ON the promenade, as it is called here, that is, in the chestnut avenue, I met my Englishman.
'Oh, oh!' he began, as soon as he saw me. 'I was coming to see you, and you are on your way to me. So you have parted from your people?'
'Tell me, first, how it is that you know aU this?' I asked in amazement. 'Is it possible that everybody knows of it?'
'Oh, no, everyone doesn't; and, indeed, it's not worth their knowing. No one is talking about it.'
'Then how do you know it?'
'I know, that is, I chanced to leam it. Now, where are you going when you leave here? I like you and that is why I was coming to see you.'
'You are a splendid man, Mr. Astley,' said I (I was very much interested, however, to know where he could have learnt it), 'and since I have not yet had my coffee, and most likely you have not had a good cup, come to the caf6 in the Casino. Let us sit down and have a smoke there, and I will tell you all about it, and . . . you teU me, too ...'
The cafe was a hundred steps away. They brought us some coffee. We sat down and I lighted a cigarette. Mr. Astley did not light one and, gazing at me, prepared to listen.
'I am not going anywhere. I am staying here,' I began.
'And I was sure you would,' observed Mr. Astley approvingly.
On my way to Mr. Astley I had not meant to tell him anything of my love for Polina, and, in fact, I expressly intended to say nothing to him about it. He was, besides, very reserved. From the first I noticed that Polina had made a great impression upon him, but he never uttered her name. But, strange to say, now no sooner had he sat down and turned upon me his
fixed, pewtery eyes than I felt, I don't know why, a desire to tell him everything, that is, all about my love in all its aspects. I was talking to him for half an hour and it was very pleasant to me; it was the first time I had talked of it! Noticing that at certain ardent sentences he was embarrassed, I purposely exaggerated my ardour. Only one thing I regret: I said, perhaps, more than I should about the Frenchman. . . .
Mr. Astley listened, sitting facing me without moving, looking straight into my eyes, not uttering a word, a sound; but when I spoke of the Frenchman, he suddenly pulled me up and asked me, severely, whether I had the right to refer to this circumstance which did not concern me. Mr. Astley always asked questions very strangely.
'You are right. I am afraid not,' I answered.
'You can say nothing definite, nothing that is not supposition about that Marquis and Miss Pohna?'
I was surprised again at such a point-blank question from a man so reserved as Mr. Astley.
'No, nothing definite,' I answered; 'of course not.'
'If so, you have done wrong, not only in speaking of it to me, but even in thinking of it yourself.'
'Very good, very good; I admit it, but that is not the point now,' I interrupted, wondering at myself. At this point I told him the whole of yesterday's story in full detail: Polina's prank, my adventure with the Baron, my dismissal, the General's extraordinary dismay, and, finally, I described in detail De Grieux's visit that morning. Finally I showed him the note.
'What do you deduce from all this?' I asked. 'I came on purpose to find out what you think. For my part, I could kill that Frenchman, and perhaps I shall.'
'So could I,' said Mr. Astley. 'As regards Miss Polina, you know ... we may enter into relations even with people who are detestable to us if we are compelled by necessity, r There may be relations of which you know nothing, dependent upon outside circumstances. I think you may set your mind at rest—^to some extent, of course. As for her action yesterday, it was strange, of course; not that she wanted to get rid of you and expose you to the Baron's walking-stick (I don't understand why he did not use it, since he had it in his hands), but because such a prank is improper ... for such an . . . exquisite young lady. Of course, she couldn't have expected that you would carry out her jesting wish so literally . . ;'
'Do you know what?' I cried suddenly, looking intently at Mr. Astley. 'It strikes me that you have heard about this aheady—do you know from whom? From MissPolina herself!'
Mr. Astley looked at me with surprise.
'Your eyes are sparkling and I can read your suspicion in them,' he said, regaining his former composure; 'but you have no right whatever to express your suspicions. I cannot recognise the right, and I absolutely refuse to answer your question.'
'Enough! There's no need,' I cried, strangely perturbed, and not knowing why it had come into my head. And when, where and how could Mr. Astley have laeen chosen by Polina to confide in? Though, of late, indeed, I had, to some extent, lost sight of Mr. Astley, and Polina was alwa}^ an enigma to me, such an enigma that now, for instance, after launching into an account of my passion to Mr. Astley, I was suddenly struck while I was speaking by the fact that there was scarcely anything positive and definite I could say about our relations. Everything was, on the contrary, strange, unstable, and, in fact, quite unique.
'Oh, very well, very well. I am utterly perplexed and there is a great deal I can't understand at present,' I answered, gasping as though I were breathless. 'You are a good man, though. And now, another matter, and I ask not your advice, but your opinion.'
After a brief pause I began.
'What do you think? why was the General so scared? Why did he make such a to-do over my stupid practical joke? Such a fuss that even De Grieux thought it necessary to interfere (and he interferes only in the most,importcmt matters); visited me (think of that!), begged and besought me—^he, De Grieux —begged and besought me! Note, finally, he came at nine o'clock, and by that time Miss Polina's letter was in his hands. One wonders when it was written. Perhaps they waked Miss Polina up on purpose! Apart from what I see clearly from this, that Miss Polina is his slave (for she even begs my forgiveness!) —apart from that, how is she concerned in all this, she personally; why is she so much interested? Why are they frightened of some Baron? And what if the General is marrying Mile. Blanche Cominges? They say that, owing to that circumstance, they must be particular, but you must admit that this is somewhat too particular! What do you think ? I am sure from your eyes you know more about it llian I do!'
Mr. Astley laughed and nodded.
'Certainly. I believe I know much more about it than you,' he said. 'Mile. Blanche is the only person concerned, and I am sure that is the absolute truth.'
'Well, what about Mile. Blanche?' I cried impatiently. (I suddenly had a hope that something would be disclosed about Mile. Polina.)
'I fancy that Mile. Blanche has at the moment special reasons for avoiding a meeting with the Baron and Baroness, even more an unpleasant meeting, worse still, a scandalous one.'
'Well, weU . . .'
'Two years ago MUe. Blanche was here at Roulettenburg in the season. I was here, too. Mile. Blanche was not cafied Mile, de Cominges then, and her mother, Madame la mamem Cominges, was non-existent then. An} 7way, she was never mentioned. De Grieux—De Grieux was not here either. I cherish the conviction that, far from being relations, they have only very recently become acquainted. He—^De Grieux—^has only become a marquis very recently, too—I am sure of that from one circumstance. One may sissume, in fact, that his name has not been De Grieux very long either. I know a man here who has met him passing under another name.'
'But he really has a veiyreqwctable circle of acquaintances.'
'That may be. Even Mile. Blanche may have. But two years ago, at the request of that very Baroness, Mile. Blanche was invited by the police to leave the town, and she did leave it.'
'How was that?'
'She made her appearance here first with an Italian, a prince of some sort, with an historical name— Barberini, or something like it—a man covered with rings and diamonds, not false ones either. They used to drive about in a magnificent carriage. Mile. Blanche used to play tretOe et qtoarante, at first winning, though her luck changed later on, as far as I remember. I remember one evening she lost a considerable simi. But, worse still, im beau matin her prince vanished; the horses and the carriage vanished too, everything vanished. The bills owing at the hotels were immense. MUe. Selma (she suddenly ceased to be Barberini, and became Mile. Selma) was in the utmost despair. She was shrieking and wailing all over the hotel, and rent her clothes in her fury. There was a PoUsh count staj^ing here at the hotel (all Polish travellers are counts), and MUe. Selma, rending her garments and
