“He’s right,” whispered Ivan Matvyèich to me; “for he knows that no one else in all Russia is exhibiting a crocodile.”
I attributed this utterly senseless remark to the particularly pleasant humour that Ivan Matvyèich was in, as on the whole he was a very envious man.
“I think your crocodile is dead,” said Elyòna Ivànovna, piqued by the ungraciousness of the German, and turning to him with a fascinating smile, intended to “vanquish this boor”—a peculiarly feminine manœuvre.
“Oh, no, madame,” answered the German in his broken Russian, and, half-lifting the network of the tank, he began to tap the crocodile on the head with a cane.
At this the perfidious monster, to show that it was alive, slightly moved its paws and tail, raised its head and uttered a sound resembling a prolonged snuffle.
“There, don’t be cross, Karlchen,” caressingly said the German, whose vanity was flattered.
“What a horrid brute! I am quite afraid of him,” lisped Elyòna Ivànovna still more coquettishly. “I shall dream of him now at night!”
“But he not vill bite you at ze night, madame,” gallantly rejoined the German, and burst out laughing at his own joke, though none of us answered him.
“Come, Semyòn Semyònich,” continued Elyòna Ivànovna, addressing herself only to me, “let’s go and look at the monkeys. I am awfully fond of monkeys; some of them are such little loves—but the crocodile is horrible.”
“Oh, don’t be afraid, my dear,” Ivan Matvyèich called after us, showing off his bravery before his wife. “This sleepy denizen of the realm of the Pharaohs will do us no harm;” and he remained beside the tank. He even took off one glove and began to tickle the crocodile’s nose with it, in the hope, as he afterwards confessed, of making it snore again. The keeper, out of politeness to a lady, followed Elyòna Ivànovna to the monkeys’ cage.