rasch!

But I think no more about it … aber auch gar nicht!»

Kuzma Vassilyevitch looked at Emilie. Her face indeed showed no trace

of care now. Everything was smiling in that pretty little face: the

eyes, fringed with almost white lashes, and the lips and the cheeks

and the chin and the dimples in the chin, and even the tip of her

turned-up nose. She went up to the little looking glass beside the

cupboard and, screwing up her eyes and humming through her teeth,

began tidying her hair. Kuzma Vassilyevitch followed her movements

intently…. He found her very charming.

VIII

«You must excuse me,» she began again, turning from side to side

before the looking glass, «for having so … brought you home with me.

Perhaps you dislike it?»

«Oh, not at all!»

«As I have told you already, I am so quick. I act first and think

afterwards, though sometimes I don’t think at all…. What is your

name, Mr. Officer? May I ask you?» she added going up to him and

folding her arms.

«My name is Kuzma Vassilyevitch Yergunov.»

«Yergu…. Oh, it’s not a nice name! I mean it’s difficult for me. I

shall call you Mr. Florestan. At Riga we had a Mr. Florestan. He sold

capital gros-de-Naples in his shop and was a handsome man, as

good-looking as you. But how broad-shouldered you are! A regular

sturdy Russian! I like the Russians…. I am a Russian myself … my

papa was an officer. But my hands are whiter than yours!» She raised

them above her head, waved them several times in the air, so as to

drive the blood from them, and at once dropped them. «Do you see? I

wash them with Greek scented soap…. Sniff! Oh, but don’t kiss

them…. I did not do it for that…. Where are you serving?»

«In the fleet, in the nineteenth Black Sea company.»

«Oh, you are a sailor! Well, do you get a good salary?»

«No … not very.»

«You must be very brave. One can see it at once from your eyes. What

thick eyebrows you’ve got! They say you ought to grease them with lard

overnight to make them grow. But why have you no moustache?»

«It’s against the regulations.»

«Oh, that’s not right! What’s that you’ve got, a dagger?»

«It’s a cutlass; a cutlass, so to say, is the sailor’s weapon.»

«Ah, a cutlass! Is it sharp? May I look?» With an effort, biting her

lip and screwing up her eyes, she drew the blade out of the scabbard

and put it to her nose.

«Oh, how blunt! I can kill you with it in a minute!»

She waved it at Kuzma Vassilyevitch. He pretended to be frightened and

laughed. She laughed too.

«Ihr habt pardon, you are pardoned,» she pronounced, throwing

herself into a majestic attitude. «There, take your weapon! And how

old are you?» she asked suddenly.

«Twenty-five.»

«And I am nineteen! How funny that is! Ach!» And Emilie went off into

such a ringing laugh that she threw herself back in her chair. Kuzma

Vassilyevitch did not get up from his chair and looked still more

intently at her rosy face which was quivering with laughter and he

felt more and more attracted by her.

All at once Emilie was silent and humming through her teeth, as her

habit was, went back to the looking glass.

«Can you sing, Mr. Florestan?»

«No, I have never been taught.»

«Do you play on the guitar? Not that either? I can. I have a guitar

set with perlenmutter but the strings are broken. I must buy

some new ones. You will give me the money, won’t you, Mr. Officer?

I’ll sing you a lovely German song.» She heaved a sigh and shut her

eyes. «Ah, such a lovely one! But you can dance? Not that, either?

Unmöglich! I’ll teach you. The schottische and the

valse-cosaque. Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,» Emilie pirouetted once or

twice. «Look at my shoes! From Warsaw. Oh, we will have some dancing,

Mr. Florestan! But what are you going to call me?»

Kuzma Vassilyevitch grinned and blushed to his ears.

«I shall call you: lovely Emilie!»

«No, no! You must call me: Mein Schätzchen, mein Zuckerpüppchen!

Repeat it after me.»

«With the greatest pleasure, but I am afraid I shall find it

difficult….»

«Never mind, never mind. Say: Mein.»

«Me-in.»

«Zucker.»

«Tsook-ker.»

«Püppchen! Püppchen! Püppchen!»

«Poop … poop…. That I can’t manage. It doesn’t sound nice.»

«No! You must … you must! Do you know what it means? That’s the very

nicest word for a young lady in German. I’ll explain it to you

afterwards. But here is auntie bringing us the samovar. Bravo! Bravo!

auntie, I will have cream with my tea…. Is there any cream?»

«So schweige doch,» answered the aunt.

