These words were a great consolation to Marynia, for, remembering her previous alarms, she thought at once that Pan Stanislav would not have said anything like them had he been capable of betraying her confidence; for she did not suppose that a man can have one measure for his neighbors and another for himself, and that in life these different measures meet at every step. She said to herself that to restrain her husband from everything, it was enough to show perfect trust in him; and she thought now with less fear of the nearness of Pani Kraslavski’s country house to the house of the Bigiels, in which she and her husband were to pass the summer. It was easy to divine that Pani Mashko, who had moved already into her mother’s house, would be a frequent guest at the Bigiels’ from very tedium. Mashko did not send her to Kremen, for he did not wish to be separated from her during summer. From Warsaw, where he had to be on business, it was easy to go every day to Pani Kraslavski’s villa, one hour’s ride from the city barrier, while to distant Kremen such journeys were not possible. To Mashko, really in love with his wife, her presence was requisite to give him strength, for trying times had come again. The case against the will was not lost yet by any means; but it had taken a turn which was unfavorable, since the defence was very vigorous. It had begun to drag, so people began to doubt; and for Mashko doubt approached defeat. His credit, almost fallen at the opening of the case, had bloomed forth like an apple-tree in spring, but was beginning now to waver a second time. Sledz (the opposing advocate), hostile personally to Mashko, and in general a man of strong will, not only did not cease to spread news of the evil plight of his opponent, but strove that doubts as to the favorable issue of the will case should make their way into the press. A merciless legal and personal warfare set in. Mashko strove with every effort to lame his enemy; and when they met, he bore himself defiantly. This brought no advantage, however. Credit became more and more difficult; and creditors, though so far paid regularly, lost confidence. Again a feverish hunt began for money, to stop one debt with another, and uphold the opinion of ready solvency. Mashko exhibited such intelligence and energy in this struggle that, had it not been for the fundamental error in his life relations, he would have advanced to fame and great prosperity.

The breaking of the will might save all, but to break the will it was needful to wait; meanwhile to mend threads breaking here and there was difficult as well as humiliating. It came to this, that in two weeks after the Polanyetskis had moved to Bigiel’s, when the Mashkos came to them with a visit, Mashko was forced to ask of Pan Stanislav a “friendly service;” that is, his signature to a note for a few thousand rubles.

Pan Stanislav was by nature an obliging man and inclined to be liberal, but he had his theory, which in money affairs enjoined on him to be difficult, hence he refused his signature; but to make up he treated Mashko to his views on money questions between friends,—

“When it is a question not of a mutually profitable affair,” said he to him, “but of a personal service, I refuse on principle to sign; but I will oblige with ready money as far as an acquaintance or a friend may need it in temporary embarrassment, but not in a desperate position. In this last case I prefer to keep my service till later.”

“That means,” answered Mashko, dryly, “that thou art giving me a small hope of support when I am bankrupt.”

“No; it means that should a catastrophe come, and thou borrow of me, thou’lt be able to keep the loan, or begin something anew with that capital. At present thou wilt throw it into the gulf, with loss to me, without profit to thyself.”

Mashko was offended.

“My dear friend,” said he, “thou seest my position in a worse light than I myself see it, and than it is in reality. It is merely a temporary trouble, and a small one. I esteem thy good wishes, but this very day I would not give my prospects for thy actual property. Now I have one other friendly request; namely, that we speak no more of this.”

And they went to the ladies,—Mashko angry at himself for having made the request, and Pan Stanislav for having refused it. His theory, that in money questions it was proper to be unaccommodating, caused him such bitter moments more than once, not to mention the harm which it had done him in life.

When with the ladies his ill-humor increased because of the contrast between Pani Mashko and Marynia. To Mashko’s intense disappointment nothing announced that Pani Mashko was to be a mother. On the contrary, she preserved all the slenderness of maiden forms; and now, especially in her muslin summer robes, she looked, near Marynia, who was greatly changed and unwieldy, not only like a maiden, but younger than her neighbor by some years. Pan Stanislav, to whom it had seemed that the strange attraction which she exercised on him was overcome, felt suddenly that it was not, and that because of their living near each other, and of his seeing her frequently, he would yield more and more to her physical charm.

Still his relations with his wife had become warmer since Pan Ignas’s betrothal evening, and Marynia was in better spirits than before; so now after the Mashkos had gone, she, seeing that the men had parted more coolly than usual and that in general Pan Stanislav was ill-humored, inquired if they had not quarrelled.

Pan Stanislav had not the habit of talking with her about business; but at this moment he was dissatisfied with himself, and felt that need of telling what troubled his mind which a man who is somewhat egotistical feels when he is sure that he will find sympathy in a heart devoted to him. Therefore he said,—

“I refused Mashko a loan; and I tell thee sincerely that it pains me now that I did so. He has certain chances of success yet; but his position is such that before he reaches his object he may be ruined by any obstacle. Of course we have never been in friendship; I almost do not like him. He irritates, he angers me; still life brings us together constantly, and he rendered us once a great service. It is true that I have rendered him services too; but now he has a knife at his throat again.”

Marynia heard these words with pleasure, for she thought that if “Stas” were really under the charm of Pani Mashko, he would not have refused the loan, and second, she saw in his sorrow the proof of a good heart. She too was sorry for their neighbor, but as she had brought her husband hardly any dower, she did not venture to ask “Stas” directly to assist Mashko, she merely inquired,— “But dost thou think that the loan would be lost?”

