“Good morning, grandmamma,” said a young officer, entering the room.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lise. Grandmamma, I want to ask you
something.”
“What is it, Paul?”
“I want you to let me introduce one of my friends to you, and to allow me
to bring him to the ball on Friday.”
“Bring him direct to the ball and introduce him to me there. Were you at
B——’s yesterday?”
“Yes; everything went off very pleasantly, and dancing was kept up until
five o’clock. How charming Eletskaia was!”
“But, my dear, what is there charming about her? Isn’t she like her
grandmother, the Princess Daria Petrovna? By the way, she must be very
old, the Princess Daria Petrovna.”
“How do you mean, old?” cried Tomsky thoughtlessly; “she died seven
years ago.”
The young lady raised her head and made a sign to the young officer. He
then remembered that the old Countess was never to be informed of the
death of any of her contemporaries, and he bit his lips. But the old Countess
heard the news with the greatest indifference.
“Dead!” said she; “and I did not know it. We were appointed maids of
honor at the same time, and when we were presented to the Empress . . .”
And the Countess for the hundredth time related to her grandson one of
her anecdotes.
“Come, Paul,” said she, when she had finished her story, “help me to get
up. Lizanka,7 where is my snuff-box?”
And the Countess with her three maids went behind a screen to finish her
toilette. Tomsky was left alone with the young lady.
“Who is the gentleman you wish to introduce to the Countess?” asked
Lizaveta Ivanovna in a whisper.
“Naroumoff. Do you know him?”
“No. Is he a soldier or a civilian?”
“A soldier.”
“Is he in the Engineers?”
“No, in the Cavalry. What made you think that he was in the Engineers?”
The young lady smiled, but made no reply.
“Paul,” cried the Countess from behind the screen, “send me some new
novel, only pray don’t let it be one of the present day style.”
“What do you mean, grandmother?”
“That is, a novel, in which the hero strangles neither his father nor his
mother, and in which there are no drowned bodies. I have a great horror of
drowned persons.”
“There are no such novels nowadays. Would you like a Russian one?”
“Are there any Russian novels? Send me one, my dear, pray send me
one!”
“Good-bye, grandmother: I am in a hurry.... Good-bye, Lizaveta
Ivanovna. What made you think that Naroumoff was in the Engineers?”
And Tomsky left the boudoir.
Lizaveta Ivanovna was left alone: she laid aside her work and began to
look out of the window. A few moments afterwards, at a corner house on
the other side of the street, a young officer appeared. A deep blush covered
her cheeks; she took up her work again and bent her head down over the
frame. At the same moment the Countess returned completely dressed.
“Order the carriage, Lizaveta,” said she; “we will go out for a drive.”
Lizaveta arose from the frame and began to arrange her work.
“What is the matter with you, my child, are you deaf?” cried the
Countess. “Order the carriage to be got ready at once.”
“I will do so this moment,” replied the young lady, hastening into the
ante-room.
A servant entered and gave the Countess some books from Prince Paul
Alexandrovitch.
