Part 34 (1/2)

”Come back,” repeated Kranitski, ”that is well. We shall have a talk--it is so long since I have had a talk with anyone--and I shall see Maryan, the dear, dear boy!”

Kranitski rubbed his hands; he walked with springy step, and erect shoulders, through the little drawing-room, but not even delight could round his cheeks, which had dropped during recent days somewhat; neither could it freshen the yellow tint on them.

Mother Clemens halted in the middle of the room and followed him with her two pair of eyes.

”See, my lords! He is as if born again, as if called back to life!”

He stopped confused before her.

”Knowest what? Let mother run for a pate de foie gras, and a bottle of liqueur.”

Mother Clemens dropped back to the wall.

”Jesus of Nazareth! Hast thou gone mad, Tulek? Berek Shyldman--thy furniture--”

”What do I care for Berek Shyldman! What do I care for furniture!” cried Kranitski, ”when those n.o.ble hearts remember me--”

”Hearts have no stomachs; there is no need of stuffing something into them the first minute.”

”What does mother know? Mother is an honest woman, but her level is earth to earth--she only thinks of this cursed money!”

”But is pate de foie gras holy? Arabian adventure!”

Both voices were raised somewhat. Kranitski threw himself on the sofa, pressed his right side with his palm, groaned.

Then Clemens turned her face toward him; she had grown mild and seemed frightened.

”Well, has pain caught thee?”

It was clear that he was suffering. An old affliction of the liver, and something of the heart in addition. Mother Clemens approached the sofa in her clattering overshoes.

”Well, do not excite thyself. What is to be done? How much money will that Arabian pate cost?”

”And the liqueur!” put in Kranitski.

When he had grown calm he explained that the baron was fond of liqueur, and that Maryan was wild for pate and black coffee.

”Let mother prepare black coffee--thou knowest how to do it perfectly.”

”What more!” snorted she. ”Perhaps it would be well to take the panes from the windows, and throw the stove down?”

Kranitski spread out his arms.

”Why speak of the window-panes and the stove? What meaning can the stove and the gla.s.s have? There is no comparison between black coffee and window-panes, or the stove. Mother irritates me.”

Again his face changed and he groaned; the old woman surrendered, but the question of money remained. Kranitski took a bill out of his pocketbook, held it between two fingers, and thought. This is too small. That kind of liqueur which the baron drinks is very expensive. Vexation was evident on his face. Clemens spoke up:

”Well, stop thinking, for if thou hast not a rouble thou wilt not think out one in a hundred years. Be calm. Only write all on a card for me; I will go and buy what is needed.”

Kranitski struggled on the sofa.