“Have mercy on me!” cried Leon.

“But,” continued the serf of Pobereze, firmly, “you cannot force me to love you.”

“Do not mock—­do not torture me more; you are sufficiently revenged.  I will not offend you by importunity.  You must indeed hate me!  But remember that we Poles wished to give freedom to our serfs; and for that very reason our country was invaded and dismembered by despotic powers.  We must therefore continue to suffer slavery as it exists in Russia; but, soul and body, we are averse to it; and when our country once more becomes free, be assured no shadow of slavery will remain in the land.  Curse then our enemies, and pity us that we stand in such a desperate position between Russian bayonets and Siberia, and the hatred of our serfs.”

So saying, and without waiting for a reply, Leon rushed from the room.  The door was closed.  Giovanna listened to the sounds of his rapid footsteps till they died in the street.  She would have followed, but dared not.  She ran to the window.  Roszynski’s carriage was rolling rapidly away, and she exclaimed vainly, “I love you, Leon; I loved you always!”

Her tortures were unendurable.  To relieve them she hastened to her desk, and wrote these words: 

“Dearest Leon, forgive me; let the past be forever forgotten.  Return to your Anielka.  She always has been, ever will be, yours!”

She dispatched the missive.  Was it too late, or would it bring him back?  In the latter hope she retired to her chamber, to execute a little project.

Leon was in despair.  He saw he had been premature in so soon declaring his passion after the news of his wife’s death, and vowed he would not see Anielka again for several months.  To calm his agitation, he had ridden some miles into the country.  When he returned to his hotel after some hours, he found her note.  With the wild delight it had darted into his soul, he flew back to her.

On regaining her saloon a new and terrible vicissitude seemed to sport with his passion—­she was nowhere to be seen.  Had the Italian cantatrice fled?  Again he was in despair-stupefied with disappointment.  As he stood uncertain how to act, in the midst of the floor, he heard, as from a distance, an Ave Maria poured forth in tones he half recognized.  The sounds brought back to him a host of recollections:  a weeping serf—­the garden of his own palace.  In a state of new rapture he followed the voice.  He traced it to an inner chamber, and he there beheld the lovely singer kneeling in the costume of a Polish serf.  She rose, greeted Leon with a touching smile, and stepped forward with serious bashfulness.  Leon extended his arms; she sank into them; and in that fond embrace all past wrongs and sorrows were forgotten!  Anielka drew from her bosom a little purse, and took from it a piece of silver, It was the rouble.  Now, Leon did not smile at it.  He comprehended the sacredness of this little gift, and some tears of repentance fell on Anielka’s hand.