“How is Natasha?”
“How do you do, auntie?” said the invalid in a faint voice, and Tatiana Afanassievna hastened towards her.
“The young lady has regained consciousness,” said the maid, carefully drawing a chair to the side of the bed. The old lady, with tears in her eyes, kissed the pale, languid face of her niece, and sat down beside her. Just behind her came a German doctor in a black caftan and learned wig. He felt Natalia’s pulse, and announced in Latin, and then in Russian, that the danger was over. He asked for paper and ink, wrote out a new prescription, and departed. The old lady rose, kissed Natalia once more, and immediately hurried down with the good news to Gavril Afanassievitch.
In the parlour, in uniform, with sword by his side and hat in his hand, sat the Czar’s negro, respectfully talking with Gavril Afanassievitch. Korsakoff, stretched out upon a soft couch, was listening to their conversation, and teasing a venerable greyhound. Becoming tired of this occupation, he approached the mirror, the usual refuge of the idle, and in it he saw Tatiana Afanassievna, who through the doorway was making unnoticed signs to her brother.
“Someone is calling you, Gavril Afanassievitch,” said Korsakoff, turning round to him and interrupting Ibrahim’s speech.
Gavril Afanassievitch immediately went to his sister and closed the door behind him.
“I am astonished at your patience,” said Korsakoff to Ibrahim. “For a full hour you have been listening to a lot of nonsense about the antiquity of the Likoff and Rjevsky families, and have even added your own moral observations! In your place j’aurais planté là the old babbler and all his race, including Natalia Gavrilovna, who is an affected girl, and is only pretending to be ill—une petite santé. Tell me candidly: do you really love this little mijaurée?”
“No,” replied Ibrahim: “I am certainly not going to marry, out of love, but out of prudence, and then only if she has no decided aversion to me.”
“Listen, Ibrahim,” said Korsakoff, “follow my advice this time; in truth, I am more discreet than I seem. Get this foolish idea out of your head—don’t marry. It seems to me that your bride has no particular liking for you. Do not a few things happen in this world? For instance: I am certainly not a very bad sort of fellow myself, but yet it has happened to me to deceive husbands, who, by the Lord, were in no way worse than me. And you yourself ... do you remember our Parisian friend, Count L—-? There is no dependence to be placed upon a woman’s fidelity; happy is he who can regard it with indifference. But you!... With your passionate, pensive and suspicious nature, with your flat nose, thick lips, and shaggy head, to rush into all the dangers of matrimony!....”
“I thank you for your friendly advice,” interrupted Ibrahim coldly; “but you know the proverb: ‘It is not your duty to rock other people’s children.’”