"Ah! pardon, but no," replied Catinka, vivaciously1. "Mr. Herne--this good man--he was at your Barnstead; but he does not require one to speak of it. So he requests me."
"You have seen Herne?" cried Mexton, recalling the fact that the Squire2 was in town at that moment.
"Eh--why not? I see him yesterday; I see him this morning; and he ask me to say nothing of his veesit to Barnstead on that night. But I no promise; I have good reason to no promise."
"What reason?" asked the journalist, bewildered by her manner.
Before replying, Catinka sprang lightly from her seat, and caught up the fan of rainbow feathers from off the mantelpiece. "My reason, dear Mr. Critic? Behold3 it!"
"Ah! then your reason has to do with your society?"
"Oh, yes; it has all to do with that," said Catinka, shutting the fan composedly. "I will to you explain all, if you wish."
"Of course I wish, mademoiselle. I wish to find out who killed that poor girl."
Catinka shook her head gravely, and resumed her seat. "That thing I cannot say."
"But you were on the very spot where the murder took place."
"Yes," she admitted; "there I was. How you know?"
"By the rainbow feather you dropped."
"Pardon--it is wrong. I did not let fall the feather. I place him there for my reason."
"Place him where?" asked Mexton, adopting her grammatical error in his bewilderment.
"On the breast--oh, no--on the back of that dead lady."
"You saw the corpse4?"
"Yes; I saw him."
"Then you know who killed the girl?"
"No; that I know not."
"Did Mr. Herne shoot Miss Lester?" asked Paul, determined5 to get a direct answer.
"I cannot say truly. I did not see."
"Did you fire the shot yourself."
"I?" Catinka flashed a fiery6 glance at her questioner. "But what is this you would say? I did nothing to that lady. I killed her not. No! I swear it is so by all the saints!"
"But you know so much that----"
"What I know you will be told," interrupted Catinka, "that is, my good sir, if you this moment will be silent and wait."
"I am quite at your disposal, mademoiselle," said Paul, and composed himself to listen to what could not fail to be an interesting and strange story.
"Good! that is so right," said Catinka, and resumed her seat. The light of the sun poured in through the high window, and enveloped7 the violinist in a haze8 of golden glory, so that she had to spread out the particoloured fan in order to shade her eyes from the glare. But she did not move out of that pool of heat and light, for it seemed to please her greatly, and she basked9 in the ardent10 rays like a cat. Paul never forgot that scene; the cheerful room, the bright sunshine, and the pretty woman who glowed and sparkled with southern vivacity11 in the radiance. She told a strange story, truly, and told it in the calmest of voices, so that long before she finished Paul concluded that Baldini was right when he declared Catinka had no heart. Here it will be best to set forth12 the tale in other words than her own, since her phraseology was foreign, and not always correct. The substance of what she related was as follows:--
"For you to understand what I tell you," she began slowly, "you must learn who I am and what are my aims. I have no reason to keep my desire secret in this free England of yours; but in Poland, in Russia--ah! there it would be a different matter. My name is Catinka Poluski, and I was born at Warsaw some twenty-five years ago. I am of a noble family, and my parents were much hated by the Russians for their patriotic13 desire to see a free Poland. They conspired14 against the tyrant15 Czar when I was but a child, and being discovered they were arrested and sent to Siberia--sent there without a trial, to their doom16! Ah! God! why dost Thou permit such evils to befall noble hearts."
"Are your parents still alive?" asked Paul when she ceased for a moment, to conquer her emotion.
"Dead, Mr. Mexton," replied Catinka, in a low voice, "dead these many years. I was left alone in the world, to the care of an old servant. Our estates were confiscated17 by the tyrant, and there remained nothing to me but poverty and shame, and a heritage of hatred18 against those who sent the noble Poluski and his wife to their graves in cruel Siberia, but that Luzk saved me."
"Luzk!" repeated Mexton, struck by the peculiar19 name, "and who was Luzk?"
"The servant I spoke20 of," said Catinka, with emotion, "the faithful man who looked after me when I was a helpless orphan21. He came from the town of Luzk, and took the name, for some reason connected with the troubles of our unhappy land. It was Luzk who worked for me, who clothed and fed me, and had me educated. By him I was taught the violin, for which I had always a great love, and I soon was able to play very well."
"You play like an angel!" said Paul, with enthusiasm.
"I did not know angels played on fiddles22!" replied the girl, smiling. "However, I thank you for the compliment. It is fortunate that I play well, for when Luzk died, seven years ago, I had no one to look after me. I thought I should starve, as my name was proscribed23, and no one dared to help the child of Poluski, the rebel. Then a French musician heard me playing in the streets of Warsaw--yes, you may look, Mr. Mexton, but I, Catinka Poluski, of the best blood in Poland, have played in the streets. This man--his name was Dubourg--heard me, and took me into his care. He was old, and a very fine player on the violin. I received lessons from him for many months, and then we went to Paris, where I appeared. I made a name, and so I was able to earn an income. I stayed in Paris for a long time. Then good Papa Dubourg died, and I no longer cared to remain. I came to London; I played; I was liked; and now, as you know, I can earn as much money as I want by my talent. It is not an ignoble
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