"But would the 'lonely old man' not play piquet, so as to let those two mad heads talk themselves out?" "But with a rubicon?" asked Plavitski. "With anything you like." Then he turned to the young couple: "Hire me as a guide to Italy." "I do not think of it," answered Pan Stanislav. "I have been in Belgium and France, no farther. Italy I know not; but I want to see what will interest us, not what may interest thee. I have seen men such as thou art, and I know that through over-refinement they go so far that they love not art, but their own knowledge of it." Here Pan Stanislav continued the talk with Marynia. "Yes, they go so far that they lose the feeling of great, simple art, and seek something to occupy their sated taste, and exhibit their critical knowledge. They do not see trees; they search simply for knots. The greatest things which we are going to admire do not concern them, but some of the smallest things, of which no one has heard; they dig names out of obscurity, occupy themselves in one way or another, persuade themselves and others that things inferior and of less use surpass in interest the better and more perfect. Under his guidance we might not see whole churches, but we might see various things which would have to be looked at through cracks. I call all this surfeit, abuse, over-refinement, and we are simply people." Marynia looked at him with pride, as if she would say, "Oh, that is what is called speaking!" Her pride increased when Bukatski said,-- "Thou art quite right." But she was indignant when he added,-- "And if thou wert not right, I could not win before the tribunal." "I beg pardon," said Marynia; "I am not blinded in any way." "But I am not an art critic at all." "On the contrary, you are." "If I am, then, I declare that knowledge embraces a greater number of details, but does not prevent a love of great art; and believe not Pan Stanislav, but me." "No; I prefer to believe him." "That was to be foreseen." Marynia looked now at one, now at the other, with a somewhat anxious face. Meanwhile Plavitski came with cards. The betrothed walked through the rooms hand in hand; Bukatski began to be wearied, and grew more and more so. Toward the end of the evening the humor which animated him died out; his small face became still smaller, his nose sharper, and he looked like a dried leaf. When he went out with Pan Stanislav, the latter inquired,-- "Somehow thou wert not so vivacious?" "I am like a machine: while I have fuel within, I move; but in the evening, when the morning supply is exhausted, I stop." Pan Stanislav looked at him carefully. "What is thy fuel?" "There are various kinds of coal. Come to me: I will give thee a cup of good coffee; that will enliven us." "Listen! this is a delicate question, but some one told me that thou hast been taking morphine this long time." "For a very short time," answered Bukatski; "if thou could only know what horizons it opens." "And it kills--Fear God!"