“My dear friend—my very dear friend,” said the count, “God be with you always. We may meet again—or we may not.”
Steinmetz walked down the Nevski Prospekt on the left-hand pavement—no one walks on the other—and the sleigh followed him. He turned into a large, brilliantly lighted cafi, and loosened his coat.
“Give me beer,” he said to the waiter; “a very large quantity of it.”
The man smiled obsequiously as he set the foaming mug before him.
“Is it that his Excellency is cold?” he enquired.
“No, it isn’t,” answered Steinmetz. “Quite the contrary.”
He drank the beer, and holding out his hand in the shadow of the table, he noticed that it trembled only a little.
“That is better,” he murmured. “But I must sit here a while longer. I suppose I was upset. That is what they call it—upset! I have never been like that before. Those lamps in the Prospekt! Gott! how they jumped up and down!”
He pressed his hand over his eyes as if to shut out the brightness of the room—the glaring gas and brilliant decorations—the shining bottles and the many tables which would not keep still.
“Here,” he said to the man, “give me more beer.”