Part 33 (2/2)

”You are very kind,” she said, all the time gazing at Turbin's back, and unconsciously reckoning how many yards[64] of gold-lace were used for his whole jacket. ”You are very kind; you promised to come to take me for a walk, and to bring me some comfits.”

[Footnote 64: _ars.h.i.+ns._]

”Well, I did come, Anna Fedorovna, but you weren't at home, and I left the very best comfits for you,” said the young man, in a voice that was very thin, considering his height.

”You always are provided with excuses; I don't need your comfits. Please do not think”....

”I begin to see, Anna Fedorovna, how you have changed toward me, and I know why. But it is not right,” he added, but without finis.h.i.+ng his remark, evidently owing to some powerful interior emotion, which caused his lips to tremble strangely.

Anna Fedorovna did not heed him, and continued to follow Turbin with her eyes. The marshal, at whose house the ball was given,--a big, stout old man, who had lost his teeth,--came up to the count, and, taking him by the arm, invited him into his library to smoke and drink if he so desired.

As soon as Turbin disappeared, Anna Fedorovna felt that there was absolutely nothing for her to do in the ballroom, and slipping her hand through the arm of a dried-up old maid, who was a friend of hers, went with her into the dressing-room.

”Well, what do you think of him? Is he nice?” asked the old maid.

”Only it's terrible--the way he follows you up!” said Anna Fedorovna, going to the mirror, and contemplating herself in it.

Her face was aglow, her eyes were full of mischief, her color was heightened; then suddenly imitating one of the ballet-dancers whom she had seen during election time, she pirouetted round on one toe, and, laughing her guttural but sweet laugh, she leaped up in the air, crossing her knees.

”What a man he is! he even asked me for a _souvenir_,” she confided to her friend. ”But he will ne-e-ver get one,” she said, singing the last words, and lifting one finger in the lilac-colored glove that reached to her elbow.

In the library where Turbin was conducted by the marshal, stood various kinds of vodka, liqueurs, edibles,[65] and champagne. In a cloud of tobacco-smoke the n.o.bility were sitting, or walking up and down, talking about the elections.

[Footnote 65: _zakuski._]

”When the whole of the high n.o.bility of our district has honored him with an election,” exclaimed the newly elected ispravnik who was already tolerably tipsy, ”he certainly ought not to fail in his duties toward society in general.”

The conversation was interrupted by the count's coming. All were presented to him, and the ispravnik especially pressed his hand long between both of his, and asked him several times to go with him after the ball to the new tavern, where he would treat the gentlemen of the n.o.bility, and where they would hear the gypsies sing.

The count accepted his invitation, and drank with him several gla.s.ses of champagne.

”Why aren't you dancing, gentlemen?” he asked, as he was about to leave the library.

”We aren't dancers,” replied the ispravnik, laughing. ”We prefer the wine, count; and besides, all these young ladies have grown up under my eyes, count. But still, I do sometimes take part in a schottische, count. I can do it, count.”

”Come on then for a while,” said Turbin. ”Let us have some sport before we go to the gypsies.”

”What say you, gentlemen? Let us come! Let us delight our host!”

And the three gentlemen who, since the beginning of the ball, had been drinking in the library and had very red faces, began to draw on their gloves, some of black kid, another of knit silk, and were just going with the count to the ballroom, when they were detained by the scrofulous young man, who, pale as a sheet, and scarcely able to refrain from tears, came straight up to Turbin.

”You have an idea, because you are a count, you can run into people as if you were at a fair,” said he, with difficulty drawing his breath; ”hence it isn't fitting”--

Once more the stream of his speech was interrupted by the involuntary trembling of his lips.

”What?” cried Turbin, frowning suddenly, ”what?... You're a baby,” he cried, seizing him by the arm, and squeezing it so that the blood rushed to the young man's head, not so much from vexation as from fright. ”What is it? Do you want to fight? If so, I am at your service.”

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