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 to-night." "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 to-night and go with him to America," said Paul, looking at her. "To--America--to-night! 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 to-night?" 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 to-night 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." CHAPTER 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 yemschick. He had reasons of his own for absenting himself while Catrina bade her mother farewell. He was rather afraid of these women.