Since the evening when Jacob had shown himself so much like Joseph in his interview with Muse, the relations between him and that young lady had gradually cooled. This resulted from an understanding between mother and daughter. They saw that his capture was not probable, yet resolved not to break entirely with him, but to keep him as a reserve. Henri Segel, although married, was much more promising. Muse did not deceive herself as to the nature of his love for her. It was a love which was not likely to prove lasting, but often led, when at its full height, to great follies. Madame Wtorkowska, again unsettled, insisted on the necessity of enlarging their circle of acquaintances, and said to her daughter:--

"These idiots do not appreciate you at your true value, and I am inclined to seek acquaintances among the Russians. They love society, and are better judges of grace and beauty than these foolish Varsovians. Let us attract them to us."

"An excellent idea, mamma. With the Russians an accomplished woman endowed with talents is a rarity; with us she is more common, and must have all kinds of accomplishments. With a man like Jacob all efforts are thrown away. He is an honest man, but utterly insensible. Why, I almost embraced Judaism, but that did not melt him. This acting fatigues me, and I have no desire to prolong it; we can never obtain anything from him; never! I proved it in our last interview. Without having any particular affection for Henri, I avow, mamma, that I count on him. He is mine. Mathilde gets weaker every day. She fades before our very eyes; but suppose she recovers--she is no obstacle. She has no children. Divorce is common with the Jews. Here is a husband for me worth having."

"My dear child, the honeymoon would be sweet; but afterward would he make you happy? He does not altogether please me."

"As for me," said Muse, "I am not afraid. I know how to manage him; and as for Jacob, he wearies me. He is too good, too pathetic."

As the result of this conversation, Colonel Sofronof and the Major Ierasimofskoy were introduced into the house of Madame Wtorkowska, who essayed to dazzle them by the elegance of her receptions. Muse captivated them both. Sofronof fell seriously in love, but as he was a practical man, much occupied with politics, he resolved to "kill two birds with one stone," and find out as much as he could in regard to existing affairs. He questioned Muse as to the opinions of her friends, ignorant that although she cultivated all, she had none. She had adapted herself to circumstances, she had sung patriotic hymns; but with the same ardour she had learned the Russian songs "Boge tsara Khrani" ("May God preserve the Tsar") and the "Red Sarafane," and on her piano lived in harmony, Polish inspirations and the official compositions of Lvof and Glinka to the glory of holy Russia.

The assiduity of the colonel led the mother and daughter to affect conservative opinions. They mocked at the revolutionists and the patriots, and all this accorded well with their aristocratic tone and manner of living.

Sofronof was a man of consummate cunning. Before he knew these ladies well he had believed them ardent Poles, and was very careful not to shock the opinions which he supposed they held. He spoke with great respect of the glories of ancient Poland, with pity of the sorrows of Poland of today. At the beginning of his passion for Muse he had been tempted, practical Russian as he was, to implicate the young lady in some political intrigue, and to have her imprisoned for two or three months in the citadel. Then he could pursue in the gloomy shadows of a cell the first chapters of his romance. The thing would not be difficult, the arrest easy; he had so many friends in the council of war. After some reflection, however, he abandoned this fine project, which had already been more than once put in execution by the gallant officers of the Tsar. Russians are so eccentric that their love-making even is somewhat original.

After some visits the colonel decided that he could be frank in his language with these ladies, without danger of wounding their Polish susceptibilities. Madame Wtorkowska spoke with enthusiasm of the reigning dynasty, and was pleased to recall memories of the reigns of Nicholas and of Alexander I., from whom her mother, as she said, had received a present of an amethyst necklace. She did not say for what service it was given; one could divine it. Muse, as liberal in words as it is permitted to be under the Russian rÉgime, approved the emancipation of the serfs, and exalted the other reforms of Alexander II. Like her mother, she was careful to condemn the revolutionists. Sofronof understood, after having listened to these ladies, that the salon where his good fortune had led him could easily become the centre of an active political reaction.