“Perhaps so, perhaps not,” answered Pan Stanislav. Then with a certain boastfulness: “I can refuse. Bigiel has a softer heart.”

“But don’t say that. Thou art so kind. The best proof is this, that the present matter is so disagreeable to thee.”

“Naturally it cannot be agreeable to think that a man, though a stranger, is squirming like a snake because of a few thousand rubles. I know what the question is. Mashko has given to-morrow as the last day of payment. Hitherto he has sought money everywhere, but sought guardedly, not wishing to make a noise and alarm his creditors; and in straits he relied on me. So thou seest, he will not pay to-morrow. I will suppose that in a few days he will find money as much as he needs; but meanwhile the opinion of his accuracy will be shaken, and in the position in which he is anything may be ruin for him.”

Marynia looked at her husband; at last she said with a certain timidity,—

“And would this be really difficult for thee?”

“If thou wish the truth, not at all. I have even a check-book here with me; I took it to give earnest-money, if I found a place to buy. Oh, interest in a former adorer and sympathy for him give me something to think of,” said he, laughing.

Marynia laughed too, for she was glad that she had brightened her husband’s face; but, shaking her charming head, she said,—

“No! not sympathy for an adorer, but vile egotism, for I think to myself, are the two thousand rubles worth the sorrow of my husband?”

Pan Stanislav began to smooth her hair with his hand.

“But thou,” said he, “art an honest little woman to thy bones.”

Then he said, “Well, now, decide; one, two, three! to give?”

She made no answer, but began to wink her eyes like a petted child, as a sign to give. Both became joyous at once; but Pan Stanislav pretended to complain and mutter.

“See what it is to be under the slipper. Drag on through the night, man, and beg Pan Mashko to take thy money, because it pleases that fondled figure there.”

And her heart was overflowing with delight, simply that he called her a “fondled figure.” All her former sorrows and alarms vanished as if enchanted by those words. Her radiant eyes looked at her husband with indescribable love. After a while she inquired,—

“Is it necessary to go there right away?”

“Of course. Mashko will go to the city at eight in the morning, and be flying all day.”

“Then give order to make Bigiel’s horse ready.”

“No! The moon is shining, and it is not far; I’ll go on foot.”

Thus saying, he took farewell of Marynia, and, seizing his check-book, went out. On the road he thought,—

“But Marynia might be applied to a wound. She is such a golden woman that though at times a man might like to play some prank, he simply hasn’t the heart for it. God has given me a wife of the kind of which there are few on earth.”

And he felt at the moment that he loved her in truth. He felt also that love alone in itself, as a mutual attraction between persons of different sexes, is not happiness yet, and if ill directed may be even a misfortune; but that, on the other hand, the imagination of people cannot dream out a truer happiness on earth than great and honest love in marriage. “There is nothing superior to that,” said Pan Stanislav to himself; “and to think that it lies at hand; that it is accessible to each one; that it is simply an affair of good and honest will; and that people trample on that ready treasure and sacrifice their peace for disturbance, and their honor for dishonor.”

Thus meditating, he went to the villa of the Mashkos, the windows of which were shining like lanterns on the dark ground of the forest. When he had passed through the gate to the yard lighted by the moon, and had drawn near the porch, he saw, through the window of the room next the entrance, Mashko and his wife, sitting on a low sofa formed like a figure eight, near which was a small table and a lamp. Mashko was embracing his wife with one arm; with his other hand he held her hand, which he raised to his lips, and then lowered, as if thanking her. All at once he embraced the young woman, with both arms drew her toward him, and inclining, began to kiss her mouth passionately; she, with hands dropped without control on her knees, not returning his fondling, but also not refusing, yielded as passively as if she had been deprived of blood and will. For a time Pan Stanislav saw only the top of Mashko’s head, his long side whiskers moving from the kissing; and at sight of that the blood rushed to his head. And he was dashed with just such a flood of desire as when looking for the ribbons of Pani Osnovski’s mantle (in Rome), and the more burning that it was strengthened by a whole series of temptations. This purely physical attraction, surprising to Pan Stanislav himself, and with which he had struggled long, revived now with irresistible force. In a twinkle were roused in him the wild instincts of the primitive man, who, when he sees the woman desired in the embrace of another, is enraged and ready to fight to the death for her with the fortunate rival. Together with desire, jealousy burned him,—an unjust, a pitiful, and the lowest of all kinds of jealousy, because purely physical, but still so unbridled that he, who the moment before had understood that only honest love for a wife might be real happiness, was ready to trample that happiness and that love, if he could trample Mashko, and seize himself in his arms that slender body of a woman, and cover with kisses that face of a puppet, without mind, and less beautiful than the face of his own wife.

That sight beyond the window not only excited him, but he could not suffer it; hence he sprang to the door and pulled the bell feverishly. The thought that that sound, heard on a sudden in the silence, would stop that fondling of husband and wife roused a savage and malicious delight in him. When the servant opened the door, Pan Stanislav gave command to announce him, and endeavored to calm himself and compose somehow that which he had to tell Mashko.

After a while Mashko came out with a face somewhat astonished,—

“Pardon that I come so late, but my wife scolded me because I refused thee a service; and since I knew that thou wilt go early in the morning, I have come to settle the business to-night.”

