The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [176]
‘I’m a wretch,’ he muttered, ‘first I got drunk, today I’m wandering about … The devil will get me, sure as fate …’
Hardly had he entered the store, uncertain which burdened him most — his heart or his feet — than Mraczewski seized on him. His hair had been trimmed in the Warsaw style, he was combed and perfumed as before, and was serving customers out of sheer pleasure, for he himself was a customer and from foreign parts too. The local ladies could not get over their admiration.
‘For goodness sake, Ignacy,’ he exclaimed, ‘I’ve been waiting three hours for you! You must all have gone off your heads!’ He took him by the arm and without paying any attention to a couple of customers, who stared at them in amazement, hurriedly drew Rzecki into the office where the safe was kept. Here he thrust the old clerk who had gone grey in service into a hard chair and stood before him, ringing his hands like a desperate Germont before Violetta, as he said: ‘You know what? I realised that after I’d left here the business would go to pieces, but I never expected it to happen so soon … The fact that you don’t stay in the store doesn’t matter so much — it won’t run away. But as for the stupidities the old man is committing — that’s a disgrace!’
Ignacy’s eyebrows seemed about to disappear from his forehead altogether in amazement. ‘I beg your pardon!’ he exclaimed, jumping up. But Mraczewski made him sit down again.
‘Not a word!’ the perfumed young man interrupted, ‘do you know what is going on? Suzin is leaving tonight for Berlin to see Bismarck, and then on to Paris for the Exhibition. It is essential — essential, d’you hear? — that we persuade Wokulski to go with him. But that blockhead …’
‘Mr Mraczewski! How dare you …?’
‘It’s my nature, and Wokulski is mad! Only today did I find out the truth … D’you know how much the old man might make in this Paris business with Suzin? Not ten, but fifty thousand roubles, Mr Rzecki! And that booby not only refuses to go, but even says he doesn’t know whether he will go at all. He doesn’t know, yet Suzin can only wait a few days at the most for the deal.’
‘How about Suzin?’ asked Mr Ignacy, genuinely perturbed.
‘Suzin? He’s angry and — what’s worse — bitter. He says Stanisław Petrovich is no longer the man he used to be, that he despises him — in a word, they disagree! Fifty thousand roubles profit and the trip free. Well, just tell me whether St Stanisław himself wouldn’t have gone to Paris on such terms?’
‘Certainly,’ Ignacy muttered, ‘where’s Staś — that’s to say Mr Wokulski?’ he added, rising.
‘In your apartment, writing accounts for Suzin. You’ll find out for yourself how much you stand to lose by this folly …’
The office door opened and Klein appeared, a letter in his hand. ‘Łęcki’s butler brought this for the old man,’ he said, ‘maybe you’ll hand it to him, for he’s rather bad-tempered today.’
Ignacy took the pale blue envelope adorned with a pattern of forget-me-nots, but hesitated. Meanwhile Mraczewski glanced over his shoulder at the superscription: ‘A letter from little Bela!’ he exclaimed, ‘here’s a go!’ and he hurried out of the office, laughing.
‘Devil take it,’ Ignacy muttered, ‘can all these rumours be true, then? So it’s for her that he is spending ninety thousand roubles on buying that house, and losing fifty thousand from Suzin? A total of a hundred and forty thousand roubles! And that carriage, and the races, and those donations to charity! And … and that Rossi who stared at Miss Łęcki as fervently as a Jew at Moses’ tablets! Ach — away with ceremony!’
He buttoned up his jacket, straightened his back and went to his room with the letter. Not until this moment did he notice that his shoes were squeaking somewhat, and felt a sort of relief.
Wokulski was sitting in Ignacy’s room over a pile of papers, without his coat and waistcoat, writing. ‘Here you are,’ he said, looking up at