Svidierski’s millinery shop and its perfumes; the hire and payment of Leib, the best cab-driver in the town; the visit to the post-office to set his watch correctly; the lovely morning; Stepan?
No, impossible. In Romashov’s pocket lay a rouble laid by for him.
But what could it be then?
In the street, opposite to the Nikolaievs’, stood three two-horse carriages, and two soldiers held by the reins a couple of saddle-horses—the one, Olisar’s, a dark-brown old gelding, newly purchased from a cavalry officer; the other Biek-Agamalov’s chestnut mare, with fierce bright eyes.
“I know! The letter!” flashed through Romashov’s brain.
That strange expression “in spite of that”—what could it mean?
That Nikolaiev was angry or jealous?
Perhaps mischief had been made.
Nikolaiev’s manner had certainly been rather cold lately.
“Drive on!” he shouted to the driver.
At that moment, though he had neither seen nor heard anything, he knew that the door of the house had opened, he knew it by the sweet and stormy beating of his heart.
“Romochka! where are you going?” he heard Alexandra Petrovna’s clear, happy voice behind him.
Romashov, by a strong pull, drew the driver, who was sitting opposite him, back by the girdle, and jumped out of the fly.
Shurochka stood in the open door as if she were framed in a dark room.
She wore a smooth white dress with red flowers in the sash. The same sort of red flowers were twined in her hair.
How wonderful! Romashov felt instantly and infallibly that this was she, but, nevertheless, did not recognize her.
To him it was a new revelation, radiant and in festal array.
While Romashov was mumbling his felicitations, Shurochka forced him, without letting go his hands, softly and with gentle violence, to enter the gloomy hall with her.
At the same time she uttered half-aloud, in a hurried and nervous tone—
“Thanks, Romochka, for coming.
Ah, how much I was afraid that you would plead some excuse!
But remember now, to-day you are to be jolly and amiable.
Don’t do anything which will attract attention.
Now, how absurd you are! Directly any one touches you, you shrivel up like a sensitive-plant.”
“Alexandra Petrovna, your letter has upset me.
There is an expression you make use of....”
“My dear boy! what nonsense!” she grasped both his hands and pressed them hard, gazing into the depths of his eyes.
In that glance of hers there was something which Romashov had never seen before—a caressing tenderness, an intensity, and something besides, which he could not interpret. In the mysterious depths of her dark pupils fixed so long and earnestly on him he read a strange, elusive significance, a message uttered in the mysterious language of the soul.
“Please—don’t let us talk of this to-day! No doubt you will be pleased to hear that I have been watching for you.
I know what a coward you are, you see.
Don’t you dare to look at me like that, now!”
She laughed in some confusion and released his hands.
“That will do now—Romochka, you awkward creature! again you’ve forgotten to kiss my hand.
That’s right!
Now the other.
But don’t forget,” she added in a hot whisper, “that to-day is our day.
Tsarina Alexandra and her trusty knight, Georgi.
Come.”
“One instant—look here—you’ll allow me? It’s a very modest gift.”
“What?
Scent?
What nonsense is this?
No, forgive me; I’m only joking.
Thanks, thanks, dear Romochka.
Volodya,” she called out loudly in an unconstrained tone as she entered the room, “here is another friend to join us in our little picnic.”
As is always the case before dispersing for a general excursion, there was much noise and confusion in the drawing-room.
The thick tobacco smoke formed here and there blue eddies when met by the sunbeams on its way out of the window.
Seven or eight officers stood in the middle of the room, in animated conversation. The loudest among them was the hoarse-voiced Taliman with his everlasting cough.
There were Captain Osadchi and the two inseparable Adjutants, Olisar and Biek-Agamalov; moreover, Lieutenant Andrusevich—a little, lithe, and active man, who, in his sharp-nosed physiognomy, resembled a rat—and Sofia Pavlovna Taliman, who, smiling, powdered, and painted, sat, like a dressed-up doll, in the middle of the sofa, between Ensign Michin’s two sisters.
These girls were very prepossessing in their simple, home-made but tasteful dresses with white and green ribbons. They were both dark-eyed, black-haired, with a few summer freckles on their fresh, rosy cheeks. Both had dazzlingly white teeth which, perhaps from their not irreproachable form and evenness, gave the fresh lips a particular, curious charm. Both were extraordinarily like, not only each other, but also their brother, although the latter was certainly not a “beauty” man.