第 一百六十二 章 · 第162章

Anatole went out of the room and returned a few minutes later wearing

a fur coat girt with a silver belt, and a sable cap jauntily set on one

side and very becoming to his handsome face. Having looked in a mirror,

and standing before Dólokhov in the same pose he had assumed before it,

he lifted a glass of wine.

“Well, good-by, Theodore. Thank you for everything and farewell!” said

Anatole. “Well, comrades and friends...” he considered for a moment “...

of my youth, farewell!” he said, turning to Makárin and the others.

Though they were all going with him, Anatole evidently wished to make

something touching and solemn out of this address to his comrades. He

spoke slowly in a loud voice and throwing out his chest slightly swayed

one leg.

“All take glasses; you too, Balagá. Well, comrades and friends of my

youth, we’ve had our fling and lived and reveled. Eh? And now, when

shall we meet again? I am going abroad. We have had a good time—now

farewell, lads! To our health! Hurrah!...” he cried, and emptying his

glass flung it on the floor.

“To your health!” said Balagá who also emptied his glass, and wiped his

mouth with his handkerchief.

Makárin embraced Anatole with tears in his eyes.

“Ah, Prince, how sorry I am to part from you!

“Let’s go. Let’s go!” cried Anatole.

Balagá was about to leave the room.

“No, stop!” said Anatole. “Shut the door; we have first to sit down.

That’s the way.”

They shut the door and all sat down.

“Now, quick march, lads!” said Anatole, rising.

Joseph, his valet, handed him his sabretache and saber, and they all

went out into the vestibule.

“And where’s the fur cloak?” asked Dólokhov. “Hey, Ignátka! Go to

Matrëna Matrévna and ask her for the sable cloak. I have heard what

elopements are like,” continued Dólokhov with a wink. “Why, she’ll rush

out more dead than alive just in the things she is wearing; if you delay

at all there’ll be tears and ‘Papa’ and ‘Mamma,’ and she’s frozen in a

minute and must go back—but you wrap the fur cloak round her first thing

and carry her to the sleigh.”

The valet brought a woman’s fox-lined cloak.

“Fool, I told you the sable one! Hey, Matrëna, the sable!” he shouted so

that his voice rang far through the rooms.

A handsome, slim, and pale-faced gypsy girl with glittering black eyes

and curly blue-black hair, wearing a red shawl, ran out with a sable

mantle on her arm.

“Here, I don’t grudge it—take it!” she said, evidently afraid of her

master and yet regretful of her cloak.

Dólokhov, without answering, took the cloak, threw it over Matrëna, and

wrapped her up in it.

“That’s the way,” said Dólokhov, “and then so!” and he turned the collar

up round her head, leaving only a little of the face uncovered. “And

then so, do you see?” and he pushed Anatole’s head forward to meet the

gap left by the collar, through which Matrëna’s brilliant smile was

seen.

“Well, good-by, Matrëna,” said Anatole, kissing her. “Ah, my revels here

are over. Remember me to Stëshka. There, good-by! Good-by, Matrëna, wish

me luck!”

“Well, Prince, may God give you great luck!” said Matrëna in her gypsy

accent.

Two troykas were standing before the porch and two young drivers were

holding the horses. Balagá took his seat in the front one and holding

his elbows high arranged the reins deliberately. Anatole and Dólokhov

got in with him. Makárin, Khvóstikov, and a valet seated themselves in

the other sleigh.

“Well, are you ready?” asked Balagá.

“Go!” he cried, twisting the reins round his hands, and the troyka tore

down the Nikítski Boulevard.

“Tproo! Get out of the way! Hi!... Tproo!...” The shouting of Balagá

and of the sturdy young fellow seated on the box was all that could

be heard. On the Arbát Square the troyka caught against a carriage;

something cracked, shouts were heard, and the troyka flew along the

Arbát Street.

After taking a turn along the Podnovínski Boulevard, Balagá began to

rein in, and turning back drew up at the crossing of the old Konyúsheny

Street.

The young fellow on the box jumped down to hold the horses and Anatole

and Dólokhov went along the pavement. When they reached the gate

Dólokhov whistled. The whistle was answered, and a maidservant ran out.

“Come into the courtyard or you’ll be seen; she’ll come out directly,”

said she.

Dólokhov stayed by the gate. Anatole followed the maid into the

courtyard, turned the corner, and ran up into the porch.

He was met by Gabriel, Márya Dmítrievna’s gigantic footman.

“Come to the mistress, please,” said the footman in his deep bass,

intercepting any retreat.

“To what Mistress? Who are you?” asked Anatole in a breathless whisper.

“Kindly step in, my orders are to bring you in.”

“Kurágin! Come back!” shouted Dólokhov. “Betrayed! Back!”

Dólokhov, after Anatole entered, had remained at the wicket gate and was

struggling with the yard porter who was trying to lock it. With a last

desperate effort Dólokhov pushed the porter aside, and when Anatole ran

back seized him by the arm, pulled him through the wicket, and ran back

with him to the troyka.