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."