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“Sit down, sit down, sir,” she said, putting an easy chair for him, “and we will offer you some refreshment if you will permit it.”

Madame Fritsche made another curtsey, went out of the room and returned shortly afterwards with a cup of chocolate on a small iron tray. The chocolate turned out to be of dubious quality; Kuzma Vassilyevitch drank the whole cup with relish, however, though he was at a loss to explain why Madame Fritsche was suddenly so affable and what it all meant. For all that Emilie did not come back and he was beginning to lose patience and feel bored when all at once he heard through the wall the sounds of a guitar. First there was the sound of one chord, then a second and a third and a fourth–the sound continually growing louder and fuller. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was surprised: Emilie certainly had a guitar but it only had three strings: he had not yet bought her any new ones; besides, Emilie was not at home. Who could it be? Again a chord was struck and so loudly that it seemed as though it were in the room…. Kuzma Vassilyevitch turned round and almost cried out in a fright. Before him, in a low doorway which he had not till then noticed–a big cupboard screened it–stood a strange figure … neither a child nor a grown-up girl. She was wearing a white dress with a bright-coloured pattern on it and red shoes with high heels; her thick black hair, held together by a gold fillet, fell like a cloak from her little head over her slender body. Her big eyes shone with sombre brilliance under the soft mass of hair; her bare, dark-skinned arms were loaded with bracelets and her hands covered with rings, held a guitar. Her face was scarcely visible, it looked so small and dark; all that was seen was the crimson of her lips and the outline of a straight and narrow nose. Kuzma Vassilyevitch stood for some time petrified and stared at the strange creature without blinking; and she, too, gazed at him without stirring an eyelid. At last he recovered himself and moved with small steps towards her.

The dark face began gradually smiling. There was a sudden gleam of white teeth, the little head was raised, and lightly flinging back the curls, displayed itself in all its startling and delicate beauty.

“What little imp is this?” thought Kuzma Vassilyevitch, and, advancing still closer, he brought out in a low voice:

“Hey, little image! Who are you?”

“Come here, come here,” the “little image” responded in a rather husky voice, with a halting un-Russian intonation and incorrect accent, and she stepped back two paces.

Kuzma Vassilyevitch followed her through the doorway and found himself in a tiny room without windows, the walls and floor of which were covered with thick camel’s-hair rugs. He was overwhelmed by a strong smell of musk. Two yellow wax candles were burning on a round table in front of a low sofa. In the corner stood a bedstead under a muslin canopy with silk stripes and a long amber rosary with a red tassle at the end hung by the pillow.

“But excuse me, who are you?” repeated Kuzma Vassilyevitch.

“Sister … sister of Emilie.”

“You are her sister? And you live here?”

“Yes … yes.”

Kuzma Vassilyevitch wanted to touch “the image.” She drew back.

“How is it she has never spoken of you?”

“Could not … could not.”

“You are in concealment then … in hiding?”

“Yes.”

“Are there reasons?”

“Reasons … reasons.”

“Hm!” Again Kuzma Vassilyevitch would have touched the figure, again she stepped back. “So that’s why I never saw you. I must own I never suspected your existence. And the old lady, Madame Fritsche, is your aunt, too?”

“Yes … aunt.”

“Hm! You don’t seem to understand Russian very well. What’s your name, allow me to ask?”

“Colibri.”

“What?”

“Colibri.”

“Colibri! That’s an out-of-the-way name! There are insects like that in Africa, if I remember right?”