No sooner was the name of Kamarowsky mentioned between us than Prilukoff became sullen and gloomy again. He sulked and glowered at me, and passed the whole day without speaking a word.
On this particular day we had taken a box at the Theater An der Wien, having promised Tioka that he should hear “The Merry Widow.” Long before it was time to go, the little fellow was dressed and ready, jumping up and down in front of the window.
“Let us make haste,” he cried. “The carriage will be tired of waiting. Let us make haste!”
Suddenly he uttered a shriek of joy. “Mother, mother, look! There is Papa Paul! I can see him—he has just passed. Papa Paul!” he shouted with all his might.
Prilukoff caught him by his little jacket and drew him roughly from the window. Then he himself looked out.
“Sure enough,” he said, shutting the window and looking at me with that terrible crooked smile I had learned to dread. “It is Kamarowsky.”
There was a moment's silence. Then he said: “And now I have had enough of this. We will end it.” Murder gleamed in his eyes.
I clasped Tioka in my arms—the child was quite sad and hurt by Prilukoff's sudden rudeness—and as I kissed his soft curls I breathed Elise's prayer: “Dear God of Eastertide, give us Thy blessing.”
But alas! it was Easter no longer.
In spite of what had happened, we went to the theater that night. And there, while the music swayed us in the undulating rhythm of the waltz, and little Tioka gazed enraptured at the stage, Prilukoff, sitting behind me in the shadow, formulated his plans for the crime.