Kranitski listened in silence, with curiosity. Then, halting a little, he said, with some indecision:
"If your project becomes a fact then you will take me as your agent. I know a little of those things; I know where to look for them, and I offer you my earnest services—very earnest."
In spite of the jesting tone one could note in his imploring look, and in his smile full of timid, uncertain quivers, that he felt keenly the need of fixing himself to someone or something and escaping from the great void yawning under him.
All three lighted cigars and went to the drawing-room where Maryan sat again on the Louis XI box, Kranitski sank into a cathedra, and the baron opened at the window one sheet of an English paper, which shielded him before the light from his knees to the crown of his head. He was silent rather long, then from behind the paper curtain was heard his nasal voice:
"Crushing!"
"What?" inquired Kranitski.
"The fair at Chicago."
And he read aloud an account of the preparations for the colossal exhibition which was to be in that American city.
He accompanied the reading with judgments which contained comparisons: The old part of the world—the old civilizations, the old common methods and proceedings.
Besides narrow spaces, familiar horizons—too familiar. But America was something not worn to rags yet. By a wonderful chance the baron had not been there, but when he thought of America Rimbaud's verses occurred to him. He rose, and, walking through the chamber, gave the following: