“Merci,”—said Zinaída to him.—“So then, the Queen listens to those speeches, listens to the music, but does not look at a single one of the guests. Six windows are open from top to bottom, from ceiling to floor, and behind them are the dark sky with great stars and the dark garden with huge trees. The Queen gazes into the garden. There, near the trees is a fountain: it gleams white athwart the gloom—long, as long as a spectre. The Queen hears the quiet plashing of its waters in the midst of the conversation and the music. She gazes and thinks: ‘All of you gentlemen are noble, clever, wealthy; you are all ready to die at my feet, I rule over you; ... but yonder, by the side of the fountain, by the side of that plashing water, there is standing and waiting for me the man whom I love, who rules over me. He wears no rich garments, nor precious jewels; no one knows him; but he is waiting for me, and is convinced that I shall come—and I shall come, and there is no power in existence which can stop me when I wish to go to him and remain with him and lose myself with him yonder, in the gloom of the park, beneath the rustling of the trees, beneath the plashing of the fountain....’”
Zinaída ceased speaking.
“Is that an invention?”—asked Malévsky slyly.
Zinaída did not even glance at him.
“But what should we do, gentlemen,”—suddenly spoke up Lúshin,—“if we were among the guests and knew about that lucky man by the fountain?”
“Stay, stay,”—interposed Zinaída:—“I myself will tell you what each one of you would do. You, Byelovzóroff, would challenge him to a duel; you, Maidánoff, would write an epigram on him.... But no—you do not know how to write epigrams; you would compose a long iambic poem on him, after the style of Barbier, and would insert your production in the Telegraph. You, Nirmátzky, would borrow from him ... no, you would lend him money on interest; you, doctor....” She paused.... “I really do not know about you,—what you would do.”
“In my capacity of Court-physician,” replied Lúshin, “I would advise the Queen not to give balls when she did not feel in the mood for guests....”
“Perhaps you would be in the right. And you, Count?”
“And I?”—repeated Malévsky, with an evil smile.
“And you would offer him some poisoned sugar-plums.”