The count all this time did not take his eyes from the little widow. He had not been insincere when he declared his readiness to throw himself into a hole in the ice.
Whether it was caprice or love or stubbornness, but that evening all the strength of his mind had been concentrated into one desire,—to see and to love her.
As soon as he perceived that Anna Fedorovna was taking her farewell of the hostess, he hastened to the servants' quarters, and thence, without his shuba, to the place where the carriages were drawn up.
"Anna Fedorovna Zaïtsova's equipage," he cried.
A high four-seated carriage with lanterns moved out, and started to drive up to the doorstep.
"Stop!" shouted the count to the coachman, rushing up toward the carriage through snow that was knee-deep.
"What is wanted?" called the driver.
"I want to get into the carriage," replied the count, opening the door as the carriage moved, and trying to climb in.
"Stop, you devil! stupid! Vaska![66] stop!" cried the coachman to the postilion, and reining in the horses. "What are you getting into another person's carriage for? This belongs to the Lady Anna Fedorovna, and not to your grace."
"Hush up, blockhead! Na! there's a ruble for you; now come down and shut the door!" said the count.