On intimate terms with Muse, a good musician and an ardent dilettante, he pursued a plan of conduct in which he did not forget the possibility of eventual marriage. With the usual blindness of men newly arrived in a strange country, he was thoroughly deceived as to Madame Wtorkowska's social position. Neither they, nor their manners, nor their borrowed elegance opened his eyes to their true character. He took for real their false luxury, their pretended relations with the great world. Yet he was a little surprised, without knowing why, with the silence and the smiles that always followed the name of Wtorkowska; but he attributed this to Polish malevolence at the Russian proclivities of the ladies.

Muse knew well how to attract, encourage, and put her visitors at ease. After each visit the colonel was expected to return the next day. It was a commission with which he was charged, some desired information, or some promised anecdote. The mother could not have been more accommodating. She often made the cares of housekeeping a pretext for leaving them alone, and when she did remain, she appeared a little deaf. Sofronof was delighted with her.

At the end of some weeks he one day found himself alone with Muse.

"Mademoiselle," said he, "pardon me if I inflict on you a serious conversation, for I wish to express all that is in my heart. I wish to tell you of an occupation which absorbs me. You and madame your mother can, I believe, have a happy influence on present events. Why not profit by it? The revolution is imminent. We are here, yet we are, in spite of the military forces at our disposal, in an almost unknown country, and we are embarrassed to know the right way to maintain public order. You can be of great use to us."

"How?" cried Muse. "We are only women."

"Women play a primary rÔle in Poland. They are involved in everything."

"But those are women of the lower class, not of the higher order, the aristocracy."

"Why should not a woman of the upper class who has opinions suit herself?"

"Women who are comme il faut cannot compromise themselves in the streets."

"They can act without leaving their homes."

"But why plunge us into these political questions?"

"In ordinary times it would be wrong for you to take any part, but in troubled periods like these it is your duty. The government has the right to ask your aid for the general good."

"And in what way can we be useful?"

"By enlightening us as to the situation. I swear to you that I have the good of the country at heart, within just limits and a firm union with Russia. Unfortunately, I and others can find out nothing."

Muse understood what he wished. She blushed at the suggestion, but the blush faded away rapidly. Lending herself to the colonel's views would, she thought, give her great power. It would raise her to great heights. Her imagination transported her almost to the steps of the throne, to the imperial dais. She looked at herself in the glass, and thought that her dreams of being at court had now some chance of being realized; and under this impression she replied:--

"Dear colonel, speak to me with entire freedom, I will listen."

"Be my counsellor and my guide," said Sofronof. "You have many friends. You see much society. Aid me to understand them; walk with me hand in hand."

Muse blushed, but said nothing and hung her head.

"I do not like politics and its embarrassing complications," said she. "However, if, as you think, I am capable of making myself useful, I will devote myself to the work heart and soul. But taking part in politics is like playing with fire,--one is often burned. In my situation as demoiselle, above all, this occupation might ruin my reputation and destroy my future. It is so easy now-a-days to fall under suspicion."

"Why entertain such fears," replied the colonel smiling. "You will come to Petersburg. There you will have the best reception. And every man on whom you deign to throw a glance from those irresistible black eyes will esteem himself happy, no matter how high his rank."

He paused; the hidden meaning of his words had been rendered intelligible to Muse by some foreign overtures. She judged that it was not worth while to be too particular at this crisis, and replied gayly:--

"Now, then, my dear colonel, you have not understood me. I merely wished to say that politics often cause much trouble."

Without further discussion they came to an understanding.

