In order completely to undeceive her, I replied in French, with a slight bow:
“Ne craignez rien, madame, je ne suis pas plus dangereux que votre cavalier”...
She grew embarrassed—but at what? At her own mistake, or because my answer struck her as insolent? I should like the latter hypothesis to be correct. Grushnitski cast a discontented glance at me.
Late in the evening, that is to say, about eleven o’clock, I went for a walk in the lilac avenue of the boulevard. The town was sleeping; lights were gleaming in only a few windows. On three sides loomed the black ridges of the cliffs, the spurs of Mount Mashuk, upon the summit of which an ominous cloud was lying. The moon was rising in the east; in the distance, the snow-clad mountains glistened like a fringe of silver. The calls of the sentries mingled at intervals with the roar of the hot springs let flow for the night. At times the loud clattering of a horse rang out along the street, accompanied by the creaking of a Nagai wagon and the plaintive burden of a Tartar song.
I sat down upon a bench and fell into a reverie... I felt the necessity of pouring forth my thoughts in friendly conversation... But with whom?...
“What is Vera doing now?” I wondered.
I would have given much to press her hand at that moment.
All at once I heard rapid and irregular steps... Grushnitski, no doubt!... So it was!
“Where have you come from?”
“From Princess Ligovski’s,” he said very importantly. “How well Mary does sing!”...