woman he entertained a tender and rather ironical condescension; but towards Albína as Albína not only tender love, but rapture, and the sense of an irredeemable obligation for the sacrifice she had made, which had given him undeserved happiness.
The Migoúrskis were happy in their love. Directing all their power of love to one another, among strangers they felt like two people who, having lost their way in winter, are in danger of being frozen, and warm one another. The devotion of the old nurse, Ludwíka, good-naturedly grumbling, comical, always falling in love with every man she met, but slavishly and self-sacrificingly attached to her young mistress, contributed to the Migoúrskis’ happiness. They were also happy in their children. A year after their marriage, a boy was born; and eighteen months later, a girl. The boy was the very image of his mother: the same eyes, the same vivacity and grace. The girl was a healthy pretty little animal.
The Migoúrskis’ misfortune was their exile from home, and especially the unpleasant humiliation of their position. Albína, in particular, suffered from this degradation. He, her Josy, her hero—that ideal man—had to draw himself up erect before every officer he met, go through manual exercises, stand sentinel, and obey every order without demur.
Then, too, the letters they received from Poland were most depressing. Almost all their nearest friends and relations were either banished or had fled abroad after losing everything they possessed. For themselves, the Migoúrskis had no prospect of an improvement in their situation. All attempts to petition for pardon, or even for an amelioration of their lot, or for him to be made an officer, were vain. Nicholas I held reviews, parades and manoeuvres; went to masquerades and amused himself with the masks; rushed needlessly across Russia from Tchougoúef to Novorossíysk, to Petersburg and to Moscow, frightening people and using up horses; and when anyone was courageous enough to address