“Not a bit,” sighed a third enviously. “They have simply had luck at the tables; it is always that kind that wins!”
The restaurant in the meantime was becoming very crowded. Two badly dressed, middle-aged Englishwomen, with flabby cheeks and triple chins, but wearing a King’s ransom in diamonds and furs, were looking round for a table. These noble ladies had seen and experienced so much in their lives that they were no longer capable of taking an interest in anything except two enormous dogs, which, in spite of prohibitions, they had brought with them. The dogs tore at their leashes, wriggled out of their collars, and poked their noses into people’s plates. The visitors protested, but in vain. All the waiters seemed to know the dogs, petted them, and called them by their names, while the head-waiter led the English ladies to a reserved table, and, bowing obsequiously, waited for their order. The musicians, in their red and gold coats, played with redoubled gusto. Their violins sang and wept and danced. Some of the public applauded; others called up one or another of the players, and gave him money. Alas! these artists who could extract such sublime tones from their instruments were only too glad to accept even trifling tips! Close to Gzhatski sat, deep in meditation, with his elbows on the table, a handsome young German. He had come very early, and had ordered a choice supper for two. The champagne had long been standing ready on ice; red roses were scattered over the snowy tablecloth. Time passed, and still she came not! The poor young German was excited, jumped up every minute and looked towards the door, from time to time rushed out to the porch, and repeatedly questioned the long-suffering head-waiter.
“Mais, monsieur le Baron, j’ai déjà eu l’honneur de vous dire,” replied the latter wearily. “‘Viendrai si je puis,’ tel est le message, pris au téléphone.”
Neighbouring visitors were observing the poor young man with some amusement, and the waiters were smiling. The champagne had been twice taken away and brought back again, the crowd was thinning, the musicians were playing their final number, when at last a cab drove up to the door. The enamoured swain rushed forward ecstatically, to meet a fragile, dainty, blue-eyed Gretchen, who entered shyly, dressed all in white, and wreathed in blushes and smiles. This was not the German but the French type of Gretchen, a type that rarely goes as far as the complete faux pas, but delights in the temptations and risks of love-making and philandering. Feeling that resistance is their chief charm, these Dresden china temptresses never hurry to surrender.
“Is that all he was waiting for, poor boy?” said Gzhatski, with a pitying smile. “Hardly worth while. She has not a farthingsworth of temperament.”
The “poor boy,” however, was in the seventh heaven. He filled the lady’s glass, helped her to everything, ate nothing himself, gazed at his Gretchen, and sighed deeply. He would have been ridiculous had not the divine spark of sincere passion illumined his innocent, frank young face. With his elbows on the table, he appeared to be ardently persuading the young lady of something, and suddenly, in a low voice, began to recite.
“He is not a German for nothing!” laughed Gzhatski. “Let us escape; or else we shall have to listen to the whole of Goethe.”
But Sergei Grigorievitch was mistaken. The young man was reciting, in excellent French, the famous “Déclaration” of Richepin:
“L’amour que je sens, l’amour qui me cuit,