IX

Kuzma Vassilyevitch stayed at Madame Fritsche’s till midnight. He had

not spent such a pleasant evening since his arrival at Nikolaev. It is

true that it occurred to him that it was not seemly for an officer and

a gentleman to be associating with such persons as this native of Riga

and her auntie, but Emilie was so pretty, babbled so amusingly and

bestowed such friendly looks upon him, that he dismissed his rank and

family and made up his mind for once to enjoy himself. Only one

circumstance disturbed him and left an impression that was not quite

agreeable. When his conversation with Emilie and Madame Fritsche was

in full swing, the door from the lobby opened a crack and a man’s hand

in a dark cuff with three tiny silver buttons on it was stealthily

thrust in and stealthily laid a big bundle on the chair near the door.

Both ladies instantly darted to the chair and began examining the

bundle. «But these are the wrong spoons!» cried Emilie, but her aunt

nudged her with her elbow and carried away the bundle without tying up

the ends. It seemed to Kuzma Vassilyevitch that one end was spattered

with something red, like blood.

«What is it?» he asked Emilie. «Is it some more stolen things returned

to you?»

«Yes,» answered Emilie, as it were, reluctantly. «Some more.»

«Was it your servant found them?»

Emilie frowned.

«What servant? We haven’t any servant.»

«Some other man, then?»

«No men come to see us.»

«But excuse me, excuse me…. I saw the cuff of a man’s coat or

jacket. And, besides, this cap….»

«Men never, never come to see us,» Emilie repeated emphatically. «What

did you see? You saw nothing! And that cap is mine.»

«How is that?»

«Why, just that. I wear it for dressing up…. Yes, it is mine, und

Punctum.»

«Who brought you the bundle, then?»

Emilie made no answer and, pouting, followed Madame Fritsche out of

the room. Ten minutes later she came back alone, without her aunt and

when Kuzma Vassilyevitch tried to question her again, she gazed at his

forehead, said that it was disgraceful for a gentleman to be so

inquisitive (as she said this, her face changed a little, as it were,

darkened), and taking a pack of old cards from the card table drawer,

asked him to tell fortunes for her and the king of hearts.

Kuzma Vassilyevitch laughed, took the cards, and all evil thoughts

immediately slipped out of his mind.

But they came back to him that very day. When he had got out of the

gate into the street, had said good-bye to Emilie, shouted to her for

the last time, «Adieu, Zuckerpüppchen!» a short man darted by

him and turning for a minute in his direction (it was past midnight

but the moon was shining rather brightly), displayed a lean gipsy face

with thick black eyebrows and moustache, black eyes and a hooked nose.

The man at once rushed round the corner and it struck Kuzma

Vassilyevitch that he recognised—not his face, for he had never seen

it before—but the cuff of his sleeve. Three silver buttons gleamed

distinctly in the moonlight. There was a stir of uneasy perplexity in

the soul of the prudent lieutenant; when he got home he did not light

as usual his meerschaum pipe. Though, indeed, his sudden acquaintance

with charming Emilie and the agreeable hours spent in her company

would alone have induced his agitation.

X

Whatever Kuzma Vassilyevitch’s apprehensions may have been, they were

quickly dissipated and left no trace. He took to visiting the two

ladies from Riga frequently. The susceptible lieutenant was soon on

friendly terms with Emilie. At first he was ashamed of the

acquaintance and concealed his visits; later on he got over being

ashamed and no longer concealed his visits; it ended by his being more

eager to spend his time with his new friends than with anyone and

greatly preferring their society to the cheerless solitude of his own

four walls. Madame Fritsche herself no longer made the same unpleasant

impression upon him, though she still treated him morosely and

ungraciously. Persons in straitened circumstances like Madame Fritsche

particularly appreciate a liberal expenditure in their visitors, and

Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a little stingy and his presents for the most

part took the shape of raisins, walnuts, cakes…. Only once he let

himself go and presented Emilie with a light pink fichu of real French

material, and that very day she had burnt a hole in his gift with a

candle. He began to upbraid her; she fixed the fichu to the cat’s

tail; he was angry; she laughed in his face. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was

forced at last to admit to himself that he had not only failed to win

the respect of the ladies from Riga, but had even failed to gain their

confidence: he was never admitted at once, without preliminary

scrutinising; he was often kept waiting; sometimes he was sent away

without the slightest ceremony and when they wanted to conceal

something from him they would converse in German in his presence.

Emilie gave him no account of her doings and replied to his questions

in an offhand way as though she had not heard them; and, worst of all,

some of the rooms in Madame Fritsche’s house, which was a fairly large

one, though it looked like a hovel from the street, were never opened

to him. For all that, Kuzma Vassilyevitch did not give up his visits;

on the contrary, he paid them more and more frequently: he was seeing

living people, anyway. His vanity was gratified by Emilie’s continuing

to call him Florestan, considering him exceptionally handsome and

declaring that he had eyes like a bird of paradise, «wie die