Some days after, Madame Wtorkowska's salon was thrown open with pomp. The assembly was, indeed, a motley one, and had been gathered from all classes; there were all kinds,--white, gray, red, blue. This was according to Sofronof's advice, and in this way was formed a neutral ground whereon all might meet on an equal footing. Jacob was there, and found himself more of a spectator than an actor. Since that famous evening when Muse reproduced scenes from the Bible, she had been very cold towards him. She no longer invited him to little games of cards, she sent him no more notes, and engaged him for no sentimental promenades. This change suited Jacob better than the attentions of former days. Henri Segel, also, was a regular visitor, and in the midst of the Russians was in his element; he paid court to them, accepted their invitations to dine, and invited them to his house. Mathilde, who under Jacob's influence had risen to a higher sphere intellectually and morally, was much disturbed by these incessant amusements. But her power was very limited, almost nothing. Absolute mistress of her own apartment, surrounded by her flowers and books, she lived a stranger in her own house. Her husband simply announced to her that such guests would dine with them that day, and often presented them to her without asking her consent. At table, the turn of the conversation was often displeasing to her. Her husband perceived it, but did not care.

Jacob, absorbed in the political situation, came rarely, as he was now sure to meet the Russians, whose frequent appearance at Mathilde's house was repugnant to him. He could not expect frankness from them; and he could not, in his turn, express himself freely before them, and this constraint put him in a disagreeable and trying situation.

Presumption and obstinacy usually accompanies a civilization as imperfect and superficial as that of the Russians. To appear progressive and liberal, they often, in conversation, express advanced ideas which they do not dream of putting in practice; to sincerity they reply by falsehoods.

Mathilde's life became more lonely and more isolated; she wasted away. Her cough increased, and she was consumed with fever. She passed entire days with her music endeavouring to forget her wearisome life. This distraction weakened her strength, but she refused to submit to any treatment. At night she read, creating thus an artificial imaginary world. Her only consolation, her only joy, was to talk with Jacob, in whom alone she had confidence; but he liked to come only when Henri and some of his new friends were amusing themselves. Then Jacob hastened to make a rapid examination of the progress of the malady which seemed to be consuming the young woman, and she looked attentively at him to discover if his brow was more gloomy, more care-worn. Afterward they pressed each other's hands, and separated.

It happened one evening at tea that no one was near Mathilde when Jacob arrived but the old English governess, who had become a friend of the house. He found Madame Segel very much changed.

"How rarely you come," cried Mathilde. "I know it is not indifference on your part, but if I had not perfect confidence in you, I should accuse Muse of depriving me of your society."

"Why do you speak of her?"

"Because it is evident that she has given entertainments in your honour."

"In my honour and in honour of a dozen others; Colonel Sofronof, and also Henri, your lord and master."

"I am not surprised that her fresh and blooming beauty pleases Henri more than my pallor and fatigue. There he finds smiles and songs, here sighs and tears. I do not wonder that he prefers her."

"Well, I do," said Jacob.

"If he were more devoted, I should reproach myself for not loving him. He is just as I wish him to be, polite, cold, and he leaves me entirely alone. It is some time now since Muse captivated him, but why should we care? What matters it to us?"

"Henri's conduct is indelicate"--

"What matters it, when I do not love him?"

Jacob walked up and down the room, and then stopped near Mathilde and looked at her fixedly.

"Pardon me," said he; "but a wild idea has just come into my mind."

"What idea? Tell me quickly."

"Divorce."

"No, no!" cried she. "I do not wish to bring to one whom I love with all my soul the miserable remains of my life, a broken heart and a sick body. Your idea is wicked and foolish. We have no right to seek happiness through scandal. Happiness gained thus will soon cease. Are we not happy as we are? What more can we wish? We can see each other often, talk, and press each other's hands, and we ought to be satisfied. To come nearer would, perhaps, prove a disenchantment for us both. Let us not renounce a supportable existence for dreams. Humiliated, faded, and weak, I am no longer the girl you formerly loved. No, no! Jacob, in the name of our love, never mention that word again. Do not tempt me; do not make me dream of happiness that can never be realized; it is impossible."

"The impossibility is only in your imagination. The thing is very feasible, dear Mathilde. What is there to bind you to your husband. He is as indifferent to you as you are to him. You have no children."

