“Who?
What about?” asked Marya Vasilevna quickly.
“I mustn’t say,” said Vorontsov, shrugging his shoulders.
“You mustn’t say!” repeated Marya Vasilevna.
“We’ll’’ see about that.”
When the champagne was brought each of the visitors drank a glass, and having finished the game and settled the scores they began to take their leave.
“Is it your company that’s ordered to the forest tomorrow?” the prince asked Poltoratsky as they said goodbye.
“Yes, mine . . . why?”
“Then we shall meet tomorrow,” said the prince, smiling slightly.
“Very pleased,” replied Poltoratsky, not quite understanding what Vorontsov was saying to him and preoccupied only by the thought that he would in a minute be pressing Marya Vasilevna’s hand.
Marya Vasilevna, according to her wont, not only pressed his hand firmly but shook it vigorously, and again reminding him of his mistake in playing diamonds, she gave him what he took to be a delightful, affectionate, and meaning smile.
Poltoratsky went home in an ecstatic condition only to be understood by people like himself who, having grown up and been educated in society, meet a woman belonging to their own circle after months of isolated military life, and moreover a woman like Princess Vorontsov.
When he reached the little house in which he and his comrade lived he pushed the door, but it was locked.
He knocked, with no result.
He felt vexed, and began kicking the door and banging it with his sword.
Then he heard a sound of footsteps and Vovilo — a domestic serf of his — undid the cabin hook which fastened the door.
“What do you mean by locking yourself in, blockhead?”
“But how is it possible, sir . . .?”
“You’re tipsy again!
I’ll show you ‘how it is possible!’” and Poltoratsky was about to strike Vovilo but changed his mind.
“Oh, go to the devil! . . .
Light a candle.”
“In a minute.”
Vovilo was really tipsy. He had been drinking at the name day party of the ordnance sergeant, Ivan Petrovich.
On returning home he began comparing his life with that of the latter.
Ivan Petrovich had a salary, was married, and hoped in a year’s time to get his discharge.
Vovilo had been taken “up” when a boy — that is, he had been taken into his owner’s household service — and now although he was already over forty he was not married, but lived a campaigning life with his harum-scarum young master.
He was a good master, who seldom struck him, but what kind of a life was it?
“He promised to free me when we return from the Caucasus, but where am I to with my freedom? . . .
It’s a dog’s life!” thought Vovilo, and he felt so sleepy that, afraid lest someone should come in and steal something, he fastened the hook of the door and fell asleep. * * *
Poltoratsky entered the bedroom which he shared with his comrade Tikhonov.
“Well, have you lost?” asked Tikhonov, waking up.
“No, as it happens, I haven’t. I’ve won seventeen rubles, and we drank a bottle of Cliquot!”
“And you’ve looked at Marya Vasilevna?”
“Yes, and I have looked at Marya Vasilevna,” repeated Poltoratsky.
“It will soon be time to get up,” said Tikhonov. “We are to start at six.”
“Vovilo!” shouted Poltoratsky, “see that you wake me up properly tomorrow at five!”
“How can I wake you if you fight?”
“I tell you you’re to wake me!
Do you hear?”
“All right.”
Vovilo went out, taking Poltoratsky’s boots and clothes with him.
Poltoratsky got into bed and smoked a cigarette and put out his candle smiling the while.
In the dark he saw before him the smiling face of Marya Vasilevna. * * *
The Vorontsovs did not go to bed at once.
When the visitors had left, Marya Vasilevna went up to her husband and standing in front of him, said severely —
“Eh bien! vous allez me dire ce que c’est.”
“Mais, ma chere . . . ”
“Pas de ‘ma chere’!
C’etait un emissaire, n’est-ce pas?”