"I have no dealings with you, Tinkeles. In Heaven's name, go away."
The Jew crept out, once more scratching at the door, but not venturing in. A few minutes later, Anton saw him cross the street, looking much dejected.
From that time Anton was regularly besieged by the repentant Tinkeles. Not a day passed without the Galician forcing an entrance, and seeking a reconciliation after his fashion. Sometimes they met in the streets, sometimes Anton was disturbed when writing by his unsteady knock; he had always something to offer, or some tidings to impart, through which he hoped to find favor. His power of invention was quite touching. He offered to buy or sell any thing or every thing, to transact any kind of business, to spy or carry messages; and when he found out that Anton was a good deal with the military, and that a certain young lieutenant, in particular, went often with him to the "Restauration," Tinkeles began to offer whatever he conceived might prove attractive to an officer. True, Anton remained firm in his resolve of not dealing with him, but at last he had no longer the heart to treat the poor devil roughly; and Tinkeles found out from many a suppressed smile, or short question put, that Anton's intercession for him with the principal was not quite hopeless. And for this he served with the perseverance of his ancestor Jacob.
One morning young Rothsattel came clattering into Anton's room. "I have been on the sick-list. I had a bad catarrh, and was obliged to remain in my comfortless quarters," said he, throwing himself on the sofa. "Can you help me to while away time this evening? We are to have a game at whist. I have invited our doctor and a few of our men. Will you come?" Pleased and a little flattered, Anton accepted. "Very well," continued the young gentleman; "then you must give me the power of losing my money to you. That wretched vingt-et-un has emptied my pockets. Lend me twenty ducats for eight days."
"With pleasure," said Anton; and he eagerly produced his purse.
Just as the lieutenant carelessly pocketed it, a horse's hoofs were heard in the street, and he rushed to the window. "By Jove, that is a lovely thing—pure Polish blood—the horse-dealer has stolen it from one of the rebels, and now wants to tempt an honest soldier with it."
"How do you know that the horse is to be sold?" asked Anton, sealing a letter at the writing-table.
"Don't you see that the creature is led about by a rogue to attract notice?"
At that moment there was a light knock at the door, and Schmeie Tinkeles first inserted his curly head, and then his black caftan, and gurgled submissively, "I wished to ask their honors whether they would look at a horse that is worth as many louis-d'or as it cost dollars. If you would just step to the window, Mr. Wohlfart, you would see it—seeing is not buying."
"Is this one of your mercantile friends, Wohlfart?" asked the lieutenant, laughing.