"Shall you dance?" asked the captain.
"I haven't done so for fifteen years."
"It suits men of our years to look on," remarked the marquis, languidly. "No man dances now after two-and-thirty."
Looking on was pleasant enough. The nameless grace and wonderful agility displayed by the aristocratic, fashionable woman was a sight for the gods to admire. Countess Angela was to-night surpassing fair. She wore a rose-colored dress, with a body, in the Hungarian fashion, all studded with pearls; the sleeves were of lace. She had taken a fancy to dress her hair like the peasant girls, in two long tresses plaited with ribbons; it suited her to perfection. But men get tired of everything, even of a sight fit for the gods. After supper one said to the other:
"Let us make use of our time; the young fellows can dance; let us play tarok."
Ivan played cards every day. He played most games well; he never disputed with his partners. He could lose with a good grace; when he won was not elated. When he held bad cards he showed no ill-temper, and seldom made a mistake. He was looked upon as an acquisition, and for a savant he was really a useful man. On this evening he was in exceptionally good-luck.
Suddenly Count Edmund came into the card-room in a violent hurry. He said to Ivan:
"Throw down your cards. Angela wishes to dance a turn of the Hungarian cotillon with you."
Hungarian cotillon! Strange times, that we should have a Hungarian court, a Hungarian ministry, Hungarian silver and gold coins. That is nothing wonderful; it is only natural, it is fate, and due to us. But a Hungarian cotillon belongs to the day of agitators. We dance the cotillon to the air of "Csárdás."
Ivan obeyed Angela's mandate. When he came to her he bowed low before her.