And in this way he kept on coming our way for well-nigh two years; only it was to be plainly seen that he was a changed man, such a devil-may-care manner he assumed at times. He even went so far at times as to borrow a ruble of me to pay a hack-driver; and yet he would still play with the prince for a hundred rubles stake.
He grew gloomy, thin, sallow. As soon as he came he used to order a little glass of absinthe, take a bite of something, and drink some port wine, and then he would grow more lively.
He came one time before dinner; it happened to be carnival time, and he began to play with a hussar.
Says he, “Do you want to play for a stake?”
“Very well,” says he. “What shall it be?”
“A bottle of Claude Vougeaux? What do you say?”
“All right.”
Very good. The hussar won, and they went off for their dinner. They sat down at table, and then Nekhliudof says, “Simon, a bottle of Claude Vougeaux, and see that you warm it to the proper point.”
Simon went out, brought in the dinner, but no wine.
“Well,” says he, “where’s the wine?”
Simon hurried out, brought in the roast.
“Let us have the wine,” says he.
Simon makes no reply.
“What’s got into you? Here we’ve almost finished dinner, and no wine. Who wants to drink with dessert?”