On Mashko’s face a secret joy was reflected. He divined straightway that such a late visit from his neighbor had relation to their previous talk; he did not hope, however, that the affair would go so smoothly and at once.

“I beg thee,” said he. “My wife is not sleeping yet.”

And he brought him into that room the interior of which Pan Stanislav had seen the minute before. Pani Mashko was sitting on the same sofa; in her hand she held a book and a paper-knife, which evidently she had taken from the table that moment. Her quenched face seemed calm, but traces of the fresh kisses were evident on her cheeks; her lips were moist, her eyes misty. The blood seethed up again in Pan Stanislav; and in spite of all efforts to keep himself indifferent, he so pressed the hand given him that Pani Mashko’s lips contracted as if from pain.

But when he touched her hand, a shiver ran through him from feet to crown. There was in that very giving of her hand something so passive that it ran through his head involuntarily that that woman was not capable of resisting any man who had the courage and daring to attack her directly.

Meanwhile Mashko said,—

“Imagine to thyself, we have both raised a storm,—thou for refusing me a service, and I for requesting it. Thou hast an honest wife, but mine is no worse. Thine took me into her protection, and mine thee. I revealed to her plainly my temporary trouble, and she scolded me for not having done so before. Evidently she did not speak to me as a lawyer, for of that she has no idea; but in the end of ends she said that Pan Polanyetski refused me justly; that one should give some security to a creditor; and this security she is ready to give with her life annuity, and in general with all that she has. I was just thanking her when you came.” Here Mashko laid his hand on Pan Stanislav’s arm.

“My dear friend, I agree with thee that thy wife is the best person on earth; and I agree all the more that I have fresh proof of it, on condition, however, that thou assure me that mine is no worse. It ought not to surprise thee, then, that I hide my troubles from her, for, as God is true, I am always ready to share the good with such a beloved one, but the evil, especially the temporary, to keep for myself; and if thou knew her as I do, this would be no wonder to thee.”

Pan Stanislav, who, despite all the temptation which Pani Mashko was for him, entertained by no means a high opinion of the woman, and had not considered her in the least as capable of sacrifice, thought,—

“She is, in truth, a good woman; and I was mistaken, or Mashko has lied to her, so that she really considers his position as brilliant, and this trouble as purely a passing one.” And he said aloud to her,— “I am an accurate man in business; but for whom do you hold me, when you think that I would ask security on your property? I refused simply through sloth, and I am terribly ashamed of it; I refused to avoid going at a given time to Warsaw for a new supply. In summer a man becomes lazy and egotistical. But the question is a small one; and to a man like your husband, who is occupied in property, such troubles happen daily. Not infrequently loans are needed only because one’s own money cannot be raised at a given moment.”

“Just that has happened to me,” answered Mashko, satisfied, evidently, that Pan Stanislav had presented affairs to his wife in this manner.

“Mamma occupied herself with business, therefore I have no knowledge of it,” put in Pani Mashko; “but I thank you.”

Pan Stanislav began to laugh. “Finally, what do I want of your security? Suppose for a moment that you will be bankrupt, and I will suppose so just because nothing similar threatens you; can you imagine me in such an event bringing an action against you, and taking your income?”

“No,” said Pani Mashko.

Pan Stanislav raised her hand to his lips, but with all the seeming of society politeness; he pressed his lips to it with all his force, and at the same time there was in the look that he gave her such passion that no declaration in words could have said more.

She did not wish to betray that she understood, though she understood well that the show of politeness was for her husband, and the power of the kiss for herself. She understood, also, that she pleased Pan Stanislav, that her beauty attracted him; still better, however, she understood that she was triumphing over Marynia, of whose beauty, while still unmarried, she was jealous, hence, first of all, she felt her self-love deeply satisfied. For that matter she had noticed for a long time that Pan Stanislav was ardent in her presence; hers was not a nature either so honest or so delicate that that action could offend or pain her. On the contrary, it roused in her curiosity, interest, and vanity. Instinct warned her, it is true, that he is an insolent man, who, at a given moment, is ready to push matters too far,—and that thought filled her at times with alarm; but since nothing similar had happened yet, the very fear had a charm for her. Meanwhile she said to Pan Stanislav,—

“Mamma mentions you always as a man to be relied on in every case.”

She said this with her usual thin voice, which Pan Stanislav had laughed at before more than once; but now everything in her became more attractive thereby, and hence, looking her fixedly in the eyes, he said,—

“Think the same of me.”

“Have mutual confidence in each other,” put in Mashko, jestingly; “but I will go to my study to prepare what is needed, and in a moment we will finish the matter.”

Pani Mashko and her guest were left alone. On her face a certain trouble was apparent. To hide this she began to straighten the shade on the lamp; but he approached her quickly, and began,—

“I shall be happy if you think the same of me. I am a man greatly devoted to you; I should be glad to have even your friendship. Can I rely on it?”

“You can.”

“I thank you.”

When he had said this, he extended his hand to her, for all that he had said was directed only to this, to get possession of her hand. In fact, Pani Mashko did not dare to refuse it; and he, seizing it, pressed it to his lips a second time, but this time he did not stop with one kiss,—he fell to devouring it almost. It grew dark in his eyes. A moment more, and in his madness he would have seized and drawn that desired one toward him. Meanwhile, however, Mashko’s squeaking boots were heard in the adjoining room; hearing which, Pani Mashko began to speak first, hurriedly,—

“My husband is coming.”

