Ten minutes later she came back alone, without her aunt and
when Kuzma Vassilyevitch tried to question her again, she gazed at his
forehead, said that it was disgraceful for a gentleman to be so
inquisitive (as she said this, her face changed a little, as it were,
darkened), and taking a pack of old cards from the card table drawer,
asked him to tell fortunes for her and the king of hearts. Kuzma Vassilyevitch laughed, took the cards, and all evil thoughts
immediately slipped out of his mind. But they came back to him that very day. When he had got out of the
gate into the street, had said good-bye to Emilie, shouted to her for
the last time, _"Adieu, Zuckerpüppchen! "_ a short man darted by
him and turning for a minute in his direction (it was past midnight
but the moon was shining rather brightly), displayed a lean gipsy face
with thick black eyebrows and moustache, black eyes and a hooked nose. The man at once rushed round the corner and it struck Kuzma
Vassilyevitch that he recognised--not his face, for he had never seen
it before--but the cuff of his sleeve. Three silver buttons gleamed
distinctly in the moonlight. There was a stir of uneasy perplexity in
the soul of the prudent lieutenant; when he got home he did not light
as usual his meerschaum pipe. Though, indeed, his sudden acquaintance
with charming Emilie and the agreeable hours spent in her company
would alone have induced his agitation. X

Whatever Kuzma Vassilyevitch's apprehensions may have been, they were
quickly dissipated and left no trace. He took to visiting the two
ladies from Riga frequently. The susceptible lieutenant was soon on
friendly terms with Emilie. At first he was ashamed of the
acquaintance and concealed his visits; later on he got over being
ashamed and no longer concealed his visits; it ended by his being more
eager to spend his time with his new friends than with anyone and
greatly preferring their society to the cheerless solitude of his own
four walls. Madame Fritsche herself no longer made the same unpleasant
impression upon him, though she still treated him morosely and
ungraciously. Persons in straitened circumstances like Madame Fritsche
particularly appreciate a liberal expenditure in their visitors, and
Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a little stingy and his presents for the most
part took the shape of raisins, walnuts, cakes.... Only once he let
himself go and presented Emilie with a light pink fichu of real French
material, and that very day she had burnt a hole in his gift with a
candle. He began to upbraid her; she fixed the fichu to the cat's
tail; he was angry; she laughed in his face. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was
forced at last to admit to himself that he had not only failed to win
the respect of the ladies from Riga, but had even failed to gain their
confidence: he was never admitted at once, without preliminary
scrutinising; he was often kept waiting; sometimes he was sent away
without the slightest ceremony and when they wanted to conceal
something from him they would converse in German in his presence. Emilie gave him no account of her doings and replied to his questions
in an offhand way as though she had not heard them; and, worst of all,
some of the rooms in Madame Fritsche's house, which was a fairly large
one, though it looked like a hovel from the street, were never opened
to him. For all that, Kuzma Vassilyevitch did not give up his visits;
on the contrary, he paid them more and more frequently: he was seeing
living people, anyway. His vanity was gratified by Emilie's continuing
to call him Florestan, considering him exceptionally handsome and
declaring that he had eyes like a bird of paradise, "_wie die Augen
eines Paradiesvogels!_"

XI

One day in the very height of summer, Kuzma Vassilyevitch, who had
spent the whole morning in the sun with contractors and workmen,
dragged himself tired and exhausted to the little gate that had become
so familiar to him. He knocked and was admitted. He shambled into the
so-called drawing-room and immediately lay down on the sofa. Emilie
went up to him and mopped his wet brow with a handkerchief. "How tired he is, poor pet! How hot he is!" she said commiseratingly. "Good gracious! You might at least unbutton your collar. My goodness,
how your throat is pulsing!" "I am done up, my dear," groaned Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "I've been on my
feet all the morning, in the baking sun. It's awful! I meant to go
home. But there those vipers, the contractors, would find me! While
here with you it is cool.... I believe I could have a nap." "Well, why not? Go to sleep, my little chick; no one will disturb you
here." ...

"But I am really ashamed." "What next! Why ashamed? Go to sleep. And I'll sing you ... what do you
call it? ... I'll sing you to bye-bye, _'Schlaf, mein Kindchen,
Schlafe! '_" She began singing. "I should like a drink of water first." "Here is a glass of water for you. Fresh as crystal! Wait, I'll put a
pillow under your head.... And here is this to keep the flies off." She covered his face with a handkerchief. "Thank you, my little cupid.... I'll just have a tiny doze ... that's
all." Kuzma Vassilyevitch closed his eyes and fell asleep immediately. "_Schlaf, mein Kindchen, schlafe_," sang Emilie, swaying from
side to side and softly laughing at her song and her movements. "What a big baby I have got!" she thought. "A boy!" XII

An hour and a half later the lieutenant awoke. He fancied in his sleep
that someone touched him, bent over him, breathed over him. He
fumbled, and pulled off the kerchief. Emilie was on her knees close
beside him; the expression of her face struck him as queer. She jumped
up at once, walked away to the window and put something away in her
pocket. Kuzma Vassilyevitch stretched. "I've had a good long snooze, it seems!" he observed, yawning. "Come
here, _meine züsse Fräulein_!" Emilie went up to him. He sat up quickly, thrust his hand into her
pocket and took out a small pair of scissors. "_Ach, Herr Je_!" Emilie could not help exclaiming. "It's ... it's a pair of scissors?" muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "Why, of course. What did you think it was ... a pistol? Oh, how funny
you look! You're as rumpled as a pillow and your hair is all standing
up at the back.... And he doesn't laugh.... Oh, oh! And his eyes are
puffy.... Oh!" Emilie went off into a giggle. "Come, that's enough," muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch, and he got up
from the sofa. "That's enough giggling about nothing. If you can't
think of anything more sensible, I'll go home.... I'll go home," he
repeated, seeing that she was still laughing. Emilie subsided. "Come, stay; I won't.... Only you must brush your hair." "No, never mind.... Don't trouble. I'd better go," said Kuzma
Vassilyevitch, and he took up his cap. Emilie pouted. "Fie, how cross he is! A regular Russian! All Russians are cross. Now
he is going. Fie! Yesterday he promised me five roubles and today he
gives me nothing and goes away."