did not want to sleep now, and went at random, with the firm tread of one who has been crossed, along the covered, lime-tree avenue.
And here the night brought for him also its peaceful gifts of soothing sadness and the need of loving. The straight, pale beams of the moon threw spots of light through the thick foliage of the limes on to the clayey path, on which a few blades of grass grew or a dead branch lay here and there. The light falling on one side of a bent bough made it look as if it were covered with white moss. The silvered leaves whispered every now and then. All the lights were out in the house, and all was silent; the voice of the nightingale alone seemed to fill the bright, still, limitless space. “O God, what a night! What a wonderful night,” thought the Count, inhaling the fragrant freshness of the garden. “There is something regrettable. It feels as if I were discontented with myself and with others, discontented with the whole of life. A splendid, sweet girl! Perhaps she was really hurt. …” Here his dreams became mixed: he imagined himself in this garden with the country-bred girl in various most extraordinary situations. Then the role of the girl was taken by his beloved Mína. “Eh, what a fool I was! I ought simply to have caught her round the waist and kissed her.” And feeling this remorse, the Count returned to his room.
The Cornet was still not asleep. He turned at once in his bed and faced the Count.
“Not asleep yet?” asked the Count.
“No.”
“Shall I tell you what has happened?”
“Well?”
“No, I’d better not … or, all right, I’ll tell you: draw in your legs.”
And the Count, having mentally abandoned the intrigue that had miscarried, sat down on his comrade’s bed with an animated smile.