At that moment Mashko opened the door, and said,—

“I beg thee.”

Then, turning to his wife, he added,—

“Give command at once to bring tea; we will return soon.”

In fact, the business did not occupy much time, for Pan Stanislav filled out a check, and that was the end. But Mashko treated him to a cigar, and asked him to sit down, for he wished to talk.

“New troubles are rolling on to me,” said he; “but I shall wade out. More than once I have had to do with greater ones. It is only a question of this,—that the sun should get ahead of the dew, and that I should open some new credit for myself, or some new source of income, before the conclusion of the will case, and in support of it.”

Pan Stanislav, all roused up internally, listened to this beginning of confidences with inattention, and chewed his cigar impatiently. On a sudden, however, the dishonest thought came to him that, were Mashko to be ruined utterly, his wife would be a still easier prey; hence he asked dryly,—

“Hast thought of this, what thou art to do should the case be lost?”

“I shall not lose it.”

“Everything may happen; thou knowest that best thyself.”

“I do not wish to think of it.”

“Still it’s thy duty,” said Pan Stanislav, with an accent of a certain pleasure, which Mashko did not notice. “What wilt thou do in such a case?”

Mashko rested his arms on his knees, and looking gloomily on the floor, said,—

“In such a case I shall have to leave Warsaw.”

A moment of silence came. The young advocate’s face became gloomier and gloomier; at last he grew thoughtful, and said,—

“Once, in my best days, I knew Baron Hirsh, in Paris. We met a number of times, and once we took part in some affair of honor. Sometimes now, when doubts come upon me, I remember him; he has withdrawn, apparently, from business, but really has much on hand, especially in the East. I know men who have made fortunes by him, for the field there is open at every step.”

“Dost think it possible to go to him?”

“Yes; but besides that I can shoot into my forehead.”

But Pan Stanislav did not take this threat seriously. From that short conversation he convinced himself of two things: first, that Mashko, in spite of apparent confidence, thought often of possible ruin; and second, that in such an event he had a plan, fantastic, it may be but ready.

Mashko shook himself suddenly out of his gloomy visions, and said,—

“My strength has lain always in this,—that I never think of two things at once. Therefore I am thinking only of the will case. That scoundrel will do everything to ruin me in public opinion, I know that; but I sneer at public opinion, and care only for the court. Should I fail before the decision, that might have a bad influence, perhaps. Dost understand? They would consider the whole case then as the despairing effort of a drowning man, who grasps at what he can. I have no wish for that position; therefore I must seem to be a man standing on firm feet. This is a sad necessity, and I am not free now to be even economical. I cannot diminish my scale of living. As thou seest me, I have troubles to my ears; as for that matter, who knows it better than thou, who art giving me a loan? And still, as late as yesterday, I was buying Vyborz, a considerable property in Ravsk, simply to throw dust in the eyes of my creditors and opponents. Tell me, dost thou know old Zavilovski well?”

“Not long. I made his acquaintance through the young man.”

“But thou hast pleased him, for he has immense admiration for men with noble names who make property. I know that he is his own agent; but he is growing old, and the gout is annoying him. I have put several thoughts before him; therefore, if he asks thee about anything, recommend me. Understand that I do not wish to get at his money chest, though, as agent, I should have some income, which would be greatly to my hand; but the main question for me is that it should become noised abroad that I am the agent of such a millionnaire. Is it true that he intends to create an entail for the young man out of his estates in Poznan?”

“So Pani Bronich says.”

“That would be a proof that it is not true; but all things are possible. In every case the young man, too, will receive with his wife a certain dower; and, being a poet, he has not the least idea, surely, how to handle such matters. I might serve him, too, with advice and aid.”

“I must refuse you decisively in his name, for we have engaged to occupy ourselves with his interests in future,—that is, my partner and I.”

“It is not a question with me of his interest either,” said Mashko, frowning slightly, “but that I might tell people that I am Zavilovski’s agent; for, dost understand, before it is known which Zavilovski, my credit can only gain by it?”

“Thou knowest that I never look into other men’s business; but I tell thee sincerely that for me it would be a terrible thing to exist in this way only on credit.” “Ask the greatest millionnaires on earth if they made fortunes on another basis.”

“And ask all bankrupts if they did not fail from that cause.”

“As to me, the future will show.”

“It will,” said Pan Stanislav, rising.

Mashko thanked him once more for the loan; and both went to tea to the lady, who inquired,—

“Well, the business is finished?”

Pan Stanislav, whom her appearance roused again, and who remembered suddenly that a little while before she said to him, “My husband is coming!” as if half guilty, answered her without reference to Mashko,—

“Between your husband and me it is, but between us two—not yet.”

Pani Mashko, though she had cool blood, was still confused, as if frightened at his daring; and Mashko asked,—

“How is that?”

“This way,” answered Pan Stanislav: “that the lady thought me capable of asking her property in pledge, and I cannot pardon her that yet.”

Pani Mashko looked at him with her indefinite gray eyes, as if with a certain admiration. His boldness had imposed on her, and the presence of mind with which he was able to give a polite society turn to his words. He seemed to her also at that moment a fine-looking man, beyond comparison better-looking than Mashko.

“I beg pardon,” said she.

