imir Stanislavovitch's eyes grew red and tears filmed them at that sweet and snuffling drone of the machine.
Several times Kasimir Stanislavovitch went out of the hot hall into the cool corridors, into the cold lavatory, where was a strange smell of the sea; he walked as if on air and, on returning to his table, again ordered wine. After midnight, closing his eyes and drawing the fresh night air through his nostrils into his intoxicated head, he raced in a hansom-cab on rubber tires out of the town to a brothel; he saw in the distance infinite chains of light, running away somewhere down hill and then up hill again, but he saw it just as if it were not he, but someone else, seeing it. In the brothel he nearly had a fight with a stout gentleman who attacked him shouting that he was known to all thinking Russia. Then he lay dressed on a broad bed, covered with a satin quilt, in a little room half-lighted from the ceiling by a sky-blue lantern, with a sickly smell of scented soap and with dresses hanging from a hook on the door. Near the bed stood a dish of fruit, and the girl who had been hired to entertain Kasimir Stanislavovitch silently, greedily, with relish ate a pear, cutting off slices with a knife, and her friend, with fat bare arms, dressed only in a chemise which made her look like a little girl, was rapidly writing on the toilet-table, taking no notice of them. She wrote and wept—of what? There are lots of people in the world; one can't know everything. . . .
On the tenth of April Kasimir Stanislavovitch woke up early. He had got back after four in the morning. As soon as he lay down, everything began to turn round him, to rush into an abyss, and he fell asleep instantly. In his sleep all the time he was conscious of the smell of the iron wash-stand which stood close to his face, and he dreamt of a spring day, trees in blossom, the hall of a manor house, and a number of people waiting anxiously for the bishop to arrive at any moment; and all night long he was wearied and tormented with that waiting. . . . Now in the corridors of the Versailles people rang, ran, called to one another. Behind the screen, through the double, dusty window-panes, the sun shone; it was almost hot. Kasimir Stanislavovitch took off his jacket, rang the bell, and began to wash. There came in a quick-eyed boy, with fox-coloured hair on his head, in a frock-coat and pink shirt.
"A loaf, samovar, and lemon," Kasimir Stanislavovitch said without looking at him.
