The expression of his face was malicious and sensual.
His nasty, spiteful and suspiciouslooking little eyes were lost in fat and seemed to be peeping through chinks.
Evidently they both knew Masloboev, but the fat man made a momentary grimace of vexation on seeing us, while the young man subsided into a grin of obsequious sweetness.
He even took off his cap.
He was wearing a cap.
“Excuse us, Filip Filippitch,” he muttered, gazing tenderly at him.
“What’s up?”
“I beg your pardon – I’m . . . . “ (He flicked at his collar.).
Mitroshka’s in there.
So it seems he’s a scoundrel, Filip Filippitch.
“Well, what’s the matter?”
“Why, it seems so.... Why, last week he” (here he nodded towards his companion) “got his mug smeared with sour cream in a shocking place, all through that chap Mitroshka . . . khee.”
His companion, looking annoyed, poked him with his elbow.
“You should come with us, Filip Filippitch. We’d empty a halfdozen. May we hope for your company?”
“No, my dear man, I can’t now,” answered Masloboev,
“I’ve business.”
“Khee!
And I’ve a little business, too concerning you....” Again his companion nudged him with his elbow.
“Afterwards! Afterwards!”
Masloboev was unmistakably trying not to look at them.
But no sooner had we entered the outer room, along the whole length of which ran a fairly clean counter, covered with eatables, pies, tarts, and decanters of differentcoloured liqueurs, when Masloboev drew me into a corner and said:
“The young fellow’s Sizobryuhov, the son of the celebrated corndealer; he came in for half a million when his father died, and now he’s having a good time.
He went to Paris, and there he got through no end of money. He’d have spent all there, perhaps, but he came in for another fortune when his uncle died, and he came back from Paris. So he’s getting through the rest of it here.
In another year he’ll be sending the hat round.
He’s as stupid as a goose. He goes about in the best restaurants and in cellars and taverns, and with actresses, and he’s trying to get into the hussars – he’s just applied for a commission.
The other, the old fellow, Arhipov, is something in the way of a merchant, too, or an agent; he had something to do with government contracts, too. He’s a beast, a rogue, and now he’s a pal of Sizobryuhov’s. He’s a Judas and a Falstaff both at once; he’s twice been made bankrupt, and he’s a disgusting, sensual brute, up to all sorts of tricks.
I know one criminal affair in that line that he was mixed up in ; but he managed to get off.
For one thing, I’m very glad I met him here; I was on the lookout for him. . . . He’s plucking Sizobryuhov now, of course.
He knows all sorts of queer places, which is what makes him of use to young fellows like that.
I’ve had a grudge against him for ever so long.
Mitroshka’s got a bone to pick with him, too – that dashinglooking fellow with the gipsy face in the smart tunic, standing by the window.
He deals in horses; he’s known to all the hussars about here.
I tell you, he’s such a clever rogue that he’ll make a false banknote before your very eyes, and pass it off upon you though you’ve seen it.
He wears a tunic, though it’s a velvet one, and looks like a Slavophile (though I think it suits him); but put him into a fine dresscoat, or something like it, and take him to the English club and call him the great landowner, count Barabanov; he’ll pass for a count for two hours, play whist, and talk like a count, and they’ll never guess; he’ll take them in.
He’ll come to a bad end.
Well, Mitroshka’s got a great grudge against the fat man, for Mitroshka’s hard up just now. Sizobryuhov used to be very thick with him, but the fat man’s carried him off before Mitroshka had time to fleece him.
If they met in the eatinghouse just now there must be something up.
I know something about it, too, and can guess what it is, for Mitroshka and no one else told me that they’d be here, and be hanging about these parts after some mischief.
I want to take advantage of Mitroshka’s hatred for Arhipov, for I have my own reasons, and indeed I came here chiefly on that account.
I don’t want to let Mitroshka see, and don’t you keep looking at him, but when we go out he’s sure to come up of himself and tell me what I want to know. . . . Now come along, Vanya, into the other room, do you see?
Now, Stepan,” he said, addressing the waiter, “you understand what I want.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’ll bring it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mind you do.
Sit down, Vanya.
Why do you keep looking at me like that?
I see you’re looking at me.
Are you surprised?
Don’t be surprised.