“That will not be given easily. You do not know what a stubborn and vengeful man I am.”

Then she answered with a certain coquetry, like a person conscious of her charm and her power,—

“I don’t believe that.”

He sat near her; and taking, with a somewhat uncertain hand, the cup, he began to stir the tea with the spoon. Greater and greater alarm seized him. More than once before he had called Pani Mashko, while unmarried, a fish; but now he felt warmth passing through her light garments from her body, and felt as if some one were scattering sparks on him. Again he remembered her words, “My husband is coming;” and waves of blood rushed to his heart, for it seemed to him that only a woman could speak thus who was prepared and ready for everything. Some voice in his soul said, “That is only a question of opportunity;” and at this thought his unbridled desire was turned at once to unbridled delight. He ceased altogether to control himself. Soon he began to seek her foot with his; but suddenly that act seemed to him passing rude and peasant-like. Finally he said to himself that since it was a question of opportunity only, he ought to know how to wait. He foresaw that the time would come, the opportunity be found.

Meanwhile his position was awkward; he had to keep up a conversation quite in disaccord with the state of his mind, and to answer Mashko, who asked about the future plans of Pan Ignas, and various things of like tenor. At last he rose to leave; but before going, he turned and said to Mashko,—

“Some dogs attacked me on the way, and I forgot my cane; lend me thine.”

No dogs had attacked, but with him it was a question of remaining even one minute alone with the young woman, so that when Mashko went out he approached her quickly, and said, with a sort of stifled and unnatural voice,—

“You see what is taking place with me?”

She saw, indeed, his excitement, his eyes glittering with desire, and his distended nostrils. Alarm and fear seized her at once; but he remembered only her words, “My husband is coming,” and one feeling, described by the words, “let happen what may,” made the man, who, a moment before, said to himself that he ought to know how to wait, put everything on one card in the twinkle of an eye, and whisper,—

“I love you.”

She stood before him with downcast eyes, as if stunned, and turned into a pillar under the influence of those words, from which simple infidelity must begin, and then a new epoch in life. She turned her head away slightly, as if to avoid his gaze. Silence followed, broken only by the somewhat panting breath of Pan Stanislav. But in the next room Mashko’s squeaking boots were heard.

“Till to-morrow,” said Pan Stanislav.

And in that whisper there was something almost commanding. Pani Mashko stood all this time with downcast eyes, motionless as a statue.

“Here is the cane,” said Mashko. “To-morrow morning I go to the city, and return only in the evening. If the weather is good, maybe thou and Pani Polanyetski would like to visit my hermitess.”

“Good-night,” said Pan Stanislav.

And after a while he found himself on the empty road, which was lighted by the moon. It seemed to him that he had sprung out of a flame. The calm of the night and the forest was in such contrast to his tempest that it struck him like something uncommon. The first impression which he was able to note was the feeling that his internal conflict was closed, his hesitations ended; that the bridges were burned, and all was over. Some internal voice began to shout in his soul that first of all it had transpired that he was a wretch; but in this thought precisely there was a kind of desperate solace, for he said to himself if it were true, he must come to terms with himself as with a wretch, and in that event “let everything perish, and let the devils take all.” In every case a wretch will not need to fight with his own inclinations, and may indulge himself. Yes, all is over, and the bridges are burned! He will be false to Marynia, trample her heart, trample honesty, trample the principles on which he built his life; but in return he will have Pani Mashko. Now one of two, either she will complain of him to her husband, and to-morrow there will be a duel,—if so be, let it come,—or she will be silent, and in that case will be his partner. To-morrow Mashko will go to Warsaw; and he, Pan Stanislav, will gain all that he desires, even if the world had to sink the next moment. If she will not expose him, it is better for her not to try resistance. He imagined even that she would not try, or if she did, she would do so only to preserve appearances. And it began to seethe in him again; that helplessness of hers, which formerly roused so much contempt in him, had become now an additional charm. He imagined the morrow, and the passiveness of that woman. In spite of all his chaos of thought, he understood perfectly that just in that passiveness she would seek later on an excuse: she would say to herself that she was not a partaker in the guilt, because she was forced to it; and in this way she would calumniate God, her own conscience, and, if need be, her husband. And thinking thus, he despised her as much as he desired her; but he felt at the same time that he himself was not much worthier, and that by virtue of a certain selection, not only natural, but moral, they ought to belong to each other. He understood, also, that for him it was too late to with draw from that road, and that once those same lips of his, which had sworn faith and love to Marynia, had said to another woman, “I love!” the greatest evil was committed. The rest was simply a sequence, which it was not proper to reject, even for this reason,—that in every case it was a pleasure. He imagined that all must reason thus who throw honesty through the window, and resolve on deeds of vileness; and the reasoning seemed to him as exact as it was immoral. And the more soberly he reflected, the more he was astonished at his own degradation. He had seen much evil and hidden vileness in the world under the guise of refinement and polish. He knew that corruption had worked out for itself, somehow, under the influence of bad books, a right of citizenship; but he remembered that he was indignant at this, that he wished simplicity and strictness for the society in which he lived, in the conviction that only on such bases could social strength and permanence be developed. Nothing has roused in him so many fears for the future as that refined evil of the West sown on the wild Slav field, and growing up on it with a sickly bloom of dilettantism, license, weakness, and faithlessness. More than once, as he remembered, he had reproached with such sowings, at one time high financial spheres, at another aristocracy of birth; and more than once he had attacked them without mercy. Now he understood that whoso lives in an atmosphere filled with carbonic gas, must suffocate. In what was he better than others? Or rather, how much worse was he than those who, floating in corruption, as sticks float in water, do not, at least, amuse themselves with hypocrisy, nor deceive themselves, nor prescribe rules to others, nor erect ideals of a healthy man spiritually, an honest husband, an honest father, as a binding model. And he almost refused to believe that he was the man, who once gave Pani Emilia ideal friendship, and promised faithfulness to Marynia, and who considered that he had a clear intellect and a character juster and stronger than others.

