"But what could I do in Paris in summer time?—I LOVE her, Mr. Astley!
Surely you know that?"
"Indeed?
I am sure that you do NOT.
Moreover, if you were to stay here, you would lose everything that you possess, and have nothing left with which to pay your expenses in Paris.
Well, good-bye now. I feel sure that today will see you gone from here."
"Good-bye. But I am NOT going to Paris.
Likewise—pardon me—what is to become of this family?
I mean that the affair of the General and Mlle. Polina will soon be all over the town."
"I daresay; yet, I hardly suppose that that will break the General's heart.
Moreover, Mlle. Polina has a perfect right to live where she chooses.
In short, we may say that, as a family, this family has ceased to exist."
I departed, and found myself smiling at the Englishman's strange assurance that I should soon be leaving for Paris.
"I suppose he means to shoot me in a duel, should Polina die. Yes, that is what he intends to do."
Now, although I was honestly sorry for Polina, it is a fact that, from the moment when, the previous night, I had approached the gaming-table, and begun to rake in the packets of bank-notes, my love for her had entered upon a new plane.
Yes, I can say that now; although, at the time, I was barely conscious of it.
Was I, then, at heart a gambler? Did I, after all, love Polina not so very much?
No, no! As God is my witness, I loved her!
Even when I was returning home from Mr. Astley's my suffering was genuine, and my self-reproach sincere.
But presently I was to go through an exceedingly strange and ugly experience.
I was proceeding to the General's rooms when I heard a door near me open, and a voice call me by name.
It was Mlle.'s mother, the Widow de Cominges who was inviting me, in her daughter's name, to enter.
I did so; whereupon, I heard a laugh and a little cry proceed from the bedroom (the pair occupied a suite of two apartments), where Mlle.
Blanche was just arising.
"Ah, c'est lui!
Viens, donc, bete!
Is it true that you have won a mountain of gold and silver?
J'aimerais mieux l'or."
"Yes," I replied with a smile.
"How much?"
"A hundred thousand florins."
"Bibi, comme tu es bete!
Come in here, for I can't hear you where you are now.
Nous ferons bombance, n'est-ce pas?"
Entering her room, I found her lolling under a pink satin coverlet, and revealing a pair of swarthy, wonderfully healthy shoulders—shoulders such as one sees in dreams—shoulders covered over with a white cambric nightgown which, trimmed with lace, stood out, in striking relief, against the darkness of her skin.
"Mon fils, as-tu du coeur?" she cried when she saw me, and then giggled.
Her laugh had always been a very cheerful one, and at times it even sounded sincere.
"Tout autre—" I began, paraphrasing Corneille.
"See here," she prattled on. "Please search for my stockings, and help me to dress. Aussi, si tu n'es pas trop bete je te prends a Paris.
I am just off, let me tell you."
"This moment?"
"In half an hour."
True enough, everything stood ready-packed—trunks, portmanteaux, and all.
Coffee had long been served.
"Eh bien, tu verras Paris.
Dis donc, qu'est-ce que c'est qu'un 'utchitel'?
Tu etais bien bete quand tu etais 'utchitel.'
Where are my stockings?
Please help me to dress."
And she lifted up a really ravishing foot—small, swarthy, and not misshapen like the majority of feet which look dainty only in bottines.