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I told you yesterday, Michel, that it is impossible." "Why?" "He will be upset. He'll make a row, do all sorts of unpleasant things. . . . Don't you know what he is like? God forbid! There's no need to tell him. What an idea!" Groholsky passed his hand over his brow, and heaved a sigh. "Yes," he said, "he will be more than upset. I am robbing him of his happiness. Does he love you?"
"H'm . . . a hundred and fifty thousand!" muttered Bugrov in a hollow voice, the voice of a husky bull. He muttered it, and bowed his head, ashamed of his words, and awaiting the answer. "Good," said Groholsky, "I agree. I thank you, Ivan Petrovitch . . . . In a minute. . . . I will not keep you waiting. . . ."
Liza sat as before on the verandah, and unaccountably stared with bored eyes at the villa opposite and the trees near it through which there was a peep at the dark blue sea. . . . As before, she spent her days for the most part in silence, often in tears and from time to time in putting mustard plasters on Groholsky. She might be congratulated on one new sensation, however.
"Very well," said Liza. "We can do that," thought Groholsky, "since he makes sacrifices, why shouldn't we?" "Please do. . . . If he sees you there will be trouble. . . . My father is a man of strict principles. He would curse me in seven churches. Don't go out of doors, Liza, that is all. He won't be here long. Don't be afraid." Father Pyotr did not long keep them waiting.
"Set a fool to say his prayers, and he will crack his skull on the floor! Why, who paints oars green! Do think, blockhead! Use your sense! Why don't you speak?" "I . . . I . . . made a mistake," said a husky tenor apologetically. The tenor belonged to Groholsky. Groholsky saw me to the station. "He is a despot, a tyrant," he kept whispering to me all the way. "He is a generous man, but a tyrant!
"Vanya and Misha. . . . I have been looking at the villa opposite, while they were sitting drinking tea. Misha can drink his tea by himself now. . . . Didn't you see them moving in yesterday, it was they who arrived!" Groholsky rubbed his forehead and turned pale. "Arrived? Your husband?" he asked. "Why, yes." "What for?" "Most likely he is going to live here. They don't know we are here.
Groholsky paused, and then asked: "And how are your ladies getting on, Ivan Petrovitch?" "Not at all. I've turned them out without ceremony. I might have gone on keeping them, but it's awkward. . . . The boy will grow up . . . . A father's example. . . . If I were alone, then it would be a different thing. . . . Besides, what's the use of my keeping them? Poof . . . it's a regular farce!
I cannot think of sleep while I know that my wife is a slave . . . . But it is not Groholsky's fault. . . . The goods were mine, the money his. . . . Freedom for the free and Heaven for the saved." By day Ivan Petrovitch was no less insufferable to Groholsky. To Groholsky's intense horror, he was always at Liza's side.
The servants won't do what they are told, the climate is horrible, everything is expensive. . . . Stop your noise," Bugrov shouted, suddenly coming to a halt before Mishutka; "stop it, I tell you! Little beast, won't you stop it?" And Bugrov pulled Mishutka's ear. "That's revolting, Ivan Petrovitch," said Groholsky in a tearful voice. "How can you treat a tiny child like that? You really are. . ."
Groholsky spread out all the money, and moved restlessly about the room, looking for the Dulcinea who had been bought and sold. Filling his pockets and his pocket-book, Bugrov thrust the securities into the table drawer, and, drinking off half a decanter full of water, dashed out into the street. "Cab!" he shouted in a frantic voice.
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