Part 32

“Well … I imagine … I could not take less than five hundred roubles for each,” Sanin articulated with difficulty. O Pantaleone, Pantaleone, where were you! This was when you ought to have cried again, “Barbari!”

Maria Nikolaevna turned her eyes upwards as though she were calculating.

“Well?” she said at last. “I think there’s no harm in that price. But I reserved for myself two days’ grace, and you must wait till to-morrow. I imagine we shall come to an arrangement, and then you will tell me how much you want paid down. And now, basta cosi!” she cried, noticing Sanin was about to make some reply. “We’ve spent enough time over filthy lucre … à demain les affaires. Do you know what, I’ll let you go now … (she glanced at a little enamelled watch, stuck in her belt) … till three o’clock … I must let you rest. Go and play roulette.”

“I never play games of chance,” observed Sanin.

“Really? Why, you’re a paragon. Though I don’t either. It’s stupid throwing away one’s money when one’s no chance. But go into the gambling saloon, and look at the faces. Very comic ones there are there. There’s one old woman with a rustic headband and a moustache, simply delicious! Our prince there’s another, a good one too. A majestic figure with a nose like an eagle’s, and when he puts down a thaler, he crosses himself under his waistcoat. Read the papers, go a walk, do what you like, in fact. But at three o’clock I expect you … de pied ferme. We shall have to dine a little earlier. The theatre among these absurd Germans begins at half-past six. She held out her hand. “Sans rancune, n’est-ce pas?”

“Really, Maria Nikolaevna, what reason have I to be annoyed?”

“Why, because I’ve been tormenting you. Wait a little, you’ll see. There’s worse to come,” she added, fluttering her eyelids, and all her dimples suddenly came out on her flushing cheeks. “Till we meet!”

Sanin bowed and went out. A merry laugh rang out after him, and in the looking-glass which he was passing at that instant, the following scene was reflected: Maria Nikolaevna had pulled her husband’s fez over his eyes, and he was helplessly struggling with both hands.

XXXVIII

Oh, what a deep sigh of delight Sanin heaved, when he found himself in his room! Indeed, Maria Nikolaevna had spoken the truth, he needed rest, rest from all these new acquaintances, collisions, conversations, from this suffocating atmosphere which was affecting his head and his heart, from this enigmatical, uninvited intimacy with a woman, so alien to him! And when was all this taking place? Almost the day after he had learnt that Gemma loved him, after he had become betrothed to her. Why, it was sacrilege! A thousand times he mentally asked forgiveness of his pure chaste dove, though he could not really blame himself for anything; a thousand times over he kissed the cross she had given him. Had he not the hope of bringing the business, for which he had come to Wiesbaden, to a speedy and successful conclusion, he would have rushed off headlong, back again, to sweet Frankfort, to that dear house, now his own home, to her, to throw himself at her loved feet…. But there was no help for it! The cup must be drunk to the dregs, he must dress, go to dinner, and from there to the theatre…. If only she would let him go to-morrow!

One other thing confounded him, angered him; with love, with tenderness, with grateful transport he dreamed of Gemma, of their life together, of the happiness awaiting him in the future, and yet this strange woman, this Madame Polozov persistently floated—no! not floated, poked herself, so Sanin with special vindictiveness expressed it—poked herself in and faced his eyes, and he could not rid himself of her image, could not help hearing her voice, recalling her words, could not help being aware even of the special scent, delicate, fresh and penetrating, like the scent of yellow lilies, that was wafted from her garments. This lady was obviously fooling him, and trying in every way to get over him … what for? what did she want? Could it be merely the caprice of a spoiled, rich, and most likely unprincipled woman? And that husband! What a creature he was! What were his relations with her? And why would these questions keep coming into his head, when he, Sanin, had really no interest whatever in either Polozov or his wife? Why could he not drive away that intrusive image, even when he turned with his whole soul to another image, clear and bright as God’s sunshine? How, through those almost divine features, dare those others force themselves upon him? And not only that; those other features smiled insolently at him. Those grey, rapacious eyes, those dimples, those snake-like tresses, how was it all that seemed to cleave to him, and to shake it all off, and fling it away, he was unable, had not the power?

Nonsense! nonsense! to-morrow it would all vanish and leave no trace…. But would she let him go to-morrow?

Yes…. All these question he put to himself, but the time was moving on to three o’clock, and he put on a black frockcoat and after a turn in the park, went in to the Polozovs!

He found in their drawing-room a secretary of the legation, a very tall light-haired German, with the profile of a horse, and his hair parted down the back of his head (at that time a new fashion), and … oh, wonder! whom besides? Von Dönhof, the very officer with whom he had fought a few days before! He had not the slightest expectation of meeting him there and could not help being taken aback. He greeted him, however.

“Are you acquainted?” asked Maria Nikolaevna who had not failed to notice Sanin’s embarrassment.

“Yes … I have already had the honour,” said Dönhof, and bending a little aside, in an undertone he added to Maria Nikolaevna, with a smile, “The very man … your compatriot … the Russian …”

“Impossible!” she exclaimed also in an undertone; she shook her finger at him, and at once began to bid good-bye both to him and the long secretary, who was, to judge by every symptom, head over ears in love with her; he positively gaped every time he looked at her. Dönhof promptly took leave with amiable docility, like a friend of the family who understands at half a word what is expected of him; the secretary showed signs of restiveness, but Maria Nikolaevna turned him out without any kind of ceremony.

“Get along to your sovereign mistress,” she said to him (there was at that time in Wiesbaden a certain princess di Monaco, who looked surprisingly like a cocotte of the poorer sort); “what do you want to stay with a plebeian like me for?”

“Really, dear madam,” protested the luckless secretary, “all the princesses in the world….”

But Maria Nikolaevna was remorseless, and the secretary went away, parting and all.

Maria Nikolaevna was dressed that day very much “to her advantage,” as our grandmothers used to say. She wore a pink glacé silk dress, with sleeves à la Fontange, and a big diamond in each ear. Her eyes sparkled as much as her diamonds; she seemed in a good humour and in high spirits.

She made Sanin sit beside her, and began talking to him about Paris, where she was intending to go in a few days, of how sick she was of Germans, how stupid they were when they tried to be clever, and how inappropriately clever sometimes when they were stupid; and suddenly, point-blank, as they say—à brûle pourpoint—asked him, was it true that he had fought a duel with the very officer who had been there just now, only a few days ago, on account of a lady?

“How did you know that?” muttered Sanin, dumfoundered.

“The earth is full of rumours, Dimitri Pavlovitch; but anyway, I know you were quite right, perfectly right, and behaved like a knight. Tell me, was that lady your betrothed?”

Sanin slightly frowned …

“There, I won’t, I won’t,” Maria Nikolaevna hastened to say. “You don’t like it, forgive me, I won’t do it, don’t be angry!” Polozov came in from the next room with a newspaper in his hand. “What do you want? Or is dinner ready?”

“Dinner’ll be ready directly, but just see what I’ve read in the Northern Bee … Prince Gromoboy is dead.”

Maria Nikolaevna raised her head.