tering and crumpling his serviette in his hands, "A greater insult than you have just flung upon my feelings, not even my enemy could think of. We are done with each other." And striking up a tragic attitude, the Frenchman daintily throws his serviette upon the table and departs in a dignified manner.
About three hours later, the table is laid afresh, and the dinner is served. Kamyshev sits down alone to dinner. After his preliminary glass of spirits, he is seized with a craving for vapid chatter. He wants to gossip and he has no auditor.
"What is Alphonse Ludovicovitch doing?" he asks the flunkey.
"He's packing his trunk, sir."
"What tomfoolery, Heaven help us!" says Kamyshev, and goes to the Frenchman.
Champune is sitting in the middle of his room on the floor, and with trembling hands is packing his trunk with washing, scent-bottles, prayer-books, braces, neckties. His whole air of respectability, the trunk, the bed, and the table give the impression of something elegant and womanish. From his big blue eyes large tears are falling on to the trunk.
"Where are you off to?" asks Kamyshev, after looking on a little.
The Frenchman is silent.
"Do you want to go away?" continues Kamyshev. "Well, just as you please. I won't stop
