Day after day went by, and still there was no word of Nina; at times he
was visited by sudden sharp misgivings that terrified him. The heading
of a paragraph in a newspaper would startle his eyes; and then he would
breathe again when he found that this poor wretch who had grown weary of
the world was unknown to him. Every evening, when Mlle. Girond came into
the theatre, she was met by the same anxious, wondering question; and
her reply was invariably the same.
"Don't you think it very strange?" he asked of Estelle. "Nina said she
would write to you or send you a message--I suppose as soon as all her
plans were made. I hope nothing has happened to her," he added, as a
kind of timid expression of his own darker self-questionings.
"Something--something terrible?" said Estelle. "Ah, no. We should hear.
No; Nina will make sure we cannot reach her--that she is not to be seen
by you or me--then perhaps I have a message. Oh, she is very proud; she
will make sure; the pain in her heart, she will hide it and hide
it--until some time goes, and she can hold up her head, with a brave
face. Poor Nina!--she will suffer--for she will not speak, no, not to
any one.
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