'Well, what do you think?' he went on, striking the table with his fist and trying to frown, while the tears still coursed down his flushed cheeks; 'the girl gave herself up.... She went and gave herself up...'
'The horses are ready,' the overseer cried triumphantly, entering the room.
We both stood up.
'What became of Matrona?' I asked.
Karataev waved his hand.
* * * * *
A year after my meeting with Karataev, I happened to go to Moscow. One day, before dinner, for some reason or other I went into a café in the Ohotny row--an original Moscow café. In the billiard-room, across clouds of smoke, I caught glimpses of flushed faces, whiskers, old-fashioned Hungarian coats, and new-fangled Slavonic costumes.
Thin little old men in sober surtouts were reading the Russian papers. The waiters flitted airily about with trays, treading softly on the green carpets. Merchants, with painful concentration, were drinking tea. Suddenly a man came out of the billiard-room, rather dishevelled, and not quite steady on his legs. He put his hands in his pockets, bent his head, and looked aimlessly about.
'Ba, ba, ba! Piotr Petrovitch!... How are you?'
Piotr Petrovitch almost fell on my neck, and, slightly staggering, drew me into a small private room.