More than three months had passed. Autumn had long since set in; the yellow forests had grown bare, the tomtits had arrived, and—unfailing sign of the near approach of winter—the wind had begun to howl and wail. But there had been no heavy rains, as yet, and mud had not succeeded in spreading itself over the roads. Taking advantage of this circumstance, Vladímir Sergyéitch set out for the government capital, for the purpose of winding up several matters of business. He spent the morning in driving about, and in the evening went to the club. In the vast, gloomy hall of the club he encountered several acquaintances, and, among others, the old retired captain of cavalry Flitch, a busybody, wit, gambler, and gossip, well known to every one. Vladímir Sergyéitch entered into conversation with him.
“Ah, by the way!”—suddenly exclaimed the retired cavalry-captain; “an acquaintance of yours passed through here the other day, and left her compliments for you.”
“Who was she?”
“Madame Steltchínsky.”
“I don’t know any Madame Steltchínsky.”
“You knew her as a girl.... She was born Véretyeff.... Nadézhda Alexyéevna. Her husband served our Governor. You must have seen him also.... A lively man, with a moustache.... He’s hooked a splendid woman, with money to boot.”
“You don’t say so,”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“So she has married him.... H’m! And where have they gone?”
“To Petersburg. She also bade me remind you of a certain bonbon motto.... What sort of a motto was it, allow me to inquire?”
And the old gossip thrust forward his sharp nose.
“I don’t remember, really; some jest or other,”—returned Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“But permit me to ask, where is her brother now?”