"True Russian beauty," said the archdeacon.
"Come and sit with us, little girl," said the leading man in his velvety voice.
"Sit down, sit down," whispered Zhirov.
Dasha seated herself at the table.
They crowded round her, kissing her hands and stepping back with respectful bows, as if she were Mary Stuart; then the singing went on again.
Zhirov set caviare and hors d'oeuvres in front of her, and made her drink something sweet and burning.
It was stuffy and smoky in the room.
After tossing off the thick, syrupy drink, Dasha removed her fur, and rested her bare arms on the table.
The sombre chords, the ancient words of the chant, moved her strangely.
She could not take her eyes off Mamont.
Zhirov had told her all about him on the way.
He still stood apart from the crowd, beside the screen, and it would have been hard to say whether he was in a furious temper, or dead-drunk.
"What about it, gentlemen?" he was saying, in a deep voice which filled the room.
"Doesn't anybody want to play?"
"Nobody wants to play with you, we're all enjoying ourselves, and do shut up and cool down," said the man with the flattened features, in a high rapid falsetto.
"Come on, Yasha—let's have the seventh chant!"
At the piano, Yasha, throwing his head well back and half closing his eyes, placed his fingers on the keyboard.
"Not for money—to hell with your money...."
"Just the same we don't want to—it's no use trying, Mamont!"
"I'll play you for shots!"
A moment of silence followed this declaration.
Then the jeune premier with the pointed nose passed his hand over his forehead and hair, and rose in his place, buttoning up his waistcoat.
"I'll play for shots!"
The comedian clutched him in silence, and bringing his enormous weight to bear on him, pushed him back on to his chair.
"I'll stake my life," shouted the jeune premier, "that that scoundrel Mamont has marked cards! To hell, let him keep the bank!
Leave go of me!"
But he had no more strength left.
The "heavy father" with the juglike face said softly:
"And not a drop of wine left!
That's a disgrace, Mamont, old man...."
Mamont Dalsky suddenly flung the pack of cards and a big automatic revolver, on to a little table with a telephone on it.
His large, chiselled countenance was pale with fury.
"No one will leave this room," he said, biting off the syllables.
"We will play the way I want! These cards are not marked."
He drew in deep breaths of air through distended nostrils, thrusting out his lower lip. All realized that the moment was fraught with danger.
His glance travelled over the faces around the table.
Yasha picked out the tune of a popular song with one finger on the keys of the piano.
Mamont's black brows suddenly flew upwards, and a look of astonishment enlivened for a moment his fathomless eyes.
He had seen Dasha.
Her heart turned cold beneath this glance.
He went up to her with a firm step, caught up the tips of her fingers, and raised them to his parched lips—but he did not kiss her hand, merely brushed it with his lips.
"No wine, you say? You'll soon get some!"
He pressed a bell, not taking his eyes off Dasha.
A Tatar waiter entered.
He flung out his hands—not a single bottle of wine, everything drunk up, the cellar locked, the manager gone....
"Get out!" said Mamont, and he stepped to the telephone as though he felt the eyes of a vast audience on him.
He called a number, and began talking:
"Yes.... It's me... Dalsky.... Send a detail. The Metropole. I'm here.... It's urgent.... Yes ... four men will be enough."
Slowly he put back the receiver, leant his whole figure against the wall, and folded his arms.
A quarter of an hour passed.