Colibri pondered and turned to the lieutenant....
All at once there was the muffled sound of tapping
repeated three times at even intervals somewhere in
the house. Colibri laughed, almost snorted.
“To-day—no, to-morrow—yes.
Come to-morrow.”
“At what time?”
“Seven ... in the evening.”
“And what about Emilie?”
“Emilie ... no; will not be here.”
“You think so? Very well. Only, to-morrow
you will tell me?”
“What?” (Colibri’s face assumed
a childish expression every time she asked a question.)
“Why you have been hiding away from me all this
time?”
“Yes ... yes; everything shall be to-morrow;
the end shall be.”
“Mind now! And I’ll bring you a present.”
“No ... no need.”
“Why not? I see you like fine clothes.”
“No need. This ... this ... this ...”
she pointed to her dress, her rings, her bracelets,
and everything about her, “it is all my own.
Not a present. I do not take.”
“As you like. And now must I go?”
“Oh, yes.”
Kuzma Vassilyevitch got up. Colibri got up, too.
“Good-bye, pretty little doll! And when
will you give me a kiss?”
Colibri suddenly gave a little jump and swiftly flinging
both arms round his neck, gave him not precisely a
kiss but a peck at his lips. He tried in his
turn to kiss her but she instantly darted back and
stood behind the sofa.
“To-morrow at seven o’clock, then?”
he said with some confusion.
She nodded and taking a tress of her long hair with
her two fingers, bit it with her sharp teeth.
Kuzma Vassilyevitch kissed his hand to her, went out
and shut the door after him. He heard Colibri
run up to it at once.... The key clicked in the
lock.
There was no one in Madame Fritsche’s drawing-room.
Kuzma Vassilyevitch made his way to the passage at
once. He did not want to meet Emilie. Madame
Fritsche met him on the steps.
“Ah, you are going, Mr. Lieutenant?” she
said, with the same affected and sinister smile.
“You won’t wait for Emilie?”
Kuzma Vassilyevitch put on his cap.
“I haven’t time to wait any longer, madam.
I may not come to-morrow, either. Please tell
her so.”
“Very good, I’ll tell her. But I
hope you haven’t been dull, Mr. Lieutenant?”
“No, I have not been dull.”
“I thought not. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Kuzma Vassilyevitch returned home and stretching himself
on his bed sank into meditation. He was unutterably
perplexed. “What marvel is this?”
he cried more than once. And why did Emilie write
to him? She had made an appointment and not come!
He took out her letter, turned it over in his hands,
sniffed it: it smelt of tobacco and in one place
he noticed a correction. But what could he deduce
from that? And was it possible that Madame Fritsche
knew nothing about it? And she....
Who was she? Yes, who was she? The fascinating
Colibri, that “pretty doll,” that “little
image,” was always before him and he looked
forward with impatience to the following evening, though
secretly he was almost afraid of this “pretty
doll” and “little image.”
