IF for me there is a dearer creature on earth, I am a pickled herring.
They say that we artists do everything under the first impression of the moment; that is not true! for it seems that I loved Eva long ago, only I was ass enough not to see it. God alone knows what took place in me while I attended her home that evening. We went hand in hand, without speaking. From moment to moment I pressed Eva’s arm to my side, and she pressed mine. I felt that she loved me with all her power.
I conducted her upstairs, and when we were in her little drawing-room, the position became in some way so awkward for us that we didn’t dare to look into each other’s eyes. But when Eva covered her face with her hands, I removed them gently and said,—
“Evus, thou art mine, is it not true?”
And she nestled up to me.
“I am, I am.”
She was so beautiful, her eyes were drowsy, and at the same time gleaming, there was such a sweet weariness in her whole posture that I could not break away from her.
And in truth she could not break from me; she wished, as it were, to reward herself for continued silence, and for such a long-concealed feeling.
I returned home late. Antek was not sleeping yet; he was drawing by lamplight, on wood, for one of the illustrated papers.
“There is a letter here for you,” said he, without raising his eyes from his work.
I take a letter from the table and feel a ring through the envelope. Good! that ring will do for to-morrow. I open the letter, and read as follows,—
I know that the return of this ring will cause pleasure, for you had this in view evidently. As to me, I do not think of rivalling actresses.
KAZIA.
At least it is brief. From this letter anger alone is looking forth, nothing more. If any shade of charm surrounded Kazia in my eyes hitherto, that shade is blown away now beyond return.
A wonderful thing! all supposed that Eva was the cause of my disguise and of all those adventures; and in truth the cause of what follows will be Eva.
I crush the letter, put it in my pocket, and go to bed.
Antek raises his eyes from his work, and looks in expectation that I will say something; but I am silent.
“That scoundrel Ostrynski was here this evening after the theatre,” said Antek.