"Perhaps you've come for something else, Evgeny Pavlovich?"
"Oh, naturally there's something else," the man laughed.
"Tomorrow at daybreak, my dear Prince, I'm going to Petersburg on this unfortunate business (I mean, about my uncle). Imagine to yourself: it's all true and everybody already knows it except me.
I was so struck that I haven't had time to go there (to the Epanchins'); I won't see them tomorrow either, because I'll be in Petersburg, you understand?
I may not be back for three days—in short, my affairs are in poor shape.
Though the matter is not of infinite importance, I reasoned that I ought to have a most candid talk with you about certain things, and without losing time, that is, before my departure.
I'll sit here now and wait, if you tell me to, till the company disperses; besides, I have nothing else to do with myself: I'm so agitated that I won't be able to sleep.
Finally, though it's shameless and improper to pursue a person so directly, I'll tell you directly: I've come to seek your friendship, my dear Prince. You are a most incomparable man, that is, you don't lie at every step, and maybe not at all, and there's one matter in which I need a friend and an advisor, because I now decidedly find myself among the unfortunate . . ."
He laughed again.
"The trouble is," the prince reflected for a moment, "that you want to wait till they disperse, but God knows when that will be.
Wouldn't it be better to go down to the park now? They'll wait, really; I'll apologize."
"No, no, I have my reasons for not arousing the suspicion that we are having an urgent conversation with some purpose; there are people here who are very interested in our relations—don't you know that, Prince?
And it will be much better if they see that they are the most friendly relations, and not merely urgent ones—you understand?
They'll leave in a couple of hours; I'll take about twenty minutes of your time—maybe half an hour . . ."
"You're most welcome, please stay. I'm very glad even without explanations; and thank you very much for your kind words about our friendly relations.
You must forgive me for being absentminded tonight; you know, I simply cannot be attentive at the moment."
"I see, I see," Evgeny Pavlovich murmured with a slight smile.
He laughed very easily that evening.
"What do you see?" the prince roused himself up.
"And don't you suspect, dear Prince," Evgeny Pavlovich went on smiling, without answering the direct question, "don't you suspect that I've simply come to hoodwink you and, incidentally, to worm something out of you, eh?"
"There's no doubt at all that you've come to worm something out of me," the prince finally laughed, too, "and it may even be that you've decided to deceive me a bit.
But so what? I'm not afraid of you; what's more, it somehow makes no difference to me now, can you believe that?
And . . . and . . . and since I'm convinced before all that you are still an excellent person, we may indeed end by becoming friends.
I like you very much, Evgeny Pavlych; in my opinion, you're ... a very, very decent man!"
"Well, in any case it's very nice dealing with you, even in whatever it may be," Evgeny Pavlovich concluded. "Come, I'll drink a glass to your health; I'm terribly pleased to have joined you here.
Ah!" he suddenly stopped, "has this gentleman Ippolit come to live with you?"
"Yes."
"He's not going to die at once, I suppose?"
"Why?"
"No, nothing; I spent half an hour with him here . . ."
All this time Ippolit was waiting for the prince and constantly glancing at him and Evgeny Pavlovich, while they stood aside talking.
He became feverishly animated as they approached the table.
He was restless and agitated; sweat broke out on his forehead.
His eyes, along with a sort of roving, continual restlessness, also showed a certain vague impatience; his gaze moved aimlessly from object to object, from person to person.
Though up to then he had taken great part in the general noisy conversation, his animation was only feverish; he paid no attention to the conversation itself; his arguments were incoherent, ironic, and carelessly paradoxical; he did not finish and dropped something he himself had begun saying a moment earlier with feverish ardor.
The prince learned with surprise and regret that he had been allowed, unhindered, to drink two full glasses of champagne that evening, and that the glass he had started on, which stood before him, was already the third.
But he learned it only later; at the present moment he was not very observant.
"You know, I'm terribly glad that precisely today is your birthday!" cried Ippolit.
"Why?"
"You'll see. Sit down quickly. First of all, because all these . . . your people have gathered.
I reckoned there would be people; for the first time in my life my reckoning came out right!
Too bad I didn't know about your birthday, or I'd have come with a present . . .
Ha, ha! Maybe I did come with a present!
Is it long before daylight?"
"It's less than two hours till dawn," Ptitsyn said, looking at his watch.
"Who needs the dawn, if you can read outside as it is?" someone observed.
"It's because I need to see the rim of the sun.
Can one drink the sun's health, Prince, what do you think?"
Ippolit asked abruptly, addressing everyone without ceremony, as if he were in command, but he seemed not to notice it himself.
"Perhaps so; only you ought to calm down, eh, Ippolit?"