Ярмарка тщеславия

In Which We Meet an Old Acquaintance

           

           Awomanwithlighthair,inalowdressbynomeanssofreshasithadbeen,andwithablackmaskon,throughtheeyeletsofwhichhereyestwinkledstrangely,wasseatedatoneoftheroulette-tableswithacardandapinandacoupleofflorinsbeforeher.Asthecroupiercalledoutthecolourandnumber,sheprickedonthecardwithgreatcareandregularity,andonlyventuredhermoneyonthecoloursaftertheredorblackhadcomeupacertainnumberoftimes.Itwasstrangetolookather.

           Butinspiteofhercareandassiduitysheguessedwrongandthelasttwoflorinsfollowedeachotherunderthecroupier’srake,ashecriedoutwithhisinexorablevoicethewinningcolourandnumber.Shegaveasigh,ashrugwithhershoulders,whichwerealreadytoomuchoutofhergown,anddashingthepinthroughthecardontothetable,satthrummingitforawhile.ThenshelookedroundherandsawGeorgy’shonestfacestaringatthescene.Thelittlescamp!Whatbusinesshadhetobethere?

           Whenshesawtheboy,atwhosefaceshelookedhardthroughhershiningeyesandmask,shesaid,"Monsieurn’estpasjoueur?"

           "Non,Madame,"saidtheboy;butshemusthaveknown,fromhisaccent,ofwhatcountryhewas,forsheansweredhimwithaslightforeigntone."Youhavenevareplayedwillyoudomealittl’favor?"

           "Whatisit?"saidGeorgy,blushingagain.Mr.Kirschwasatworkforhispartattherougeetnoiranddidnotseehisyoungmaster.

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