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Olga Petrovna grew pale. "Come!" she said in a low voice, wringing her hands. "I have him hid in the bath house! Only for heaven's sake, do not tell Kuzma Petrovitch. I beg and implore you! He will never forgive me!" Olga Petrovna took down a big key from the wall, and led her guests through the kitchen and passage to the courtyard. The courtyard was in darkness. Fine rain was falling.
She went up to the little looking glass beside the cupboard and, screwing up her eyes and humming through her teeth, began tidying her hair. Kuzma Vassilyevitch followed her movements intently.... He found her very charming. "You must excuse me," she began again, turning from side to side before the looking glass, "for having so ... brought you home with me. Perhaps you dislike it?"
Mitya suddenly felt his legs growing weak under him. “What am I to do now, Kuzma Kuzmitch?” he muttered, with a pale smile. “I suppose it’s all up with me—what do you think?” “Excuse me....” Mitya remained standing, staring motionless. He suddenly noticed a movement in the old man’s face. He started.
Kuzma Vassilyevitch certainly was distinguished by his prudence and, in spite of his youth, his behaviour was exemplary; he studiously avoided every impropriety of conduct, did not touch cards, did not drink and, even fought shy of society so that of his comrades, the quiet ones called him "a regular girl" and the rowdy ones called him a muff and a noodle.
Her swarthy fingers fairly raced over the strings, "like little spiders," and she ended up this time with a jaunty shout of "Ganda" or "Gassa," and with flashing eyes banged on the table with her little fist. Kuzma Vassilyevitch sat as though he were in a dream. His head was going round.
The suspicious characters had disappeared completely and with them the stolen government money had vanished, too, one thousand, nine hundred and seventeen roubles and some kopecks, in paper and gold. Not an inconsiderable sum in those days! Kuzma Vassilyevitch was paying back instalments for ten years, when, fortunately for him, an act of clemency from the Throne cancelled the debt.
He sat up quickly, thrust his hand into her pocket and took out a small pair of scissors. "Ach, Herr Je!" Emilie could not help exclaiming. "It's ... it's a pair of scissors?" muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "Why, of course. What did you think it was ... a pistol? Oh, how funny you look! You're as rumpled as a pillow and your hair is all standing up at the back.... And he doesn't laugh.... Oh, oh!
Kuzma Vassilyevitch grinned and blushed to his ears. "I shall call you: lovely Emilie!" "No, no! You must call me: Mein Schatzchen, mein Zuckerpuppchen! Repeat it after me." "With the greatest pleasure, but I am afraid I shall find it difficult...." "Never mind, never mind. Say: Mein." "Me-in." "Zucker." "Tsook-ker." "Puppchen! Puppchen! Puppchen!" "Poop ... poop.... That I can't manage.
Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a little surprised but thought it his duty to introduce himself. Madame Fritsche looked at him from under her brows, made no response, but asked her niece in Russian whether she would like some tea. "Ah, yes, tea!" answered Emilie. "You will have some tea, won't you, Mr. Officer? Yes, auntie, give us some tea! But why are you standing, Mr. Officer? Sit down!
Through the wall, without ceasing for a moment, came the sound of a concertina being played in the shop. Marya Vassilyevna sat down and drank some tea, while at the next table peasants were drinking vodka and beer, perspiring from the tea they had just swallowed and the stifling fumes of the tavern. "I say, Kuzma!" voices kept shouting in confusion. "What there!" "The Lord bless us!"
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