"Do not make me blush, Jacob. A woman should belong to but one man; whatever be her lot, happy or unhappy, she should submit, and be humble and resigned. I cannot commence life over again, and, moreover, I am standing on the threshold of the tomb, while your life has just begun."

"I thought that you loved me, Mathilde, as much as I love you!"

"More, for I have courage to sacrifice myself for your happiness. You cannot imagine how this idea of belonging to you has troubled my spirit. I assure you it has tempted me more than once, and I have always put it from me, as I do now. Have pity on me, do not oblige me to weep. I am weak, do not take advantage of my weakness."

"But this man is unworthy of you."

"Unworthy or not, I married him."

"And if he himself desired the divorce, would you hinder him?"

"Have you any reason for saying that?"

"No."

"Very well, then, say no more. Even if he desert me, I will refuse to be yours."

"This is folly, Mathilde."

"No, it is love. The true love of a woman who can love chastely. To give you my hand would be to put you in his place. After him; oh, no! that would be too humiliating."

"You are an angel, but I wish you to be a woman."

"Let us seek rather to elevate ourselves above this idle humanity."

"Perhaps you can attain this ideal, but I cannot."

"I can understand," said Mathilde with a slight blush. "I can understand an instant of aberration, a sudden and unforeseen fall; but I have no sympathy with the profanation of conscience by a designing woman. She who has pressed two men to her bosom, becomes afterward like an inn open to all. One only! only one for life and death!"

"And that only one, Henri!"

"No, it is not he! It is you, Jacob; he has only my body, you have my soul."

After a moment of exaltation she continued:--

"Tell me," said she, "do you really believe in the immortality of the soul and a life beyond the tomb?"

"Yes, I believe it. Otherwise man would have been an aspiration that God would not have realized. How else can we account for the desire for immortality that each one bears within his soul? Why should we suppose that this presentiment, this divination of a future existence, should be an illusion? As to the conditions of the future life we are ignorant. Man dreams that he will awaken the same as when he closes his eyes here below. That is perhaps an error; but one sure thing is, that the soul will not lose acquired virtues nor the reward for suffering, courageously endured. Certainly there is another world."

"You throw balm on my spirit; I desire to believe, but it is in vain that I search for faith in books. They puzzle me, and I always end by being confirmed in an ignorance which can be expressed in these words: I know nothing."

"Yes; but one does not draw faith from books, it proceeds from an inner voice."

"But this uncertainty; everywhere this dreadful uncertainty. Virtue, science, reason itself are so many spider webs which are torn by every wind. Yet it is frightful to die with this idea of annihilation in one's heart."

"Belief in God warrants us in this hope for the future. God cannot be unjust. He could not have implanted in us such strong and persistent hopes to make a cruel mockery of us. It is inadmissible if one believe in him. Have confidence in God and keep his commandments."

"But where is this law of God? In the books called holy? They differ; some of them are supposed to be revelation, others simple popular legends. How uncertain everything is, cold, empty, frightful!"

With these words she trembled, as if the spectre of death had appeared before her. Then she went to the piano, and played one of Chopin's touching fantasies, while Jacob listened. Some one put a hand on her shoulder, and Mathilde gave a little cry of fright. The dream was over. This was reality. Henri, with a cigar in his mouth, appeared before her.

"You have at last deigned to remember us," said he jokingly to Jacob. "You haven't been here for a long while. Mathilde, will you order the tea? What time is it? Nine o'clock. At ten I must be at the chateau. I have scarcely time to dress and to take tea, which is much better than I get there, in spite of their golden cups; but how can you stay in this room, it is freezing."

"I have not felt cold," said Jacob.

"The music has warmed you, then. Have you heard Muse play Liszt's last fantasie? It is stupefying."

"Muse's execution is marvellous, but she plays without expression."

"Profane blasphemer!"

Jacob said no more, and Henri looked at his watch.

"That which exasperates me is the white cravat; but one meets the best society at the chateau. The Namiestnik is one of the most courteous men in the world."

"Good-night," said Jacob, taking his hat.

"Good-night."