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
