The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [55]
‘Forgive me, madam,’ Wokulski interrupted, ‘but relations between husband and wife are no concern of mine.’
‘Ah, so? No doubt that is most convenient—for a tradesman. Adieu.’
And she left the shop, slamming the door.
A few minutes after her departure, the Baron hurried in. He glanced out into the street a few times, then approached Wokulski.
‘My apologies,’ he said, trying to keep his eye-glasses in place, ‘but as a regular customer, I venture to inquire in confidence what that lady who has just left said to you? I apologise for my boldness, but in confidence…’
‘She said nothing that would bear repetition,’ Wokulski replied.
‘For, d’you see, she is—alas!—my wife. You know me—Baron Krzeszowski… She’s a devilishly fine woman, very polished and all that, but the death of our daughter has somewhat upset her and sometimes…d’you see… So—nothing…?’
‘Nothing.’
The Baron bowed, and exchanged glances with Mraczewski, who winked at him. ‘So that’s how it is?’ the Baron said, looking sharply at Wokulski. And he hurried out into the street.
Mraczewski turned to stone and flushed up to the roots of his hair. Wokulski went a little pale but sat down again at his accounts.
‘Who are those eccentric individuals, Mraczewski?’ Klein asked.
‘It’s a long story,’ said Mraczewski, glancing sideways at Wokulski. ‘That was Baron Krzeszowski, a great eccentric and his wife, who is a trifle off her head. They’re related to me, of course, but what of it?’ he sighed, gazing into the mirror. ‘I haven’t any money, I have to serve behind a counter; they still have some, so they patronise me…’
‘They have money without working for it…’ Klein put in. ‘A fine state of affairs, isn’t it?’
‘Well, never mind… Don’t drag me into your affairs,’ Mraczewski replied. ‘The Baron and Baroness have been at war together for a year. He wants a divorce, but she doesn’t; she wants to dislodge him from managing her property, to which he won’t agree. She won’t let him keep horses, particularly one race-horse; and he won’t let her buy the Łęcki house, in which the Baroness lives and where she lost her daughter. Odd people! Everyone laughs at their antics…’
He spoke lightly and moved around with the air of a young gentleman who merely dropped in for a few moments but would be leaving directly. Wokulski changed colour as he sat at his accounts; he could not endure Mraczewski’s voice a moment longer.
‘The Krzeszowskis’ cousin…’ he thought. ‘He’ll be getting a love-letter from Izabela…. Ah, the scoundrel…’
He turned back to his ledger with an effort. More people began coming into the store, selecting goods, bargaining, and paying. But Wokulski, absorbed in his work, only saw their shadows. And as he added up more columns, reached greater totals, the more he felt some indescribable rage boiling up within him. What was it about? And against whom? Never mind…enough that someone would pay for it, as soon as the occasion arose.
By seven, the shop was decidedly emptier, the clerks were chatting together, Wokulski still reckoning. Then he again heard the insufferable voice of Mraczewski, saying in an arrogant tone: ‘What are you trying to confuse me for, Klein? All Socialists are criminals, because they are out to divide up other people’s property—and they’re hangmen, for they have one pair of boots between two and don’t believe in using pocket-handkerchiefs.’
‘You wouldn’t say that,’ Klein replied mournfully, ‘if only you’d read a few pamphlets, even short ones.’
‘Rubbish…’ Mraczewski interrupted, putting his hands in his pockets. ‘You expect me to read pamphlets that are out to destroy the family, religion and property! Well, you won’t find such stupid people in Warsaw.’
Wokulski closed the ledger and put it into the desk. At this moment three ladies came into the store for gloves. Their purchase lasted fifteen minutes. Wokulski sat and stared out of the window; when the ladies had gone he called in a very calm voice: ‘Mr Mraczewski!’
‘Sir?’ asked the handsome young man, skipping up to the cash-desk.
‘From tomorrow you will look for another post,’ said