“Catrina! Ah!”
The weak blue eyes looked into the strong face and read nothing there.
“I doubt,” said Paul, “whether it is right for you to continue sacrificing Catrina for the sake of the little good that you are able to do. You are hampered in your good work to such an extent that the result is very small, while the pain you give is very great.”
“But is that so, Pavlo? Is my child unhappy?”
“I fear so,” replied Paul gravely, with his baffling self-restraint. “She has not much in common with her mother, you understand.”
“Ah, yes!”
“It is you to whom she is attached. Sometimes it is so with children and parents. One cannot tell why.”
Steinmetz looked as if he could supply information upon the subject: but he remained silent, standing, as it were, in an acquiescent attitude.
“You have fought your fight,” said Paul. “A good fight, too. You have struck your blow for the country. You have sown your seed, but the harvest is not yet. Now it is time to think of your own safety, of the happiness of your own child.”
Stépan Lanovitch turned away and sat heavily down. He leaned his two arms on the table, and his chin upon his clenched hands.
“Why not leave the country now; at all events for a few years?” went on Paul, and when a man who is accustomed to command stoops to persuade, it is strong persuasion that he wields. “You can take Catrina with you. You will be assuring her happiness, which, at all events, is something tangible—a present harvest! I will drive over to Thors now and bring her back. You can leave tonight and go to America.”
Stépan Lanovitch raised his head and looked hard into Paul’s face.
“You wish it?”
“I think,” answered Paul steadily, “that it is for Catrina’s happiness.”
Then Lanovitch rose up and took Paul’s hand in his work-stained grip.
“Go, my son! It will be a great happiness to me. I will wait here,” he said.
Paul went straight to the door. He was a man with a capacity for prompt action, which seemed to rise to demand. Steinmetz followed him out into the passage and took him by the arm.
“You cannot do it,” he said.
“Yes, I can,” replied Paul. “I can find my way through the forest. No one will venture to follow me there in the dark.”
Steinmetz hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, and went back into the room.
The ladies at Thors were dressed for dinner—were, indeed, awaiting the announcement of that meal—when Paul broke in upon their solitude. He did not pause to lay aside his furs, but went into the long, low room, withdrawing his seal gloves painfully, for it was freezing as it only can freeze in March.
The countess assailed him with many questions, more or less sensible, which he endured patiently until the servant had left the room. Catrina, with flushed cheeks, stood looking at him, but said nothing.
Paul withdrew his gloves and submitted to the countess’ futile tugs at his fur coat. Then Catrina spoke.
“The Baron de Chauxville has left us,” she said, without knowing exactly why.
For the moment Paul had forgotten Claude de Chauxville’s existence.
“I have news for you,” he said; and he gently pushed the chattering countess aside. “Stépan Lanovitch is at Osterno. He arrived tonight.”
“Ah, they have set him free, poor man! Does he wear chains on his ankles—is his hair long? My poor Stépan! Ah, but what a stupid man!”
The countess collapsed into a soft chair. She chose a soft one, obviously. It has to be recorded here that she did not receive the news with unmitigated joy.
“When he was in Siberia,” she gasped, “one knew at all events where he was; and now, mon Dieu! what an anxiety!”
“I have come over to see whether you will join him tonight and go with him to America,” said Paul, looking at her.
“To—America—tonight! My dear Paul, are you mad? One cannot do such things as that. America! that is across the sea.”
“Yes,” answered Paul.
“And I am such a bad sailor. Now, if it had been Paris—”
“But it cannot be,” interrupted Paul. “Will you join your father tonight?” he added, turning to Catrina.
The girl was looking at him with something in her eyes that he did not care to meet.
“And go to America?” she asked, in a lifeless voice.
Paul nodded.
Catrina turned suddenly away from him and walked to the fire, where she stood with her back toward him—a small, uncouth figure in black and green, the lamplight gleaming on her wonderful hair. She turned suddenly again, and, coming back, stood looking into his face.
“I will go,” she said. “You think it best?”
“Yes,” he answered; “I think it best.”
She drew a sharp breath and was about to speak when the countess interrupted her.
“What!” she cried. “You are going away tonight like this, without any luggage! And pray what is to become of me?”
“You can join them in America,” said Paul, in his quietest tone. “Or you can live in Paris, at last.”
XLI
Duty
It was not now a very cold night. There were fleecy clouds thrown like puffs of smoke against the western sky. The moon, on the wane—a small crescent lying on its back—was lowering toward the horizon. The thermometer had risen since sunset, as it often does in March. There was a suggestion of spring in the air. It seemed that at last the long winter was drawing to a close; that the iron grip of frost was relaxing.
Paul went out and inspected the harness by the light of a stable lantern held in the mittened hand of a yamshchik. He had reasons of his own for absenting himself while Catrina bade her mother
