"You told me it was to be this evening. This evening, is it not?"
The old General felt as ill at ease as if he had been before a military commission or in the hands of Froloff.
"Yes, this evening."
"At Maisons-Lafitte?"
"At Maisons," responded Vogotzine, mechanically. "And all this wearies me—wearies me. Was it for this I decided to come to Paris? A fine idea! At least, there are no Russian days at Maisons!"
Andras made no reply.
He stopped the carriage, got out, and, saluting the General with a brief "Thank you!" walked rapidly away, leaving Vogotzine in blank amazement, murmuring, as he made an effort to sit up straight:
"Well, well, are you going to leave me here, old man? All alone? This isn't right!"
And, like a forsaken child, the old General, with comic twitchings of his eyebrows and nostrils, felt a strong desire to weep.
"Where shall I drive you, Monsieur?" asked the coachman.