And so speaking, Koshchei quitted Jurgen forever.
"Yet how may I be sure," thought Jurgen, instantly, "that this black gentleman was really Koshchei? He said he was? Why, yes; and Horvendile to all intents told me that Horvendile was Koshchei. Aha, and what else did Horvendile say!—'This is one of the romancer's most venerable devices that is being practised.' Why, but there was Smoit of Glathion, also, so that this is the third time I have been fobbed off with the explanation I was dreaming! and left with no proof, one way or the other."
Thus Jurgen, indignantly, and then he laughed. "Why, but, of course! I may have talked face to face with Koshchei, who made all things as they are; and again, I may not have. That is the whole point of it—the cream, as one might say, of the jest—that I cannot ever be sure. Well!"—and Jurgen shrugged here—"well, and what could I be expected to do about it?"
50.
The Moment That Did Not Count
And that is really all the story save for the moment Jurgen paused on his way home. For Koshchei (if it, indeed, was Koshchei) had quitted Jurgen just as they approached Bellegarde: and as the pawnbroker walked on alone in the pleasant April evening one called to him from the terrace. Even in the dusk he knew this was the Countess Dorothy.
"May I speak with you a moment?" says she.
"Very willingly, madame." And Jurgen ascended from the highway to the terrace.
"I thought it would be near your supper hour. So I was waiting here until you passed. You conceive, it is not quite convenient for me to seek you out at the shop."
"Why, no, madame. There is a prejudice," said Jurgen, soberly. And he waited.