He stronger? His strength was only deception, coming from lack of temptation. If he had loved Pani Emilia with the ideal feeling of a brother; if he had resisted the coquetry of Pani Aneta,—it was only because they did not rouse in him that animal feeling which that puppet with her red eyes roused, she whom his soul rejected, but for whom his senses were striving this long time. He thought then, too, that his feeling for Marynia had never been honest, for at the basis of things it was not anything else than just such an animal attraction. Familiarity had dulled it; and, restrained by the condition of Marynia, he had turned to where he was able, and turned without restraint or scruple hardly half a year after his marriage.

And Pan Stanislav, who, on leaving Mashko’s house, had the feeling that he was a wretch, thought all at once that he was more of a wretch than at first he had imagined, for he remembered now that he was to be a father.

At home, in Marynia’s windows, the lights had not been extinguished; he would have given much to find her sleeping. It came to his mind, even, to walk on and not return till there was darkness in the chamber. But suddenly he saw her profile in the window. She must be looking for him; and, since it was clear in front of the house, she must have seen him,—hence he halted and went in.

She received him in a white night wrapper, and with unbound hair. There was in that unbound hair a certain calculated coquetry, for she knew that she had beautiful hair, and that he liked to fondle it.

“Why art thou not sleeping?” asked he, coming in.

She approached him, sleepy, but smiling, and said,—

“I was waiting for thee to say the evening prayer.”

Since their stay in Rome they had prayed together; but at present the very thought of this seemed to him insupportable. Meanwhile Marynia inquired,—

“Well, Stas, art content that thou hast saved him? Thou art, I think.”

“Yes,” answered he.

“But she does not know of his position?”

“She does and does not. It is late. Let us go to sleep.”

“Good-night. Dost thou know of what I have been thinking here alone? That thou art so good and honest.”

And, extending her face to him, she put her arms around his neck; he kissed her, feeling at the same time the pure honesty of her kiss, and his own vileness, and the whole series of vilenesses which he would have to commit later on.

One of these he committed right there, kneeling down to the prayer, which Marynia repeated aloud. He could not avoid saying it; and in saying it, he merely played a pitiful comedy, for he could not pray. After the prayer was finished and a second good-night given, he could not sleep. It seemed to him that, when coming from Mashko’s, he had embraced with his mind his action and all its moral consequences. Meanwhile it turned out that he had not. It came to his head now that it is possible not to believe in God, but not permitted to make sport of Him. To commit, for example, a perfidy, to return home to-morrow, or the following day, after having committed adultery, and kneel down to prayer, that would be too much. He felt that it was necessary to choose either religious feeling and sincere faith, or Pani Mashko. To reconcile these was not possible. And all at once he saw that everything which he had worked out and elaborated in himself purposely for years, that all that immense calm, resulting from the solution of life’s chief enigma,—in a word, that which composed the essence of his spiritual existence,—must be rejected outright. On the other hand, he understood equally well that, from to-morrow forward, he must give the lie to his own social principles, to his recognition of the family as the basis of social existence. It is not permitted to proclaim such principles, and seduce other men’s wives in secret. It was necessary to choose here too. As to Marynia, perfidy against her had been committed already. With one sweep, then, his relations with God, with society, with his wife, had gone to ruin; the ceiling of that spiritual house, reared with great labor, and in which he had been dwelling, had tumbled on his head. And that chilling cold of evil filled him with wonder. He had not expected that, on cutting a single thread, the whole fabric would unravel so quickly; and with astonishment he asked himself how there can exist in the world opportunism of that kind, which reconciles faith-breaking in life with honesty and honor? For that is what is done. He knew many so-called decent people, married men, loving their wives, as it were, religious,—and at the same time pursuing every woman they met. These same men, who would account to their wives every deviation from duty as a crime, permitted themselves conjugal infidelity without a scruple. He remembered how one of his acquaintances, pushed to the wall on this point, wriggled out humorously with the well-known street witticism that he was not a Swedish match. Absolute infidelity was obliterated, and among men passed as something permitted, almost customary. That thought brought Pan Stanislav a moment of consolation, but a short one, for he was consistent, if not in his actions, at least in his reasoning. True! The world is not composed of thieves and hypocrites alone, but in great part of thoughtless and frivolous people; and this opportunism, reconciling adultery with honor and honesty, is nothing else than frivolity. For in what can custom excuse a man, who recognizes the immorality and stupidity of that custom? For a fool, infidelity may be a joke, thought Pan Stanislav; for a man who thinks seriously, it is scoundrelism, as much opposed to ethics as a crime, as the signing of other men’s names to notes, as the breaking of an oath, as the breaking of a word, as swindling in trade, or in cards. Religion may forgive the sin of adultery as a momentary fall; but adultery which excuses itself beforehand, excludes religion, excludes society, excludes honesty, excludes honor. Pan Stanislav, who, in his reasonings with himself, was always consistent and in general utterly unsparing, did not withdraw before this last induction. But he was frightened when he saw the precipice. If he did not withdraw, he would break his neck; but at the same time he began to fret at his own weakness. He knew himself well enough, with sorrow and with contempt also for his own weakness; he knew in advance that when he should see Pani Mashko, the human beast would get the upper hand of his soul. To withdraw? But he had repeated that to himself, and determined it after every temptation; and afterward, in presence of each succeeding one, passion had run away with his will at breakneck speed, just as a wild horse runs away with a rider. At the very remembrance of this he wanted to curse. If he had been unhappy at home, if his passion had grown up on the ground of great love, he would have had some excuse for it; but he did not love Pani Mashko,—he only desired her. He could never give himself an account of this dualism in the nature of man,—he knew only that he desired and would desire after every meeting, after every thought of her.

