She placed her hand on his arm, and she noticed he drew in his breath
sharply and winced in the slightest degree. But when she asked him if
something hurt him, and what it was, he only laughed and said he was
well, and they must dance; so away they whirled.
A feverish anxiety and excitement convulsed Tamara. What in heaven's
name had occurred?
When they had finished and were seated again she plucked up courage to
ask him:
"Prince, I feel sure Count Varishkine is not really ill. Something has
happened. Tell me what it is."
"I never intended you to dance the Mazurka with him," was all Gritzko
said.
"And how have you prevented it?" Tamara asked, and grew pale to her
lips.
"What does it matter to you?" he said. "Are you nervous about Boris?"
And now he turned and fully looked at her, and she was deeply moved by
the expression in his face.
He was suffering extremely, she could distinguish that, but underneath
the pain there was a wild triumph, too. Her whole being was wrung. Love
and fear and solicitude, and, yes, rebellion also had its place. And at
last she said:
"I am nervous, not for Count Varishkine, but for what you may have
done."
He leaned back and laughed with almost his old irresponsible mirth.
"I can take care of my own deeds, thanks, Madame," he said.
And then anger rose in Tamara beyond sympathy for pain.
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