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CHAPTER IV
21st May.

NEARLY a week has passed, and I have not
yet made the Ligovskis' acquaintance. I am

awaiting a convenient opportunity. Grushnitski
follows Princess Mary everywhere like a shadow.

Their conversations are interminable; but,
when will she be tired of him? . . . Her

mother pays no attention, because he is not
a man who is in a position to marry. Behold

the logic of mothers! I have caught two
or three tender glances -- this must be put a

stop to.
Yesterday, for the first time, Vera made

her appearance at the well. . . She has never
gone out of doors since we met in the

grotto. We let down our tumblers at the same
time, and as she bent forward she whispered

to me:
"You are not going to make the Ligovskis'

acquaintance? . . . It is only there that we can
meet" . . .

A reproach! . . . How tiresome! But I have
deserved it. . .

By the way, there is a subscription ball to-
morrow in the saloon of the restaurant, and I will

dance the mazurka with Princess Mary.
CHAPTER V

29th May.
THE saloon of the restaurant was converted

into the assembly room of a Nobles' Club.
The company met at nine o'clock. Princess

Ligovski and her daughter were amongst the
latest to make their appearance. Several of the

ladies looked at Princess Mary with envy and
malevolence, because she dresses with taste.

Those who look upon themselves as the aris-
tocracy of the place concealed their envy and

attached themselves to her train. What else
could be expected? Wherever there is a gathering

of women, the company is immediately divided
into a higher and a lower circle.

Beneath the window, amongst a crowd of
people, stood Grushnitski, pressing his face to the

pane and never taking his eyes off his divinity.
As she passed by, she gave him a hardly per-

ceptible nod. He beamed like the sun. . .
The first dance was a polonaise, after which the

musicians struck up a waltz. Spurs began to
jingle, and skirts to rise and whirl.

I was standing behind a certain stout lady who
was overshadowed by rose-coloured feathers.

The magnificence of her dress reminded me of
the times of the farthingale, and the motley hue

of her by no means smooth skin, of the happy
epoch of the black taffeta patch. An immense

wart on her neck was covered by a clasp. She was
saying to her cavalier, a captain of dragoons:

"That young Princess Ligovski is a most
intolerable creature! Just fancy, she jostled

against me and did not apologise, but even turned
round and stared at me through her lorgn-

ette! . . . C'est impayable! . . . And what
has she to be proud of? It is time somebody

gave her a lesson" . . .
"That will be easy enough," replied the

obliging captain, and he directed his steps to the
other room.

I went up to Princess Mary immediately, and,
availing myself of the local customs which allowed

one to dance with a stranger, I invited her to
waltz with me.

She was scarcely able to keep from smiling and
letting her triumph be seen; but quickly enough

she succeeded in assuming an air of perfect
indifference and even severity. Carelessly she let

her hand fall upon my shoulder, inclined her head
slightly to one side, and we began to dance. I have

never known a waist more voluptuous and supple!
Her fresh breath touched my face; at times a

lock of hair, becoming separated from its com-
panions in the eddy of the waltz, glided over my

burning cheek. . .
I made three turns of the ballroom (she

waltzes surprisingly well). She was out of breath,
her eyes were dulled, her half-open lips were

scarcely able to whisper the indispensable:
"merci, monsieur."

After a few moments' silence I said to her,
assuming a very humble air:

"I have heard, Princess, that although quite
unacquainted with you, I have already had the

misfortune to incur your displeasure . . . that
you have considered me insolent. Can that

possibly true?"
"Would you like to confirm me in that

opinion now?" she answered, with an ironical
little grimace -- very becoming, however, to her

mobile countenance.
"If I had the audacity to insult you in any way,

then allow me to have the still greater audacity to
beg your pardon. . . And, indeed, I should

very much like to prove to you that you are
mistaken in regard to me" . . .

"You will find that a rather difficult task" . . .
"But why?" . . .

"Because you never visit us and, most
likely, there will not be many more of these

balls."
"That means," I thought, "that their doors

are closed to me for ever."
"You know, Princess," I said to her, with a

certain amount of vexation, "one should never
spurn a penitentcriminal: in his despair he may

become twice as much a criminal as before . . .
and then" . . .

Sudden laughter and whispering from the
people around us caused me to turn my head and

to interrupt my phrase. A few paces away from
me stood a group of men, amongst them the

captain of dragoons, who had manifested inten-
tions hostile to the charming Princess. He was

particularly well pleased with something or other,
and was rubbing his hands, laughing and ex-

changing meaning glances with his companions.
All at once a gentleman in an evening-dress coat

and with long moustaches and a red face separated
himself from the crowd and directed his uncertain

steps straight towards Princess Mary. He was
drunk. Coming to a halt opposite the em-

barrassed Princess and placing his hands behind
his back, he fixed his dull grey eyes upon her, and

said in a hoarse treble:
"Permettez . . . but what is the good of that

sort of thing here. . . All I need say is: I en-
gage you for the mazurka" . . .

"Very well!" she replied in a trembling voice,
throwing a beseeching glance around. Alas! Her

mother was a long way off, and not one of the
cavaliers of her acquaintance was near. A certain

aide-de-camp apparently saw the whole scene,
but he concealed himself behind the crowd in

order not to be mixed up in the affair.
"What?" said the drunken gentleman, wink-

ing to the captain of dragoons, who was encourag-
ing him by signs. "Do you not wish to dance

then? . . . All the same I again have the honour
to engage you for the mazurka. . . You think,

perhaps, that I am drunk! That is all right! . . .
I can dance all the easier, I assure you" . . .

I saw that she was on the point of fainting with
fright and indignation.

I went up to the drunken gentleman, caught
him none too gently by the arm, and, looking

him fixedly in the face, requested him to retire.
"Because," I added, "the Princess promised

long ago to dance the mazurka with me."
"Well, then, there's nothing to be done!

Another time!" he said, bursting out laughing,
and he retired to his abashed companions, who

immediately conducted him into another room.
I was rewarded by a deep, wondrous glance.

The Princess went up to her mother and told
her the whole story. The latter sought me out

among the crowd and thanked me. She informed
me that she knew my mother and was on terms of

friendship with half a dozen of my aunts.
"I do not know how it has happened that we

have not made your acquaintance up to now," she
added; "but confess, you alone are to blame for

that. You fight shy of everyone in a positively
unseemly way. I hope the air of my drawing-

room will dispel your spleen. . . Do you not
think so?"

I uttered one of the phrases which everybody
must have ready for such an occasion.

The quadrilles dragged on a dreadfully long
time.

At last the music struck up from the gallery,
Princess Mary and I took up our places.

I did not once allude to the drunken gentleman,
or to my previous behaviour, or to Grushnitski.

The impression produced upon her by the
unpleasant scene was gradually dispelled; her

face brightened up; she jested very charmingly;
her conversation was witty, without pretensions to

wit, vivacious and spontaneous; her observations
were sometimes profound. . . In a very involved

sentence I gave her to understand that I had
liked her for a long time. She bent her head and

blushed slightly.
"You are a strange man!" she said, with a

forced laugh, lifting her velvet eyes upon me.
"I did not wish to make your acquaintance," I

continued, "because you are surrounded by too
dense a throng of adorers, in which I was afraid

of being lost to sight altogether."
"You need not have been afraid; they are all

very tiresome" . . .
"All? Not all, surely?"

She looked fixedly at me as if endeavouring to


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