The Count clasped his hands and walked about the dining-room with blinking eyes.
He is a coward and is always afraid of “big” talk. I, on the contrary, when drunk, am amused by cross-purposes and discontentedness.
“I don't understand! I don't un‑der‑stand!” the Count groaned, not knowing what to say or what to do.
He knew it was difficult to stop me.
“I am only slightly acquainted with you,” I continued. “Perhaps you are an excellent man, and therefore I don't wish to quarrel with you too soon.… I won't quarrel with you. I only invite you to understand that there is no place for a sober man among drunken ones.… The presence of a sober man has an irritating effect on the drunken organism!… Take that to heart!”
“Say whatever you like!” Pshekhotsky sighed. “Nothing that you can say will provoke me, young man.”
“So nothing will provoke you? Will you also not be offended if I call you an obstinate swine?”
The Pole grew red in the face—but only that. The Count became pale, he came up to me, looked imploringly at me, and spread his arms.
“Well, I beg you! Restrain your tongue!”
I had now quite entered into my drunken part, and wanted to go on, but fortunately at that moment the Count and the Pole heard footsteps and Urbenin entered the dining-room.