The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [339]
These precautions and the tone in which they were uttered affected Wokulski disagreeably; nevertheless he went to the hotel at the appointed time: ‘Mr Molinari is in?’ he asked the porter. The latter, who knew Wokulski, sent a page upstairs then began passing the time in conversation: ‘You can’t think, sir, how busy the hotel is with this Italian! People flock to see him as though he were a sacred image, but mostly they’re ladies …’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, sir. One of them first of all sent him a letter, then a bouquet, then came in person, wearing a veil and thinking no one would recognise her … You can’t think, sir, how the staff laughed! He doesn’t see them all, though one of ’em gave his footman three roubles. But sometimes when he’s in a good humour, he’ll take two more rooms, one on either side of the corridor, and entertain a lady in both … He’s a determined beast.’
Wokulski glanced at his watch. Some ten minutes had passed in waiting, so he said goodbye to the porter and went upstairs, feeling anger beginning to boil within him. ‘Stupid fool!’ he thought, ‘and as for those light women of easy virtue …’
On the way he met the page, who was out of breath. ‘Mr Molinari, sir,’ he said, ‘told me to ask you to wait a little longer.’
Wokulski felt like seizing the page by the scruff of the neck, but hesitated and — went downstairs again.
‘Are you leaving, sir? What am I to say to Mr Molinari?’
‘Tell him to … You understand me?’
‘I’ll tell him, sir, but he won’t understand,’ the page replied, pleased and, hurrying back to the porter, said: ‘At least there’s one gentleman here so has sized up that Italian scoundrel … The dog! He is all puffed up, but he looks at a penny three times before he’ll give you it. Son of a bitch, monster … wretch … vagabond … skunk!’
There was a moment in which Wokulski felt resentful towards Izabela. How could she be so enthusiastic about a man that even the hotel staff made fun of? How could she join his long list of female admirers? And, after all, was it proper to make him seek acquaintance with such a humbug?
But he cooled down at once: the very correct idea occurred to him that as Izabela didn’t know Molinari, she was simply letting herself be borne along on the current of his reputation. ‘She’ll get to know him and will cool down,’ he thought, ‘but I am not going to serve as a go-between.’
When Wokulski got home, he found Węgiełek, who had been waiting for him an hour. The lad looked more at home in the city, but was somewhat thin. ‘You’ve lost colour, grown thin,’ said Wokulski, contemplating him, ‘have you been misbehaving?’
‘No, sir, I’ve been ill for ten days. Something in my neck was so painful that the doctor operated. But I went back to work yesterday.’
‘Do you need money?’
‘No, sir. I only wanted to speak to you about going back to Zasławek.’
‘So that’s what is bothering you. Have you learned anything?’
‘Indeed I have. I’ve done some carpentry and cabinet-making. I’ve learned how to make pretty baskets, and draw too. Even paint a bit, if it comes to that.’ As he spoke, he bowed, blushed and squeezed his cap in one hand.
‘Good,’ said Wokulski after a moment, ‘you’ll get six hundred roubles for tools. Enough? When do you want to go home?’
The lad blushed still more, and kissed Wokulski’s hand. ‘Sir, begging your pardon, I’d like to get married … Only I don’t know …’ He scratched his head.
‘To whom?’ asked Wokulski.
‘To Maria, who lives with the