Next morning early, he knew not why, while dressing and rubbing his hands with soap stubbornly, he sang with much pathos as if to lend himself energy.
But soon he ceased; the widow came to his mind instead of the countess. "That woman either loves me already, or she would love me very soon," thought he. He wished the return of those moments during which he had looked into her eyes. "What a strange woman!" thought he. "How that Potkanski must have loved her—ha! and Gustav!" He frowned. "If I go there, will he not grieve to death, will he not poison himself? That love will ruin him—h'm! Each answers for himself. But I am curious to know what she says since I do not visit her."
Thenceforth that moment recurred to his mind frequently when she, so pale and with outstretched arms, exclaimed, "I have found thee, my Kazimir!"
If only he wished, he could go to her, love her, and be loved by her.
This plan of probable love did not let him sleep. Like every young man, he felt the need of love; his heart beat violently, as if it wanted to burst, broken by its own strength. And so far he knew no woman except the widow. The
