The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [118]
‘Very well…’ he thought, ‘but if this is so, then I ought to change into a libertine; why is it that I think only of her?’
‘The devil alone knows,’ his antagonists answered, ‘perhaps it is precisely this woman who suits you best. Perhaps it is true, as the legend says, that once, centuries ago, your souls were one?’
‘In that case, she should love me too,’ Wokulski said. Then he added: ‘If the mare wins the race, that will be a sign that Izabela will fall in love with me…Oh, you old fool, madman…what are you coming to?’
A few days before the races, the ‘English’ Count he had met during the gathering at the Prince’s house paid him a call. After the customary salutations, the Count sat down stiffly on a chair and said: ‘This visit has another purpose too. Dear me, yes! May I go on?’
‘Pray do, Count.’
‘Baron Krzeszowski,’ the Count continued, ‘whose mare you have bought, very correctly of course—dear me, yes—ventures to ask you very kindly to let him have her back…The price is of no consequence. The Baron has placed large bets…He will offer twelve hundred roubles.’
Wokulski turned cold: Izabela might despise him if he were to sell the mare. ‘What if I have my own plans for the horse, Count?’
‘In that case, you have priority, dear me, yes,’ the Count lisped.
‘You have decided the matter for me,’ Wokulski said with a bow.
‘Really? I am very sorry for the Baron, but you have prior rights.’
He rose from his chair like a dummy on springs and added, as he said goodbye: ‘When are we to go to the notary with our partnership, my dear sir? On thinking matters over, I have decided to contribute fifty thousand roubles…dear me, yes.’
‘It all depends on you gentlemen.’
‘I very much hope to see our country flourishing and so, my dear Mr Wokulski, you have all my sympathy and respect, dear me, yes, despite the disappointment you will cause the Baron. I was quite sure you would yield the mare to him…’
‘I cannot.’
‘I understand you,’ the Count concluded, ‘a true gentleman, even under the skin of a tradesman, cannot but reveal himself on such an occasion. However, if you will pardon my boldness, you are primarily a gentleman, and in the English style too, such as each one of us should be.’
He shook him warmly by the hand and left. Wokulski admitted to himself that this eccentric, who pretended to be a dummy, had many likeable qualities, nevertheless. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘it is more agreeable to live with these gentlemen than with tradespeople. They really are beings made from a different clay.’
Then he added: ‘Is it surprising that Izabela despises a man like me—brought up, as she has been, among men like these? Yet what good do they do in the world and for the world? They respect people who can give them fifteen per cent on investments…But that is not of merit, after all.
‘The devil take it,’ he muttered, cracking his fingers, ‘but how do they know I’ve bought the mare? Never mind…After all, I bought it from Baroness Krzeszowska through Maruszewicz…Besides, I frequent the stables too much, they all know me there…Yes, I am beginning to commit follies, I am incautious…I didn’t care for that Maruszewicz, though.’
XIII
Gentlefolk at Play
AT LAST the day of the races came, it was fine but not too hot: just as it should be. Wokulski rose at five and at once went to visit his mare. She received him somewhat indifferently, but was well, and Mr Miller was full of encouragement.
‘What’s this?’ he laughed, digging Wokulski in the ribs, ‘you’re excited, eh? The sportsman in you is coming out. The likes of us, my dear sir, are in a fever throughout the racing season. Our little bet of fifty roubles still stands, eh? It’s like having the money in my pocket already—you might as well pay me now.’
‘I’ll pay it with the greatest of pleasure,’ Wokulski replied, and thought: ‘Will the mare win? Will Izabela ever fall in love with me? Suppose something happens? What if the