Malévsky’s face writhed a little and assumed for a moment a Jewish expression; but he immediately burst into a guffaw.
“As for you, M’sieu Voldemar....” went on Zinaída,—“but enough of this; let us play at some other game.”
“M’sieu Voldemar, in his capacity of page to the Queen, would hold up her train when she ran off into the park,”—remarked Malévsky viciously.
I flared up, but Zinaída swiftly laid her hand on my shoulder and rising, said in a slightly tremulous voice:—“I have never given Your Radiance the right to be insolent, and therefore I beg that you will withdraw.”—She pointed him to the door.
“Have mercy, Princess,”—mumbled Malévsky, turning pale all over.
“The Princess is right,”—exclaimed Byelovzóroff, rising to his feet also.
“By God! I never in the least expected this,”—went on Malévsky:—“I think there was nothing in my words which.... I had no intention of offending you.... Forgive me.”
Zinaída surveyed him with a cold glance, and smiled coldly.—“Remain, if you like,”—she said, with a careless wave of her hand.—“M’sieu Voldemar and I have taken offence without cause. You find it merry to jest.... I wish you well.”
“Forgive me,”—repeated Malévsky once more; and I, recalling Zinaída’s movement, thought again that a real queen could not have ordered an insolent man out of the room with more majesty.
The game of forfeits did not continue long after this little scene; all felt somewhat awkward, not so much in consequence of the scene itself as from another, not entirely defined, but oppressive sensation. No one alluded to it, but each one was conscious of its existence within himself and in his neighbour. Maidánoff recited to us all his poems—and Malévsky lauded them with exaggerated warmth.