stupefied Loúhnof. He fell on the sofa trying to seize the money, and uttered such a piercingly despairing cry as no one could have expected from so calm and imposing a person. Toúrbin gathered up what money lay on the table, shoved aside the servant who ran in to his master’s assistance, and left the room with quick steps.
“If you want satisfaction, I am at your service! I shall be here for another half-hour,” said the Count, returning to Loúhnof’s door.
“Thief, robber, I’ll have the law of you …” was what was audible from the room.
Ilyín, who had paid no attention to the Count’s promise to help him, still lay as before on the sofa in his room, choking with tears of despair. The consciousness of the reality, which had been evoked—from behind the strange tangle of feelings, thoughts and memories which filled his soul—by the caresses and sympathy of the Count, did not leave him. His youth, rich with hope, his honour, public respect, his dreams of love and friendship—all were utterly lost. The source of his tears began to run dry, a too passive feeling of hopelessness overcame him more and more, and the thought of suicide, no longer awakening revulsion or horror, claimed his attention with increasing frequency. Just then the sound of the Count’s firm footsteps became audible.
In Toúrbin’s face traces of anger were still discernible, his hands shook a little, but his eyes shone with kindly mirth and self-satisfaction.
“Here you are; it’s won back!” he said, throwing several bundles of paper money on the table. “See if it’s all there, and then make haste and come into the saloon. I am just leaving,” he added, as though not noticing the extremely excited expression of joy and gratitude on the face of the Uhlan; and whistling a gipsy tune he left the room.