Then a large, bearded man comes up to Mascha, a man with round shoulders and the insolently careless manner of men of good family who have long moved in dubious circles of society. His eyes are watery, his lips twitch, while bowing to Mascha, he says in French: "Do you remember me, Miss Marie?"
"Prince Orbanoff," replies Mascha, affirmatively, nodding cordially, "from Nice."
Behind the Russians stand two young men who have admired Mascha with unconcealed boldness, and watch the scene.
"May I ask for this waltz?" stammers the Russian.
With the greatest readiness Mascha rises.
"You forget that you are already engaged to me," Bärenburg interposes.
"You are entirely mistaken, Count," replies Mascha arrogantly, and takes a step toward the Russian.
"For Nikolai's sake, listen to me, do not dance," Bärenburg whispers in her ear.
Softly, hastily, and in a strange language as the words were whispered, the prince still has heard them.
"May I ask who the young man is who so insolently wishes to influence your resolve?" he asks Mascha, with still more difficult utterance, and his red face becomes yet redder.