“Some souls would be dear at that, Maluta,” I said drily, “and you have drained my purse.”
But he stamped the more. “’Tis not enough, O my master,” he said, “prebavit, prebavit!”
“Maître le Bastien, for the nonce, I must even borrow of you,” I said.
Whereupon the goldsmith gave me ten roubles more, though he was open in his disapproval.
“All this will lead to nothing but misfortune,” he said, “and, after all, ’twould have been wiser to let you fall into the hand of his majesty’s provost-marshal.”
“Ah, monsieur,” I said, “you do not know the Princess Daria.”
Le Bastien shook his head despairingly. “No,” he replied, “and ’tis well I do not, since she can turn a sane man’s head so completely.”
While he was speaking I was giving the money to the dwarf, and trying to fathom his plans, but to no purpose, he would tell nothing—only looked at me, in an elfish fashion.
“Let be, O excellency,” he said; “I will go to the Kremlin and by nightfall I will return to you, then we will go together, and we will find the Princess Daria, if she is still in the fortress.”
My faith in his acuteness was growing to be almost a superstition, but it was too much to ask me to wait from noon until nightfall, and I told him so.