Leon.—­And to-day a society woman.

Jadwiga.—­To-day, when I see such a sceptical smile as I saw a few moments ago on your lips, it seems to me that I am ridiculous—­very often so—­even always when I sit at some ideal embroidery and when I begin to work at some withered flowers on the forgotten, despised canvas of the past.  It is a curious and old fashion from times when faithfulness was not looked seriously on, and people sang of Filon.

Leon.—­At that moment you were speaking according to the latest mode.

Jadwiga.—­Shall I weep, or try to tie the broken thread?  Well, the times change.  I can assure you that I have some better moments, during which I laugh heartily at everything (handing him a cigarette).  Do you smoke?

Leon.—­No, madam.

Jadwiga.—­I do.  It is also a distraction.  Sometimes I hunt par force with my husband, I read Zola’s novels, I make calls and receive visits, and every morning I ponder as to the best way to kill time.  Sometimes I succeed—­sometimes not.  Apropos, you know my husband, do you not?

Leon.—­I used to know him.

Jadwiga.—­He is very fond of hunting, but only par force.  We never hunt otherwise.

Leon.—­Let us be frank.  You had better drop that false tone.

Jadwiga.—­On the contrary.  In our days we need impressions which stir our nerves.  The latest music, like life itself, is full of dissonances.  I do not wish to say that I am unhappy with my husband.  It is true that he is always in Chantilly, and I see him only once in three months, but it proves, on the other hand, that he has confidence in me.  Is it not true?

Leon.—­I do not know, and I do not wish to decide about it.  But before all, I should not know anything about it.

Jadwiga.—­It seemed to me that you ought to know.  Pray believe that I would not be as frank with any one else as I am with you.  And then, I do not complain.  I try to surround myself with youths who pretend they are in love with me.  There is not a penny-worth of truth in all of it—­they all lie, but the form of the lie is beautiful because they are all well-bred people.  The Count Skorzewski visits me also—­you must have heard of him, I am sure.  I recommend him to you as a model for Adonis.  Ha! ha!  You do not recognize the wild-flower of Kalinowice?

Leon.—­No, I do not recognize it.

Jadwiga.—­No!  But the life flower.

Leon.—­As a joke—­

Jadwiga.—­At which one cannot laugh always.  If our century was not sceptical I should think myself wild, romantic, trying to drown despair.  But the romantic times have passed away, therefore, frankly speaking, I only try to fill up a great nothing.  I also spin out my ball, although not always with pleasure.  Sometimes I seem to myself so miserable and my life so empty that I rush to my prayer-desk, left by my mother.  I weep, I pray—­and then I laugh again at my prayers and tears.  And so it goes on—­round and round.  Do you know that they gossip about me?