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“I shall call you: lovely Emilie!”

“No, no! You must call me: Mein Schatzchen, mein Zuckerpuppchen! Repeat it after me.”

“With the greatest pleasure, but I am afraid I shall find it difficult….”

“Never mind, never mind. Say: Mein.”

“Me-in.”

“Zucker.”

“Tsook-ker.”

“Puppchen! Puppchen! Puppchen!”

“Poop … poop…. That I can’t manage. It doesn’t sound nice.”

“No! You must … you must! Do you know what it means? That’s the very nicest word for a young lady in German. I’ll explain it to you afterwards. But here is auntie bringing us the samovar. Bravo! Bravo! auntie, I will have cream with my tea…. Is there any cream?”

“So schweige doch,” answered the aunt.

IX

Kuzma Vassilyevitch stayed at Madame Fritsche’s till midnight. He had not spent such a pleasant evening since his arrival at Nikolaev. It is true that it occurred to him that it was not seemly for an officer and a gentleman to be associating with such persons as this native of Riga and her auntie, but Emilie was so pretty, babbled so amusingly and bestowed such friendly looks upon him, that he dismissed his rank and family and made up his mind for once to enjoy himself. Only one circumstance disturbed him and left an impression that was not quite agreeable. When his conversation with Emilie and Madame Fritsche was in full swing, the door from the lobby opened a crack and a man’s hand in a dark cuff with three tiny silver buttons on it was stealthily thrust in and stealthily laid a big bundle on the chair near the door. Both ladies instantly darted to the chair and began examining the bundle. “But these are the wrong spoons!” cried Emilie, but her aunt nudged her with her elbow and carried away the bundle without tying up the ends. It seemed to Kuzma Vassilyevitch that one end was spattered with something red, like blood.

“What is it?” he asked Emilie. “Is it some more stolen things returned to you?”

“Yes,” answered Emilie, as it were, reluctantly. “Some more.”

“Was it your servant found them?”

Emilie frowned.

“What servant? We haven’t any servant.”

“Some other man, then?”

“No men come to see us.”

“But excuse me, excuse me…. I saw the cuff of a man’s coat or jacket. And, besides, this cap….”

“Men never, never come to see us,” Emilie repeated emphatically. “What did you see? You saw nothing! And that cap is mine.”

“How is that?”

“Why, just that. I wear it for dressing up…. Yes, it is mine, und Punctum.”

“Who brought you the bundle, then?”

Emilie made no answer and, pouting, followed Madame Fritsche out of the room. Ten minutes later she came back alone, without her aunt and when Kuzma Vassilyevitch tried to question her again, she gazed at his forehead, said that it was disgraceful for a gentleman to be so inquisitive (as she said this, her face changed a little, as it were, darkened), and taking a pack of old cards from the card table drawer, asked him to tell fortunes for her and the king of hearts.

Kuzma Vassilyevitch laughed, took the cards, and all evil thoughts immediately slipped out of his mind.

But they came back to him that very day. When he had got out of the gate into the street, had said good-bye to Emilie, shouted to her for the last time, “Adieu, Zuckerpuppchen!” a short man darted by him and turning for a minute in his direction (it was past midnight but the moon was shining rather brightly), displayed a lean gipsy face with thick black eyebrows and moustache, black eyes and a hooked nose. The man at once rushed round the corner and it struck Kuzma Vassilyevitch that he recognised–not his face, for he had never seen it before–but the cuff of his sleeve. Three silver buttons gleamed distinctly in the moonlight. There was a stir of uneasy perplexity in the soul of the prudent lieutenant; when he got home he did not light as usual his meerschaum pipe. Though, indeed, his sudden acquaintance with charming Emilie and the agreeable hours spent in her company would alone have induced his agitation.