“Ada, vois, c’est ton père,” said Varvara Pavlovna, pushing the curls back from her eyes and kissing her vigorously, “prie le avec moi.”
“C’est ça, papa?” stammered the little girl lisping.
“Oui, mon enfant, n’est-ce pas que tu l’aimes?”
But this was more than Lavretsky could stand.
“In such a melodrama must there really be a scene like this?” he muttered, and went out of the room.
Varvara Pavlovna stood still for some time in the same place, slightly shrugged her shoulders, carried the little girl off into the next room, undressed her and put her to bed. Then she took up a book and sat down near the lamp, and after staying up for an hour she went to bed herself.
“Eh bien, madame?” queried her maid, a Frenchwoman whom she had brought from Paris, as she unlaced her corset.
“Eh bien, Justine,” she replied, “he is a good deal older, but I fancy he is just the same good-natured fellow. Give me my gloves for the night, and get out my grey high-necked dress for to-morrow, and don’t forget the mutton cutlets for Ada.... I daresay it will be difficult to get them here; but we must try.”
“A la guerre comme à la guerre,” replied Justine as she put out the candle.