Beside the attache, in all the majestic gravity of his kind, stands a lackey with a salver, from which she takes a gla.s.s of lemonade.
After the servant has withdrawn, Count Binsky says, with a laugh, "I have been looking for you, Baroness, in every corner of the conservatory. I must confess to having made interesting discoveries during my wanderings. Look here,"--and he shows her a white ostrich-feather fan with yellow tortoise-sh.e.l.l sticks broken in two,"--I found this relic in the pretty little boudoir near the place where I left you. Now, did you ever see anything so mutely eloquent as this broken fan?--the tragic culmination of a highly dramatic scene! I should like to know what lady had the desperate energy to reduce this exquisite trifle to such a state."
"Perhaps there is a monogram on the fan," says Stella, her pale face suddenly becoming animated. "Look and see."