Kuzma Vassilyevitch grinned and blushed to his ears.
“I shall call you: lovely Emilie!”
“No, no! You must call me: Mein
Schatzchen, mein Zuckerpuppchen! Repeat it
after me.”
“With the greatest pleasure, but I am afraid
I shall find it difficult....”
“Never mind, never mind. Say: Mein.”
“Me-in.”
“Zucker.”
“Tsook-ker.”
“Puppchen! Puppchen! Puppchen!”
“Poop ... poop.... That I can’t manage.
It doesn’t sound nice.”
“No! You must ... you must! Do you
know what it means? That’s the very nicest
word for a young lady in German. I’ll explain
it to you afterwards. But here is auntie bringing
us the samovar. Bravo! Bravo! auntie, I
will have cream with my tea.... Is there any cream?”
“So schweige doch,” answered the
aunt.
Kuzma Vassilyevitch stayed at Madame Fritsche’s
till midnight. He had not spent such a pleasant
evening since his arrival at Nikolaev. It is
true that it occurred to him that it was not seemly
for an officer and a gentleman to be associating with
such persons as this native of Riga and her auntie,
but Emilie was so pretty, babbled so amusingly and
bestowed such friendly looks upon him, that he dismissed
his rank and family and made up his mind for once
to enjoy himself. Only one circumstance disturbed
him and left an impression that was not quite agreeable.
When his conversation with Emilie and Madame Fritsche
was in full swing, the door from the lobby opened
a crack and a man’s hand in a dark cuff with
three tiny silver buttons on it was stealthily thrust
in and stealthily laid a big bundle on the chair near
the door. Both ladies instantly darted to the
chair and began examining the bundle. “But
these are the wrong spoons!” cried Emilie, but
her aunt nudged her with her elbow and carried away
the bundle without tying up the ends. It seemed
to Kuzma Vassilyevitch that one end was spattered
with something red, like blood.
“What is it?” he asked Emilie. “Is
it some more stolen things returned to you?”
“Yes,” answered Emilie, as it were, reluctantly.
“Some more.”
“Was it your servant found them?”
Emilie frowned.
“What servant? We haven’t any servant.”
“Some other man, then?”
“No men come to see us.”
“But excuse me, excuse me.... I saw the
cuff of a man’s coat or jacket. And, besides,
this cap....”
“Men never, never come to see us,” Emilie
repeated emphatically. “What did you see?
You saw nothing! And that cap is mine.”
“How is that?”
“Why, just that. I wear it for dressing
up.... Yes, it is mine, und Punctum.”
“Who brought you the bundle, then?”
Emilie made no answer and, pouting, followed Madame
Fritsche out of the room. 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.
