I resolved to telegraph to my mother.
Feeling sad and perplexed, I went to the telegraph office and sat down at a table to write my message:
“Mother, dear, we are unhappy and forlorn; Tioka and I want to come home and stay with you always. Please send us at once—”
I was meditating on what sum to mention, when I felt the touch of a hand upon my shoulder. Startled, I turned, and raised my eyes. Before me stood a man—dark, rather tall, with a brown mustache and pendulous cheeks. Surely I knew him! Where had I seen that face before? Suddenly there flashed into my mind the recollection of a crowded, brilliantly lighted restaurant. I saw Vassili, amid much laughter, counting the dark-eyed tziganes to see if one of them were missing—Prilukoff! “The Scorpion!” It was he who stood before me.
“Countess Tarnowska! Who would have dreamt of finding you here!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing in Moscow?”
“I—I do not know,” I stammered. I had in fact not infrequently asked myself what I was doing in Moscow.
“I have heard of all your misfortunes,” he said, lowering his voice, and gazing at me sympathetically. “I have read the papers and heard all the fuss. Come now, come,” he added, “you must not weep. Let us go and have tea at the Métropole; there we can talk together.” And he took me familiarly by the arm.
I drew back. “I wanted to telegraph—,” I began.
“Telegraph? To whom?” inquired Prilukoff with an authoritative air.
“To my mother.”