What a misfortune that she cannot go away!  Here it is difficult, almost impossible, to guard her.  She will read in our faces what has happened.  The least word, the least glance will rouse her suspicion, and she will fancy all sorts of things.  To-day she was surprised by the sudden arrival of the doctor.  Pani Celina told me she had inquired why he was sent for and whether she was in any danger.  Fortunately, my aunt, always ready for any emergency, said that it was the usual thing in such a case to call in the doctor from time to time.  Aniela has no experience, and believed her at once.  How shall I be able to persuade the servants not to look so mysterious?  They already guess that something is the matter, from my warnings and cautionings, and they will know all about it in time.  I cannot dismiss them all.  The frequent telegrams are enough to excite their curiosity.  To-day I had another telegram from Chwastowski at Baku, with the inquiry what he is to do with the body.  I replied that he should bury it there for the present.  I asked the elder Chwastowski to take it to Warsaw, and sent a money order by telegraph.  I do not know even whether such an order can be sent from Warsaw to Baku.

To-day I looked through the papers.  In two of them there was a paragraph about Kromitzki’s death.  If that is young Chwastowski’s doing, he must be mad.  The servants know everything.  Their faces are such that I am surprised Aniela does not suspect something.  During dinner she was cheerful and unusually lively.  The doctor’s presence is a great relief to me.  Kromitzki is nothing to him.  He engages Aniela’s attention, makes jokes, and teaches her to play chess.  Pani Celina, on the contrary, reduces me to despair.  The merrier Aniela grew, the longer and more funereal became her mother’s countenance.  I spoke to her about it rather sharply.

14 November.

We are all at Warsaw.  They told Aniela that hot-water pipes were to be laid in all the rooms at Ploszow, and so, to avoid the general upset and discomfort, we all intended to go to Warsaw.  The drive tired her very much; but I am glad we are here, for I can rely upon my servants.  The house is a little in disorder.  A great many pictures are already unpacked.  Aniela, in spite of being tired, wanted to see them, and I acted as cicerone.  I told her that it was my greatest wish to be at some time her cicerone at Rome, and she replied, with a shade of sadness:—­

“I, too, often dream of seeing Rome, but sometimes I think that I shall never go there.”

Her words caused me a twinge of anguish, for I am afraid of everything, even presentiments, and am ready to see in every word a forecast of evil.

“I promise you shall go to Rome and stop there as long as you like,” I replied cheerfully.

It is strange how easily human nature adapts itself to a new position and exercises its rights.  Involuntarily I look upon Aniela as my own, and guard her as my property.