own particular business. He felt within himself that he ought to work at his own bench also, and endeavour to regret as little as possible the gaieties of his Parisian life. But it was more difficult for him to drive from his mind that other dear recollection: he often thought of the Countess L——, and pictured to himself her just indignation, her tears and her grief. . . . But sometimes a terrible thought oppressed him: the seductions of the great world, a new tie, another favourite — he shuddered; jealousy began to set his African blood in a ferment, and hot tears were ready to roll down his swarthy face.
One morning he was sitting in his study, surrounded by business papers, when suddenly he heard a loud greeting in French. Ibrahim turned round quickly, and young Korsakoff, whom he had left in Paris in the whirl of the great world, embraced him with joyful exclamations.
"I have only just arrived," said Korsakoff, "and I have come straight to you. All our Parisian acquaintances send their greetings to you, and regret your absence. The Countess L—— ordered me to summon you to return without fail, and here is her letter to you."
Ibrahim seized it with a trembling hand and looked at the well-known handwriting of the address, not daring to believe his eyes.
"How glad I am," continued Korsakoff, "that you have not yet died of ennui in this barbarous Petersburg! What do people do here? How do they occupy themselves? Who is your tailor? Have they established an opera?"
Ibrahim absently replied that probably the Emperor was just then at work in the dockyard.
Korsakoff laughed.
"I see," said he, "that you do not want me just now; some other time we will have a long chat together; I am now going to pay my respects to the Emperor."
