Meanwhile the rain pours down on the roofs of the carriages, on the hard macadam, on the umbrellas of the pedestrians, who remorselessly push each other forward on the sidewalks. The coachmen crack their whips, cry out, curse; the horses stamp and press against each other.
At last, with difficulty enough, the carriage with the two girls pushes forward a few steps. Sonia looks at her watch. Four o'clock! With a start, she remembers Lensky's fabulous punctuality. "Nita, if we do not wish to miss the beginning, we must get out and walk."
And they get out. They are not the only ones. The most distinguished ladies get out of the prettiest coupés, thread their way between the muddy carriage wheels, crowd on the slippery sidewalk between piano teachers with waterproofs and overshoes, musicians with turned-up coat collars and dented silk hats, and among them the Countess d'Olbreuse, with a great bundle of music under her arm.
The young girls' places are on the stage. They go, or rather are pushed forward by the crowd, through an endless length of corridors smelling of gas and sawdust.
All the places on the stage Lensky has given to acquaintances. There is no more generous artist than he--none who, with such an immense crowding, and with doubled prices, still continues to keep hundreds of free tickets for his personal disposal. In consequence, all kinds of people are crowded together on the stage--ladies of every age and quite every rank in life, music teachers, conservatorists, ladies from the highest society, people who speak Spanish, French, Russian, or English.
"Where are our two places?" asks Sophie, looking round attentively--"24, 25, 24, 25."
"Here, Sonia," says a gentle, good-natured man's voice.
Sonia suddenly becomes fiery red. Her blue eyes sparkle. She stands as if rooted to the ground. A young man, tall, broad-shouldered, under whose severely English exterior something of his true Russian bearishness is betrayed, with an oval, rather yellow, unusually regular face, sympathetic, almond-shaped eyes, and thick brown hair, comes up to her and gives her his hand. "These are the places," says he, "here in the third row. I only came day before yesterday; my father had no better ones to give away."
"But, I beg you, we are splendidly placed. It was so nice in you to think of me," Sophie assures him cordially.
"Well, the time has not yet come when I have forgotten you!" Suddenly his glance rests on Nita, and remains fixed on her face.