There remained one escape, not to see her,—an impossible escape, not only with reference to relations of acquaintance of every kind, but even with reference to this, that then Marynia would begin to suspect something. Pan Stanislav did not even suppose that that had taken place already, and that she merely concealed from him her suffering; he gave account to himself, however, that if his treason should in any way come out, it would be a blow simply beyond the strength of that mild and trusting woman. And his reproaches increased still more. Great pity and compassion for her seized him, as well as increased contempt for himself. In spite of darkness, the blood rushed to his face when he remembered that the fatal words had fallen; that he had said, “I love,” to Pani Mashko; that he had deceived and betrayed Marynia, that honest, truthful woman; and that he was capable of betraying her trust, and trampling on her heart.

For a while it seemed to him a pure impossibility; but his conscience answered him, Thou art capable! Still, in that sorrow and pity for her he found a kind of consolation, when he saw that his feeling for her was and is something more than animal attraction, and that there were in him certain attachments, flowing out of the community of life and mutual possession; from the marriage vow; from comradeship in good and evil fortune; from the great esteem and affection which in future was to be strengthened by a child. Never had he loved her more than in that moment of internal torture, and never had there risen in him greater tenderness. Day began to break; through the openings of the window the dawn was entering, and filled the chamber with a pale light, in which he could see indistinctly her dark head sunk in the pillow. His heart was filled with the feeling that that was his only and best treasure,—his greatly beloved comrade sleeping there, his best friend, his wife, and the future mother of his child. And no conclusions, no reasonings about religion and social unvirtue, filled him with such disgust for that unvirtue and for himself as the sight of that mild, sleeping face. The light through the openings entered more and more, and her head emerged more distinctly each moment from the shade. The half-circles of her eyelids were visible already on her cheeks and Pan Stanislav, looking at her, began to say to himself, “Thy honesty will help me!” All at once better feelings gained the victory in him: the beast abandoned his son and a certain consolation seized him, for he thought that if he were such a wretch as he had imagined, he would have followed the voice of passion with a lighter heart, and would not have passed through such suffering.

He woke late in the morning, wearied and somewhat ill; he felt such dissatisfaction and exhaustion as he had never felt before. But by the light of day, and besides a rainy and gloomy day, the whole affair stood before him differently,—it seemed more sober, ordinary; the future did not appear to him so terrible, nor his fault so great. Everything grew smaller in his eyes; he began to think then principally of this, whether Pani Mashko had confessed all to her husband or not. At moments he had the feeling of a man who has crawled into a great and sore trouble needlessly. Gradually, however, this feeling was changed into an ever increasing and more vivid alarm. “The position is stupid,” said he to himself. “Every reproach may be made against Mashko, but not this, that he is an incompetent or a coward; and he will not put such an insult as that into his pocket. Hence there will be an explanation, a scandal, perhaps a duel. May the thunderbolts shatter it! What a fatal history, if the thing reaches Marynia!” And he began to be angry with the whole world. Till then he had had perfect peace; he had cared for no one, counted with no one. To-day, however, he is turning to every side; in his head is the question, “Has she told; has she not told?” and from the morning he could not think of aught else. It went that far that finally he put to himself this question: “What the deuce! am I afraid of Mashko? I?” It was not Mashko whom he feared, but Marynia, which was in like manner something both new and astonishing, for a couple of days earlier he would have admitted anything rather than this,—that he would ever fear Marynia. And as midday approached, the affair, which seemed to him diminished in the morning, began again to increase in his eyes. At moments he strengthened himself with the hope that Pani Mashko would be silent; at moments he lost that hope. And then he felt that he would not dare to look into the eyes, not of Marynia, merely, but of any one; and he feared Bigiel, too, and Pani Bigiel, and Pani Emilia, Pan Ignas,—in a word, all his acquaintances. “See what it is to make a muddle!” thought he. “How much one stupidity costs!” His alarm increased to the degree that at last, under pretext of returning the cane, he sent a servant boy to Pani Mashko with a bow, and an inquiry as to her health.

The servant returned in half an hour. Pan Stanislav saw him through the window, and, going down hurriedly to meet him, learned that he had brought a note from Pani Mashko to Marynia. Taking the note, he gave it to Marynia; and his heart beat with still greater alarm while watching her face as she read it. But Marynia, when she had finished, raised her calm eyes to him, and said,—

“Pani Mashko invites us to supper to-day—and the Bigiels also.”

