He always assumed an affected, mincing air, and spoke in short, broken sentences, thinking, by so doing, that he imitated the aristocratic Guardsmen and the _jeunesse dorée_ of St. Petersburg. He had a very high opinion of himself, regarded himself as unsurpassed as a dancer and connoisseur of women and horses, and loved to play the part of a _blasé_ man of the world, although he was hardly twenty-four. He always shrugged his shoulders coquettishly high, jabbered horrible French, pattered along the streets with limp, crooked knees and trailing gait, and invariably accompanied his conversation with careless, weary gestures. "My good Peter Taddeevich," implored Romashov in a piteous voice, "do, please, conduct the ball to-night instead of me." "_Mais, mon ami_"--Bobetinski shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, and assumed a stupid expression. "But, my friend," he translated into Russian, "why so? _Pourquoi donc?_ Really, how shall I say it? You--you astonish me." "Well, my dear fellow, please----" "Stop! No familiarities, if you please. My dear fellow, indeed!" "But I beg you, Peter Taddeevich. You see, my head aches, and I have a pain in my throat; it is absolutely impossible for me to----" In this way Romashov long and fruitlessly assailed his brother officer. Finally, as a last expedient, he began to deluge him with gross flattery. "Peter Taddeevich, there is no one in the whole regiment so capable as yourself of conducting a ball with good taste and genius, and, moreover, a lady has specially desired----" "A lady!" Bobetinski assumed a blank, melancholy expression. "A lady, did you say? Ah, my friend, at my age----" he smiled with a studied expression of hopeless resignation. "Besides, what is woman? Ha, ha! an enigma. However, I'll do what you want me to do." And in the same doleful tone he added suddenly, "_Mon cher ami_, do you happen to have--what do you call it--three roubles?" "Ah, no, alas!" sighed Romashov. "Well, one rouble, then?" "But----" "_Désagréable._ The old, old story. At any rate, I suppose we can take a glass of vodka together?" "Alas, alas! Peter Taddeevich, I have no further credit." "Oh! _O pauvre enfant!_ But it does not matter, come along!" Bobetinski waved his hand with an air of magnanimity. "I will treat you." Meanwhile, in the dining-room the conversation had become more and more high-pitched and interesting for some of those present. The talk was about certain officers' duels that had lately taken place, and opinions were evidently much divided. The speaker at that moment was Artschakovski, a rather obscure individual who was suspected, not without reason, of cheating at cards. There was a story current about him, which was whispered about, to the effect that, before he entered the regiment, when he still belonged to the reserves, he had been head of a posting-station, and was arrested and condemned for killing a post-boy by a blow of his fist.