“Well! you take it more philosophically than I do, my son,” said the Cardinal sadly.
“After all, your Eminence,” said Volenski, with an attempt at consolation, “your holiday and mine are only postponed; in a month’s time the spring will be upon us—the weather altogether more propitious for pleasure trips.”
“In a month’s time, my son,” said the Cardinal, whose gloom could not so easily be dispelled, “there will no doubt have cropped up some work, that again will brook no delay. There was no time like the present.”
“In the meanwhile,” said Iván, “will your Eminence allow me to give the parcel to Antoine that he may pack it in one of the boxes?”
“Gently, my son, gently; ah! you do not know the double annoyance these things are causing me: for not only do they necessitate the postponement of our holiday, but they are of such brittle nature that the conveying of them all the way to Petersburg will be one prolonged anxiety to two bachelors like ourselves.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, cut the string, my son, and look at the bibelots; you can feast your eyes on the most charming works of art it has ever been my good fortune to see, truly a fitting gift of an Emperor to a Princess.”
Volenski had already opened the parcel, and, with the eyes of a connoisseur, was admiring the exquisite workmanship, the grace of design, of these truly unique bibelots.
“Their history,” added his Eminence, “as his Majesty told me, is as interesting as the works of art themselves. The candlesticks are not entirely what they seem, and there is a charming secret about them.”
“A secret?”