Ostap looked at him questioningly.
Vorobyaninov was flushed.
"You're tired, young lady," he said to Liza. "Sit down here a moment to rest while he and I walk around a bit.
This seems to be an interesting room."
They sat Liza down.
Then the concessionaires went over to the window.
"Are they the ones?" Ostap asked.
"It looks like it.
I must have a closer look."
"Are they all here?"
"I'll just count them.
Wait a moment."
Vorobyaninov began shifting his eyes from one chair to another.
"Just a second," he said at length. "Twenty chairs! That can't be right. There are only supposed to be twelve."
"Take a good look.
They may not be the right ones."
They began walking among the chairs.
"Well?" Ostap asked impatiently.
"The back doesn't seem to be the same as in mine."
"So they aren't the ones?"
"No, they're not."
"What a waste of time it was taking up with you!"
Ippolit Matveyevich was completely crushed.
"All right," said Ostap, "the hearing is continued.
A chair isn't a needle in a haystack.
We'll find it.
Give me the orders.
We will have to establish unpleasant contact with the museum curators.
Sit down beside the girl and wait.
I'll be back soon."
"Why are you so depressed?" asked Liza, "Are you tired?"
Ippolit Matveyevich tried not to answer.
"Does your head ache?"
"Yes, slightly.
I have worries, you know.
Lack of a woman's affection has an effect on one's tenor of life."
Liza was at first surprised, and then, looking at her bald-headed companion, felt truly sorry for him.
Vorobyaninov's eyes were full of suffering.
His pince-nez could not hide the sharply outlined bags underneath them.
The rapid change from the quiet life of a clerk in a district registry office to the uncomfortable, irksome existence of a diamond hunter and adventurer had left its mark.
Ippolit Matveyevich had become extremely thin and his liver had started paining him.
Under the strict supervision of Bender he was losing his own personality and rapidly being absorbed by the powerful intellect of the son of a Turkish citizen.
Now that he was left alone for a minute with the charming Liza, he felt an urge to tell her about his trials and tribulations, but did not dare to do so.
"Yes," he said, gazing tenderly at his companion, "that's how it is.
How are you, Elizabeth. . ."
"Petrovna.
And what's your name?"
They exchanged names and patronymics.
"A tale of true love," thought Ippolit Matveyevich, peering into Liza's simple face.
So passionately and so irresistibly did the old marshal want a woman's affection that he immediately seized Liza's tiny hand in his own wrinkled hands and began talking enthusiastically of Paris.