A whole fortnight passed by. I visited the Gagins every day. Acia
seemed to avoid me, but she did not permit herself one of the
mischievous tricks which had so surprised me the first two days of our
acquaintance. She seemed secretly wounded or embarrassed; she even
laughed less than at first. I watched her with curiosity.
She spoke French and German fairly well; but one could easily see,
in everything she did, that she had not from childhood been brought
up under a woman’s care, and that she had had a curious, irregular
education that had nothing in common with Gagin’s bringing up. He was,
in spite of the Vandyck hat and the blouse, so thoroughly every inch
of him the soft, half-effeminate Great Russian nobleman, while she was
not like the young girl of the same class. In all her movements there
was a certain restlessness. The wild stock had not long been grafted,
the new wine was still fermenting. By nature modest and timid, she
was exasperated by her own shyness, and in her exasperation tried
to force herself to be bold and free and easy, in which she was not
always successful. I sometimes began to talk to her about her life in
Russia, about her past; she answered my questions reluctantly. I found
out, however, that before going abroad she had lived a long while in
the country. I came upon her once, intent on a book, alone. With her
head on her hands and her fingers thrust into her hair, she was eagerly
devouring the lines.
‘Bravo!’ I said, going up to her; ‘how studious you are!’ She raised
her head, and looked gravely and severely at me. ‘You think I can do
nothing but laugh,’ she said, and was about to go away.…