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"Go in, Liza, go in," Groholsky whispered. "I said we must have dinner indoors! What a girl you are, really. . . ." Bugrov stared and stared, and suddenly began shouting. Groholsky looked at him and saw a face full of astonishment. . . . "Is that you ?" bawled Ivan Petrovitch, "you! Are you here too?"
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. . ."
He eats with us, and he drinks with us. . . . Only we won't give him money. If we were to give him any he would spend it on drink or waste it . . . . That's another trouble for me! Lord forgive me, a sinner!" They made me stay the night. When I woke next morning, Bugrov was giving some one a lecture in the adjoining room. . . .
As he was walking in the garden one day, Groholsky heard two voices in conversation. One voice was a man's, the other was a woman's. One belonged to Bugrov, the other to Liza. Groholsky listened, and turning white as death, turned softly towards the speakers. He halted behind a lilac bush, and proceeded to watch and listen. His arms and legs turned cold. A cold sweat came out upon his brow.
It would be base on my part to leave you without satisfaction. . . . I understand you at this moment." Bugrov waved his hand as though to say, 'For God's sake, go away. His eyes began to be dimmed by a treacherous moisture in a moment they would see him crying like a child. "I understand you, Ivan Petrovitch. I will give you another happiness, such as hitherto you have not known.
They were driving to that region of bliss in which Bugrov as a boy the barefoot, sunburnt, but infinitely happy son of a village deacon had once raced about the meadows, the woods, and the river banks. Oh, how fiendishly seductive was that May!
At half-past eleven that night he drove up to the entrance of the Paris Hotel. He went noisily upstairs and knocked at the door of Groholsky's apartments. He was admitted. Groholsky was packing his things in a portmanteau, Liza was sitting at the table trying on bracelets. They were both frightened when Bugrov went in to them.
Well, let us be tortured. . . . It will be the better for us in the next world." And in an access of religious feeling, Bugrov turned up his eyes to heaven. "But I cannot go on living here; I am miserable." "Well, there is no help for it. I'm miserable too. Do you suppose I am happy without you? I am pining and wasting away!
Groholsky said a great many more valiant and stinging things, but did not "go at once"; he felt timid and abashed. . . . He went to Ivan Petrovitch three days later. When he went into his apartment, he gaped with astonishment. He was amazed at the wealth and luxury with which Bugrov had surrounded himself.
"Yes. . . . It was slow. I saw you too. . ." Groholsky accidentally glanced at Bugrov. . . . He caught the shifting eyes of the deceived husband and could not bear it. He got up quickly, quickly seized Bugrov's hand, shook it, picked up his hat, and walked towards the door, conscious of his own back. He felt as though thousands of eyes were looking at his back.
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