People not only gave little, they somehow gave unwillingly.
However, by exploiting his purely Parisian pronunciation of the word mange and pulling at their heart-strings by his desperate position as an ex-member of the Tsarist Duma, he was able to pick up three roubles in copper coins.
The gravel crunched under the feet of the holidaymakers.
The orchestra played Strauss, Brahms and Grieg with long pauses in between.
Brightly coloured crowds drifted past the old marshal, chattering as they went, and came back again.
Lermontov's spirit hovered unseen above the citizens trying matsoni on the verandah of the buffet.
There was an odour of eau-de-Cologne and sulphur gas.
"Give to a former member of the Duma," mumbled the marshal.
"Tell me, were you really a member of the State Duma?" asked a voice right by Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. "And did you really attend meetings?
Ah!
Ah!
First rate!"
Ippolit Matveyevich raised his eyes and almost fainted.
Hopping about in front of him like a sparrow was Absalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov.
He had changed his brown Lodz suit for a white coat and grey trousers with a playful spotted pattern.
He was in unusual spirits and from time to time jumped as much as five or six inches off the ground.
Iznurenkov did not recognize Ippolit Matveyevich and continued to shower him with questions.
"Tell me, did you actually see Rodzyanko?
Was Purishkevich really bald?
Ah!
Ah!
What a subject!
First rate!"
Continuing to gyrate, Iznurenkov shoved three roubles into the confused marshal's hand and ran off.
But for some time afterwards his thick thighs could be glimpsed in various parts of the Flower Garden, and his voice seemed to float down from the trees.
"Ah!
Ah!
'Don't sing to me, my beauty, of sad Georgia.'
Ah!
Ah!
They remind me of another life and a distant shore.'
'And in the morning she smiled again.'
First rate!"
Ippolit Matveyevich remained standing, staring at the ground.
A pity he did so.
He missed a lot.
In the enchanting darkness of the Pyatigorsk night, Ellochka Shukin strolled through the park, dragging after her the submissive and newly reconciled Ernest Pavlovich.
The trip to the spa was the finale of the hard battle with Vanderbilt's daughter.
The proud American girl had recently set sail on a pleasure cruise to the Sandwich Isles in her own yacht.
"Hoho!" echoed through the darkness. "Great, Ernestula!
Ter-r-rific!"
In the lamp-lit buffet sat Alchen and his wife, Sashchen.
Her cheeks were still adorned with sideburns.
Alchen was bashfully eating shishkebab, washing it down with Kahetinsky wine no. 2, while Sashchen, stroking her sideburns, waited for the sturgeon she had ordered.
After the liquidation of the second pensioners' home (everything had been sold, including the cook's cap and the slogan,
"By carefully masticating your food you help society"), Alchen had decided to have a holiday and enjoy himself.
Fate itself had saved the full-bellied little crook.
He had decided to see the Drop that day, but did not have time.
Ostap would certainly not have let him get away for less than thirty roubles.
Ippolit Matveyevich wandered off to the spring as the musicians were folding up their stands, the holidaymakers were dispersing, and the courting couples alone breathed heavily in the narrow lanes of the Flower Garden.