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Kuzma Vassilyevitch went up to the sofa and bent over Colibri, but before he had time to utter a word she held out her hand and, still laughing in her handkerchief, put her little, rough fingers into his hair and instantly ruffled the well-arranged curls on the top of his head. "What next?" exclaimed Kuzma Vassilyevitch, not altogether pleased by such unceremoniousness. "Oh, you naughty girl!"
He was far more interested in the sight of a fair breeze stealing up the river after them than he was in the sight of the most beautiful flower, the most gorgeous butterfly, or the most dainty and brilliant colibri, for he knew that all these things he would see again a thousand times or more; but a wind that would relieve them of the labour of paddling in that scorching climate ah! that was indeed a sight worth seeing.
"Look what I am going to show you," he said aloud. "Tso?" "Why do you say tso? Are you a Pole?" "Nee." "Now you say nee! But there, it's no matter." Kuzma Vassilyevitch got out his present and waved it in the air. "Look at it.... Isn't it nice?" Colibri raised her eyes indifferently. "Ah! A cross! We don't wear." "What? You don't wear a cross? Are you a Jewess then, or what?"
The fascinating Colibri, that "pretty doll," that "little image," was always before him and he looked forward with impatience to the following evening, though secretly he was almost afraid of this "pretty doll" and "little image." Next day Kuzma Vassilyevitch went shopping before dinner, and, after persistent haggling, bought a tiny gold cross on a little velvet ribbon.
"It's a regular dagger, it's a sting.... Yes, yes, it's your sting, and you are a wasp, that's what you are, a wasp, do you hear?" Apparently Colibri was much pleased at Kuzma Vasselyevitch's comparison; she went off into a thin laugh and repeated several times over: "Yes, I will sting ... I will sting." Kuzma Vassilyevitch looked at her and thought: "She is laughing but her face is melancholy.
"We don't wear," repeated Colibri, and, suddenly starting, looked back over her shoulder. "Would you like me to sing?" she asked hurriedly. Kuzma Vassilyevitch put the cross in the pocket of his uniform and he, too, looked round. "What is it?" he muttered.
"Wait," she whispered, "you must have some coffee first." "Nonsense! Coffee, indeed! Afterwards." "No, now. Now hot, after cold." She took hold of the coffee pot by the handle and, lifting it high, began pouring out two cups. The coffee fell in a thin, as it were, twirling stream; Colibri leaned her head on her shoulder and watched it fall. "There, put in the sugar ... drink ... and I'll drink."
Kuzma Vassilyevitch was alarmed. "Emilie?" he asked. "No." "Someone else?" Colibri shrugged her shoulder. "Do you hear something?" "Nothing." With a birdlike movement, again Colibri drew back her little oval-shaped head with its pretty parting and the short growth of tiny curls on the nape of her neck where her plaits began, and again curled herself up into a ball. "Nothing." "Nothing!
Leap, my fay! Only watch one hurt the thunder First of all by Zeus under, I'm the Pope, the whole world's wonder!" Rodin, half-risen from his chair, with outstretched neck and attentive eye, was still listening, when Rose-Pompon, flitting like a bee from flower to flower of her repertoire, had already begun the delightful air of Colibri.
Then now I'll ..." Kuzma Vassilyevitch craned forward towards Colibri but at once pulled back his hand. There was a drop of blood on his finger. "What foolishness is this!" he cried, shaking his finger. "Your everlasting pins! And the devil of a pin it is!" he added, looking at the long, golden pin which Colibri slowly thrust into her sash.
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