Spring: -I- -II- -III-
The Stamp Album: -IV- -V- -VI- -VII- -VIII- -IX- -X- -XI- -XII-
In the Municipal Park: -XIII- -XIV- -XV- -XVI-
Springtime Twilight: -XVII-
The Villa: -XVIII- -XIX- -XX- -XXI- -XXII- -XXIII- -XXIV- -XXV- -XXVI- -XXVII-
Bianka’s Lineage: (XXVIII) -XXIX- -XXX- -XXXI- -XXXII- -XXXIII-
Hiatus: -XXXIV- -XXXV- -XXXVI- -XXXVII-
Finale: -XXXVIII- -XXXIX- -XL-
XXVIII
EVENTS ARE SWEEPING PAST at a crazy pace. Bianka’s father has arrived. I was standing today at the corner of ulica Fontann and ulica Skarabeusza when a glistening open landau drove by, with a wide and shallow carriage, like a seashell. In that white, silk scallop I glimpsed Bianka, half reclining in a tulle dress. Her gentle profile was shaded by the ruffle of her hat, pulled down and held in place by a ribbon tied under her chin. She was sinking almost entirely in eye-trim feathers of foulard, sitting beside a gentleman in a black frock coat and a white piqué waistcoat, upon which a heavy chain shone in gold, along with a multitude of pendants. Beneath his black bowler hat, pulled deep down, a closed, gloomy face with sideburns loomed grey. I was profoundly roused at that sight. There could be no doubt. This was M. de V...
As the elegant carriage drove past me, the rumble of its flexible frame opulently discrete, Bianka said something to her father, who turned and cast a look my way from behind his great black spectacles. He had the face of an old lion without a mane.
In exultation, almost frantic from the most contradictory feelings, I cried: ‘Count on me..!’ and ‘To the last drop of my blood...’ and I fired into the air from a pistol that I drew from under my jacket.
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