The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [43]
Wokulski, bent over accounts, was seated to the right of the door, at a desk.
When Izabela entered, the young man inspecting walking-sticks straightened his collar, the two young ladies glanced at one another, Lisiecki broke off half-way through a rounded phrase about the style of the candelabra, though he retained an elegant pose, and even the lady listening to his discourse turned in her chair. For a moment the shop was silent, then Izabela asked in a beautiful contralto voice:
‘Is Mr Mraczewski here?’
‘Mr Mraczewski!’ Ignacy cried.
Mraczewski was already before Izabela, blushing like a cherry, scented like a censer, his head bowed like a clump of rushes.
‘We have come for some gloves.’
‘Size five and a half,’ Mraczewski replied, already holding the box which trembled a little under Izabela’s gaze.
‘Not those …’ she interrupted, smiling. ‘Five and three-quarters … You have forgotten already!’
‘Madam, there are things a man never forgets … If, however, you desire size five and three-quarters, I will serve you, in the hope you will soon grace our establishment again with your presence. Because gloves size five and three-quarters’, he added with a soft sigh, putting other boxes forward, ‘will certainly be too large …’
‘He’s a genius,’ Ignacy whispered softly, winking at Lisiecki, who shrugged contemptuously.
The lady in the chair turned back to the candelabra, the two girls to their toilet articles, the young man in eye-glasses went on selecting his walking-stick — business reverted to its calm progress. Only Mraczewski feverishly darted up and down ladders, opened drawers, brought out more and more boxes, explaining to Izabela in Polish and French that she could not wear any other size of gloves but five and a half, or use any perfumes except Atkinson’s original, or adorn her dressing-table with anything but French oddments.
Wokulski bent over his desk so that the veins stood out on his forehead, and kept counting to himself: ‘29 and 36 is 65, and 16 makes 80 and 73 is …’
Here he broke off and looked furtively towards Izabela as she was talking to Mraczewski. Both had their profiles towards him, so he could see the burning gaze of the clerk fixed upon Izabela and the way in which she was replying with smiles and kindly encouragement.
‘29 and 36 is 65, and 15 …’ Wokulski thought, but suddenly the nib of his pen broke. Without looking up, he got a new one from the drawer and at this moment, without knowing why, he asked himself: ‘Am I supposed to be in love with her? What nonsense! A year ago I had a disordered brain, and it seemed to me I was in love … 29 and 36 … 29 and 36 … I never dreamed she could mean so little to me … How she looks at that fool! Well, she is obviously a woman who flirts even with clerks, and probably with carriage-drivers and footmen too … Now for the first time I’m calm … Good God! And I longed for it so …’
A few more persons entered the shop and Mraczewski reluctantly turned to them as he slowly tied up Izabela’s packages.
Izabela approached Wokulski and, pointing in his direction with her parasol, said distinctly: ‘Flora, kindly pay that gentleman. We are going home.’
‘The cash desk is over here,’ Rzecki exclaimed, hurrying to Flora. He took the money and both withdrew into the depths of the shop.
Izabela moved slowly towards the desk at which Wokulski was seated. She was very pale. The sight of this man seemed to exert a magnetic effect upon her.
‘Am I addressing Mr Wokulski?’
Wokulski arose and replied indifferently: ‘At your service.’
‘So it was you who bought our dinner-service and silver?’ she said in a stifled voice.
‘Yes, madam.’
Now Izabela hesitated. But presently a pale glow returned to her face. She continued: ‘I expect