cheeks and sweat running down his nose, a painful smile on his lips, acutely aware of his awkwardness, he was dancing with Olya. All the time he kept watching his feet. He had a terrible desire to shine in some way, but there was no way for him to shine. Olya told me later she felt very sorry for the poor princeling that evening. He was so pathetic, and he seemed to have a presentiment that he was about to lose his fiancee—that fiancee of whom he had dreamed while listening to lectures at the university, who was in his thoughts when he fell asleep and when he awoke. Whenever he caught sight of us, there was a pleading look in his eyes. He sensed we were strong and merciless rivals.
When the long-stemmed glasses were set out, and the Princess could be seen looking at the clock, we knew that the great and solemn moment was about to arrive: in all probability Chaikhidzev would be permitted to embrace Olya at midnight. We had to act fast. At half past eleven I rubbed powder into my face to make myself look pale, pulled my tie to one side, mussed up my hair, assumed a troubled expression, and went up to Olya.
“Olya Andreyevna!” I said, taking her by the hand. “For God’s sake!…”
“What is it?”
“Oh, for God’s sake!… But you mustn’t be frightened, Olya Andreyevna!… It had to be! We should have known it would happen!”
“What happened?”
“Promise not to be frightened. For God’s sake, my dear.… Lieutenant Yegorov is …”
“Yes?…”
Olya turned pale and gazed at me with wide-open, trustful, and friendly eyes.
“Yegorov is dying.…”
Olya staggered and drew her fingers across her pale brows.
“The thing I dreaded has come to pass,” I went on. “He is dying! Save him, Olya Andreyevna!”
Olya took me by the hand.
“He is … Where is he?”
“He’s in the garden, in the summer house. It’s terrible, my dear.… But people are looking at us. Let’s go to the terrace. He doesn’t blame you. He knows that you have …”
“How is he?”
“Very poorly.”
“Let me go to him! I don’t want him to think that I’ve … that I’ve done anything …”
We went out on the terrace. Olya’s knees were shaking. I pretended to wipe away a tear. Members of our group kept running past us on the terrace, looking pale and alarmed, fear and anxiety written all over their faces.
“The bleeding has stopped,” the physics professor murmured, just loud enough for Olya to hear.
“Let’s hurry!” Olya whispered, taking my hand.
We hurried down the terrace steps. The night was silent, very bright. The music of the piano, the whispering of the dark trees, the rustling of cicadas, caressed our ears. From below came the gentle splashing of the sea.
Olya could scarcely walk. Her legs failed her, entangled in the heavy skirt. Trembling with fear, she leaned against my shoulder.
“It’s not really my fault,” she whispered. “I swear it’s not my fault! It’s what Papa wanted. He should understand that. Is something terrible going to happen?”
“I don’t know. Mikhail Pavlovich has done everything possible. He’s a good doctor, and loves Yegorov. We’re nearly there, Olya Andreyevna.…”
“I … I couldn’t face seeing it.… I’m frightened.… Really I couldn’t look.… Why did he have to do a thing like that?”
Olya burst into tears.
We had come to the summer house.
“Here it is!” I said.
Olya closed her eyes and threw both arms round me.
“I can’t …”
“Don’t be frightened. Yegorov, you’re not dead yet, are you?” I shouted in the direction of the summer house.
“Not yet?… Why?”
At the gate of the summer house the lieutenant appeared, brilliant in the moonlight. He was pale from his drinking bout, his waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his hair disheveled.
“Why?” he repeated.
Olya lifted her head and saw Yegorov. She looked at me, and then at him, and then at me again. I laughed, and her face lit up. She stepped forward, a cry of joy on her lips. I thought she would be angry with us, but it was not in her to be angry. She made another step forward, thought for a moment, and then threw herself on Yegorov, who had quickly buttoned up his waistcoat and opened wide his arms. Olya fell against his chest. Yegorov broke out into peals of laughter, but he turned his head to one side so as not to breathe on her, and he murmured all kinds of wonderful nonsense.
“You shouldn’t have done it.… It’s not my fault, though,” Olya stammered. “It was what Papa and Mama wanted.…”
