The Count was sitting at a small table near the door, an empty coffee-cup before him, staring with a fixed look at the opposite wall. There were few people in the place, as the performances at the theatres had already begun. Vjera entered alone.
"I have brought you the money," she said, joyfully, as she stood beside him and laid a hand upon his arm to attract his attention, for he had not noticed her coming.
"The money?" he said, excitedly. "The fifty marks? You have got it?"
She sat down at the table, and began to count the gold and silver, producing it from her pocket in instalments of four or five coins, and making little heaps of them before him.
"It is all there--every penny of it," she said, counting the piles again.
The poor man's eyes seemed starting from his head, as he leaned eagerly forward over the money.
"Is it real? Is it true?" he asked in a low voice. "Oh, Vjera, do not laugh at me--is it really true, child?"
"Really true--fifty marks." Her pale face beamed with pleasure. "And now you can go and pay Fischelowitz at once," she added.
But he leaned back a moment in his chair, looking at her intently. Then his eyes grew moist, and, when he spoke, his voice quivered.
"May God forgive me for taking it of you," he said. "You have saved me, Vjera--saved my honour, my life--all. God bless you, dear, God bless you! I am very, very thankful."
He put the coins carefully together and wrapped them in his silk handkerchief, and rose from his seat. He had already paid for his cup of coffee. They went out together. The Cossack had disappeared.
"You have saved my life and my honour--my honour and my life," repeated the Count, softly and dwelling on the words in a dreamy way.
"I will wait outside," said Vjera as they reached the tobacconist's shop, a few seconds later.
The Count turned to her and laid both hands upon her shoulders, looking into her face.
"You cannot understand what you have done for me," he said earnestly.
He stooped, for he was much taller than she, and closing his tired eyes for a moment, he pressed his lips upon her waxen forehead. Before he had seen the bright blush that glowed in her cheeks, he had entered the shop.
Akulina was seated in one corner, apparently in a bad humour, for her dark face was flushed, and her small eyes looked up savagely at the Count. Her husband was leaning over the counter, smoking and making a series of impressions in violet ink upon the back of an old letter, with an india-rubber stamp in which the word "Celebrated Manufactory" held a prominent place. He nodded familiarly.