"They kiss the woman in public," said the count softly, bending over to whisper in her ear. "Permit me, however, to kiss your little hand," he added almost inaudibly, after a long silence, having some pity on his lady's confusion. "Ah! only not quite yet," urged Anna Fedorovna, with a deep sigh. "But when, then? To-morrow I am going away early.... But really, you owe it to me." "Well, then, of course it is impossible," said Anna Fedorovna smiling. "Only give me a chance to see you before to-morrow, so that I may kiss your hand. I will find one." "How will you find one?" "That is my affair. I can do any thing to see you.... Is it agreed?" "Agreed." The schottische came to an end; they danced through the mazurka, and in it the count did marvels, purloining handkerchiefs, bending on one knee, and clinking his spurs in an extraordinary manner, after the Warsaw style, so that all the old men came from their _boston_ to look into the ballroom; and the cavalryman who was the best dancer confessed himself outdone. After they had eaten supper, they danced still the _gross vater_, and began to disperse. The count all this time did not take his eyes from the little widow. He had not been insincere when he declared his readiness to throw himself into a hole in the ice. Whether it was caprice or love or stubbornness, but that evening all the strength of his mind had been concentrated into one desire,--to see and to love her. As soon as he perceived that Anna Fedorovna was taking her farewell of the hostess, he hastened to the servants' quarters, and thence, without his shuba, to the place where the carriages were drawn up. "Anna Fedorovna Zaïtsova's equipage," he cried. A high four-seated carriage with lanterns moved out, and started to drive up to the doorstep. "Stop!" shouted the count to the coachman, rushing up toward the carriage through snow that was knee-deep. "What is wanted?" called the driver. "I want to get into the carriage," replied the count, opening the door as the carriage moved, and trying to climb in. "Stop, you devil! stupid! Vaska![66] stop!" cried the coachman to the postilion, and reining in the horses. "What are you getting into another person's carriage for? This belongs to the Lady Anna Fedorovna, and not to your grace." [Footnote 66: Diminutive of Vasili.] "Hush up, blockhead! _Na!_ there's a ruble for you; now come down and shut the door!" said the count. But as the coachman did not move, he lifted the steps himself, and, shutting the window, managed to pull the door to. In this, as in all ancient carriages, especially those upholstered in yellow galloon, there was an odor of mustiness and burnt bristles. The count's legs were wet to the knees from melting snow, and almost freezing in his thin boots and trousers; and his whole body was penetrated by a cold like that of winter.