“A-a!” answered Pan Stanislav, drawing a full breath. And in his soul he added, “She has not told.”

“We will go, shall we not?” asked Marynia.

“If thou wish—that is, go with the Bigiels, for after dinner I must go to the city. I must see Svirski; perhaps I shall bring him here.”

“Then we may send an excuse?”

“No, no! go with the Bigiels. Maybe I shall call in on the way and explain to her; but even that is not necessary. Thou wilt explain for me.” And he went out, for he needed to be alone with his thoughts.

“She has not told;” a feeling of relief and delight now possessed him. She had not told her husband; she was not offended; she had invited them. She has agreed, therefore, to everything; she is ready to go farther, and to go everywhere, whithersoever he may wish to lead her. What is that invitation itself, if not a wish to put him at ease, if not an answer to his, “Till to-morrow”? Now all depends on him alone; and shivers begin again to go from his feet to his head. There are no hindrances unless in himself. The fish has swallowed the hook. Temptations attacked him with new power, for uncertainty restrained them no longer. Yes, the fish had swallowed the hook; she had not resisted. Here a feeling of triumph seized him, and of satisfaction for his self-love; and at the same time, thinking of Pani Mashko, he began almost to beg pardon of her in his soul, because he had at moments been capable of doubting her, and thinking her an honest woman, for even five minutes. Now, at least, he knew what to think of her, and he was thankful. After a while he laughed at his previous fears. In this way he rendered the first tribute due her, contempt. She had ceased to be for him something unattainable, something for which a battle between hope and fear is fought. In spite of himself, he imagined her now as something of his, as his own, always attractive, but for this very reason less valuable. The thought also caused him pleasure, that if he resisted temptation at present, it would be a pure merit. Now, when the doors stood open, he saw with wonder that the desire of resistance increased in him. Once more all that he had said during the sleepless night about faith-breaking flew through his mind. Once more his heart reminded him of Marynia, her justness, her honesty, her approaching motherhood, and that great peace, that real happiness, which he could find only near her; and in the end of all these considerations he decided to go to the city, and not be at Pani Mashko’s.

After midday he gave command to bring the horses. When he was seated in Bigiel’s carriage he bent over, embraced Marynia at parting, “Amuse thyself well,” and drove away. His morning exhaustion had passed; he recovered even his humor, for he felt satisfied with himself. Confidence in his own power and character returned to him. Meanwhile, a certain exciting pleasure was caused in his mind by the thought of Pani Mashko’s astonishment when she should learn that he had gone, and had no intention to visit her. He felt a certain need of revenge on the woman for the physical impression which she had produced on him. Since the coming of that note, which she had written to Marynia, his contempt for her had increased with such force that soon he began to think that he would be in a position to come off victorious, even should he visit her.

“And if I should go there, indeed, and give another meaning to yesterday’s words,” said he. But directly he thought, “I will not be a deceiver, at least, with reference to myself.”

He was certain, however, that she would not be astonished at his coming. After what he had told her yesterday, she might suppose that he would find some excuse for visiting her before the arrival of Marynia and the Bigiels, or for remaining behind them.

But should she see him driving past, she might think that he feared her, or consider him a boor, or jester.

“There is no doubt,” monologued he, further, “that a man who does not consider himself a fool, or a dolt, incapable of resisting any puppet, would go in and try to correct in some fashion yesterday’s stupidity.”

But at the same moment fear seized him. That same voice which yesterday evening shouted in his soul that he was a wretch, began to shout again with redoubled energy.

“I will not go in,” thought Pan Stanislav. “To understand and to be able to refrain are two different matters.”

Pani Kraslavski’s villa was visible now in the distance. Suddenly it flew into his head that Pani Mashko, through vexation and the feeling of being contemned, through offended self-love, through revenge, might tell Marynia something that would open her eyes. Maybe she would do that with one word, with one smile, giving even, it might be, to understand further, that certain insolent hopes of his had been shattered by her womanly honesty, and in that way explain his absence. Women rarely refuse themselves such small revenges, and still more rarely are they merciful one toward another.

“If I had the courage to go in—”

At that moment the carriage was even with the gate of the villa.

“Stop!” said Pan Stanislav to the driver.

He saw on the balcony Pani Mashko, who, however, withdrew at once.

He walked through the yard; the servant received him at the door.

“The lady is upstairs,” said he.

Pan Stanislav felt that his legs were trembling under him, when he walked up the steps; meanwhile the following thoughts flew through his head,—

“He may permit himself everything who takes life lightly, but I do not take it lightly. If, after all that I have considered and thought over and said, I could not master myself, I should be the last among men.” Now, standing at the door of the room pointed out by the servant, he inquired,—

“Is it permitted?”

“I beg,” said the thin voice.

And after a while he found himself in Pani Mashko’s boudoir.

“I have come in,” said he, giving her his hand, “to explain that I cannot be at supper. I must go to the city.”

Pani Mashko stood before him with head a little inclined, with drooping eyes, confused, full of evident fear, having in her posture and expression of face something of the resigned victim, which sees that the decisive moment has come, and that the misfortune must happen.

That state of mind came on Pan Stanislav, too, in one flash; hence, approaching her suddenly, he asked with stifled voice,—

“Are you afraid? Of what are you afraid?”