“Soloviev, dearie, who was he—this author?”
“He was a certain French priest.”
“He wasn’t a Russian?”
“No, a Frenchman, I’m telling you. See, he’s got everything so—the towns are French and the people have French names.”
“Then he was a priest, you say? Where did he know all this from, then?”
“Well, he knew it, that’s all. Because he was an ordinary man of the world, a nobleman, and only became a monk afterwards. He had seen a lot in his life. Then he again left the monks. But, however, here’s everything about him written in detail in front of this book.”
He read the biography of Abbe Prevost to her. Liubka heard it through attentively, shaking her head with great significance; asked over again about that which she did not understand in certain places, and when he had finished she thoughtfully drawled out:
“Then that’s what he is! He’s written it up awfully good. Only why is she so low down? For he loves her so, with all his life; but she’s playing him false all the time.”
“Well, Liubochka, what can you do? For she loved him too. Only she’s a vain hussy, and frivolous. All she wants is only rags, and her own horses, and diamonds.”
Liubka flared up and hit one fist against the other.