"Now, never!" whispered he to himself. Augustinovich heard this monologue. "Too late, too late; but--but--now one small request. Tell no one that I was here, especially do not tell Pani Visberg or my friend if ever you see them." "What is this to your friend?" "Everything; but you would not understand it, dear count--Till our next meeting!" Pelski, left alone, meditated long as to how that could really concern Augustinovich. He did not think out any answer, but came to the conviction that it might concern his own self somewhat. "I might return to her, feigning ignorance of what has happened," said he. "Poor Lula!" CHAPTER XX The two young ladies were sitting in Lula's chamber. That was a painful silence. If there are grievous moments in life, they had thrown their weight on the present fate of Lula. Everything which she held sacred in her breast had been trampled. She had put into that love the best parts of her moral existence, the victory to her had been like a wedding solemnity; by the power of this feeling she had risen from a momentary fall, she had conquered family prejudice, rejected the hand of a man who loved her, and with it a calm future, life in plenty, her own independence, and the pay for all this was information that he whom she loved was to marry another. Ei! she lost still more. All the angelic qualities which preceding days had given her were crushed now into ruins of despair. Her soul might wither to its foundation! Had she not lost with love also faith and hope, not in their theological sense, but in all their vital value for life? The ground was pushing from under her. Like a boat without an oar, she was to drift in the future beyond sight of shore. To-day an orphan gathered in by honest hearts, she may find herself to-morrow simply suffering hunger, without a morsel of bread; to-day so white that lilies might bloom on her breast, she may in future stain that whiteness with the gall of her own bitterness: to-day half a child almost, in the spring, in the May morning, she may after this or that number of years have to look at her life's fruitless autumn. Humiliated, broken, "like twigs after a tempest," pushed away from her moral basis, killed in her happiness; with dry burning eyes she pressed the weeping Malinka to her bosom convulsively. Lula did not weep, although she had tears enough for weeping; anger had dried them. But Malinka cried enough for both. * * * * * Next morning the countess received two letters,--one from Pelski, the other from Yosef.