Next day Kuzma Vassilyevitch went shopping before
dinner, and, after persistent haggling, bought a tiny
gold cross on a little velvet ribbon. “Though
she declares,” he thought, “that she never
takes presents, we all know what such sayings mean;
and if she really is so disinterested, Emilie won’t
be so squeamish.” So argued this Don Juan
of Nikolaev, who had probably never heard of the original
Don Juan and knew nothing about him. At six o’clock
in the evening Kuzma Vassilyevitch shaved carefully
and sending for a hairdresser he knew, told him to
pomade and curl his topknot, which the latter did with
peculiar zeal, not sparing the government note paper
for curlpapers; then Kuzma Vassilyevitch put on a
smart new uniform, took into his right hand a pair
of new wash-leather gloves, and, sprinkling himself
with lavender water, set off. Kuzma Vassilyevitch
took a great deal more trouble over his personal appearance
on this occasion than when he went to see his “Zuckerpuppchen”,
not because he liked Colibri better than Emilie but
in the “pretty little doll” there was something
enigmatic, something which stirred even the sluggish
imagination of the young lieutenant.
XIX
Madame Fritsche greeted him as she had done the day
before and as though she had conspired with him in
a plan of deception, informed him again that Emilie
had gone out for a short time and asked him to wait.
Kuzma Vassilyevitch nodded in token of assent and sat
down on a chair. Madame Fritsche smiled again,
that is, showed her yellow tusks and withdrew without
offering him any chocolate.
Kuzma Vassilyevitch instantly fixed his eyes on the
mysterious door. It remained closed. He
coughed loudly once or twice so as to make known his
presence.... The door did not stir. He held
his breath, strained his ears.... He heard not
the faintest sound or rustle; everything was still
as death. Kuzma Vassilyevitch got up, approached
the door on tiptoe and, fumbling in vain with his fingers,
pressed his knee against it. It was no use.
Then he bent down and once or twice articulated in
a loud whisper, “Colibri! Colibri!
Little doll!” No one responded. Kuzma Vassilyevitch
drew himself up, straightened his uniform—and,
after standing still a little while, walked with more
resolute steps to the window and began drumming on
the pane. He began to feel vexed, indignant;
his dignity as an officer began to assert itself.
“What nonsense is this?” he thought at
last; “whom do they take me for? If they
go on like this, I’ll knock with my fists.
She will be forced to answer! The old woman will
hear.... What of it? That’s not my
fault.” He turned swiftly on his heel ...
the door stood half open.
XX
Copyrights
Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
