Ferdinand leaned his elbows on the table, and said:
"My dear father, let us talk like reasonable people. I cannot waste my life in this house. I have mentioned to you before that I am threatened with an illness called 'spleen,' and that the doctors have forbidden me to be bored. As our life here is very monotonous, I feel already that I am beginning to fail. I do not want to grieve you, but if I am condemned to death——"
His father was frightened.
"But I am going to give you three hundred roubles a month," he shouted.
Ferdinand made a contemptuous gesture.
"Well, say four hundred, then."
The son shook his head sadly.
"Six hundred—but the devil take you!" screamed Adler, banging the table with his fist. "I cannot give more; the mill economies cannot be strained any further. You will make me bankrupt."
"Well, well, I will try and live on six hundred a month," replied his son. "Oh, I wish my illness would——"
The wretch knew that it was not worth while going to Warsaw with such an income, but that here in the country he could be the king of the local jeunesse dorée, and for the present he was satisfied with his part. He was really a very reasonable young man for his age....