“And what should we have done, gentlemen?” Lushin began suddenly, “if we had been among the guests, and had known of the lucky fellow at the fountain?”
“Stop a minute, stop a minute,” interposed Zinaïda, “I will tell you myself what each of you would have done. You, Byelovzorov, would have challenged him to a duel; you, Meidanov, would have written an epigram on him … No, though, you can’t write epigrams, you would have made up a long poem on him in the style of Barbier, and would have inserted your production in the Telegraph. You, Nirmatsky, would have borrowed … no, you would have lent him money at high interest; you, doctor,…” she stopped. “There, I really don’t know what you would have done….”
“In the capacity of court physician,” answered Lushin, “I would have advised the queen not to give balls when she was not in the humour for entertaining her guests….”
“Perhaps you would have been right. And you, Count?…”
“And I?” repeated Malevsky with his evil smile….
“You would offer him a poisoned sweetmeat.” Malevsky’s face changed slightly, and assumed for an instant a Jewish expression, but he laughed directly.
“And as for you, Voldemar,…” Zinaïda went on, “but that’s enough, though; let us play another game.”
“M’sieu Voldemar, as the queen’s page, would have held up her train when she ran into the garden,” Malevsky remarked malignantly.
I was crimson with anger, but Zinaïda hurriedly laid a hand on my shoulder, and getting up, said in a rather shaky voice: “I have never given your excellency the right to be rude, and therefore I will ask you to leave us.” She pointed to the door.
“Upon my word, princess,” muttered Malevsky, and he turned quite pale.