Still smiling, she gracefully moved away, turning and glancing at her husband. Prince Andréy’s eyes were closed, so weary and sleepy did he seem.
“Are you ready?” he asked his wife, looking past her.
Prince Ippolit hurriedly put on his cloak, which in the latest fashion reached to his very heels, and, stumbling in it, ran out into the porch following the princess, whom a footman was helping into the carriage.
“ Princesse, au revoir ,” cried he, stumbling with his tongue as well as with his feet.
The princess, picking up her dress, was taking her seat in the dark carriage, her husband was adjusting his saber; Prince Ippolit, under pretense of helping, was in everyone’s way.
“Allow me, sir,” said Prince Andréy in Russian in a cold, disagreeable tone to Prince Ippolit who was blocking his path.
“I am expecting you, Pierre,” said the same voice, but gently and affectionately.
The postilion started, the carriage wheels rattled. Prince Ippolit laughed spasmodically as he stood in the porch waiting for the vicomte whom he had promised to take home.
“Well, mon cher ,” said the vicomte, having seated himself beside Ippolit in the carriage, “your little princess is very nice, very nice indeed, quite French,” and he kissed the tips of his fingers. Ippolit burst out laughing.
“Do you know, you are a terrible chap for all your innocent airs,” continued the vicomte. “I pity the poor husband, that little officer who gives himself the airs of a monarch.”