Now and then I hear that our mistress
is amusing herself, surrounded by admirers. Once I heard her gay
laughter even down here in the garden.
I seem awfully stupid to myself. Was it the result of my present
life, or was I so before? The month is drawing to a close--the day
after to-morrow. What will she do with me now, or has she forgotten
me, and left me to trim hedges and bind bouquets till my dying day?
A written order.
"The slave Gregor is herewith ordered to my personal service.
Wanda Dunajew."
With a beating heart I draw aside the damask curtain on the
following morning, and enter the bed-room of my divinity. It is still
filled with a pleasant half darkness.
"Is it you, Gregor?" she asks, while I kneel before the fire-place,
building a fire. I tremble at the sound of the beloved voice. I
cannot see her herself; she is invisible behind the curtains of the
four-poster bed.
"Yes, my mistress," I reply.
"How late is it?"
"Past nine o'clock."
"Breakfast."
I hasten to get it, and then kneel down with the tray beside her bed.
"Here is breakfast, my mistress."
Wanda draws back the curtains, and curiously enough at the first
glance when I see her among the pillows with loosened flowing hair,
she seems an absolute stranger, a beautiful woman, but the beloved
soft lines are gone. This face is hard and has an expression of
weariness and satiety.
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