Oh, what a deep sigh of delight Sanin heaved, when he found himself in
his room! Indeed, Maria Nikolaevna had spoken the truth, he needed
rest, rest from all these new acquaintances, collisions, conversations,
from this suffocating atmosphere which was affecting his head and his
heart, from this enigmatical, uninvited intimacy with a woman, so alien
to him! And when was all this taking place? Almost the day after he had
learnt that Gemma loved him, after he had become betrothed to her. Why,
it was sacrilege! A thousand times he mentally asked forgiveness of his
pure chaste dove, though he could not really blame himself for
anything; a thousand times over he kissed the cross she had given him.
Had he not the hope of bringing the business, for which he had come to
Wiesbaden, to a speedy and successful conclusion, he would have rushed
off headlong, back again, to sweet Frankfort, to that dear house, now
his own home, to her, to throw himself at her loved feet…. But there
was no help for it! The cup must be drunk to the dregs, he must dress,
go to dinner, and from there to the theatre…. If only she would let him
go to-morrow!
One other thing confounded him, angered him; with love, with
tenderness, with grateful transport he dreamed of Gemma, of their life
together, of the happiness awaiting him in the future, and yet this
strange woman, this Madame Polozov persistently floated—no! not
floated, poked herself, so Sanin with special vindictiveness expressed
it—_poked herself_ in and faced his eyes, and he could not rid himself
of her image, could not help hearing her voice, recalling her words,
could not help being aware even of the special scent, delicate, fresh
and penetrating, like the scent of yellow lilies, that was wafted from
her garments. This lady was obviously fooling him, and trying in every
way to get over him … what for? what did she want? Could it be merely
the caprice of a spoiled, rich, and most likely unprincipled woman? And
that husband! What a creature he was! What were his relations with her?
And why would these questions keep coming into his head, when he,
Sanin, had really no interest whatever in either Polozov or his wife?
Why could he not drive away that intrusive image, even when he turned
with his whole soul to another image, clear and bright as God’s
sunshine? How, through those almost divine features, dare _those
others_ force themselves upon him? And not only that; those other
features smiled insolently at him. Those grey, rapacious eyes, those
dimples, those snake-like tresses, how was it all that seemed to cleave
to him, and to shake it all off, and fling it away, he was unable, had
not the power?
Nonsense! nonsense! to-morrow it would all vanish and leave no trace….
But would she let him go to-morrow?
Yes…. All these question he put to himself, but the time was moving on
to three o’clock, and he put on a black frockcoat and after a turn in
the park, went in to the Polozovs!
He found in their drawing-room a secretary of the legation, a very tall
light-haired German, with the profile of a horse, and his hair parted
down the back of his head (at that time a new fashion), and … oh,
wonder! whom besides? Von Dönhof, the very officer with whom he had
fought a few days before! He had not the slightest expectation of
meeting him there and could not help being taken aback. He greeted him,
however.
“Are you acquainted?” asked Maria Nikolaevna who had not failed to
notice Sanin’s embarrassment.
“Yes … I have already had the honour,” said Dönhof, and bending a
little aside, in an undertone he added to Maria Nikolaevna, with a
smile, “The very man … your compatriot … the Russian …”
“Impossible!” she exclaimed also in an undertone; she shook her finger
at him, and at once began to bid good-bye both to him and the long
secretary, who was, to judge by every symptom, head over ears in love
with her; he positively gaped every time he looked at her. Dönhof
promptly took leave with amiable docility, like a friend of the family
who understands at half a word what is expected of him; the secretary
showed signs of restiveness, but Maria Nikolaevna turned him out
without any kind of ceremony.
“Get along to your sovereign mistress,” she said to him (there was at
that time in Wiesbaden a certain princess di Monaco, who looked
surprisingly like a _cocotte_ of the poorer sort); “what do you want to
stay with a plebeian like me for?”
“Really, dear madam,” protested the luckless secretary, “all the
princesses in the world….”
But Maria Nikolaevna was remorseless, and the secretary went away,
parting and all.
Maria Nikolaevna was dressed that day very much “to her advantage,” as
our grandmothers used to say. She wore a pink glacé silk dress, with
sleeves _à la Fontange_, and a big diamond in each ear. Her eyes
sparkled as much as her diamonds; she seemed in a good humour and in
high spirits.
She made Sanin sit beside her, and began talking to him about Paris,
where she was intending to go in a few days, of how sick she was of
Germans, how stupid they were when they tried to be clever, and how
inappropriately clever sometimes when they were stupid; and suddenly,
point-blank, as they say—_à brûle pourpoint_—asked him, was it true
that he had fought a duel with the very officer who had been there just
now, only a few days ago, on account of a lady?
“How did you know that?” muttered Sanin, dumfoundered.
“The earth is full of rumours, Dimitri Pavlovitch; but anyway, I know
you were quite right, perfectly right, and behaved like a knight. Tell
me, was that lady your betrothed?”