“O my lieutenant!
My little cucumber!
My little love!
Dance with me, my little dove!”
And he laughed and hummed as she used to: “O my lieutenant! Dance with me, little dove!” “But I must act, though, I mustn’t waste time,” he cried aloud—jumped up and saw Pantaleone facing him with a note in his hand.
“I knocked several times, but you did not answer; I thought you weren’t at home,” said the old man, as he gave him the note. “From Signorina Gemma.”
Sanin took the note, mechanically, as they say, tore it open, and read it. Gemma wrote to him that she was very anxious—about he knew what—and would be very glad to see him at once.
“The Signorina is anxious,” began Pantaleone, who obviously knew what was in the note, “she told me to see what you are doing and to bring you to her.”
Sanin glanced at the old Italian, and pondered. A sudden idea flashed upon his brain. For the first instant it struck him as too absurd to be possible.
“After all … why not?” he asked himself.
“M. Pantaleone!” he said aloud.
The old man started, tucked his chin into his cravat and stared at Sanin.
“Do you know,” pursued Sanin, “what happened yesterday?”