“It’s unfair,” repeated in chorus Byelovzorov and the gentleman described as a retired captain, a man of forty, pock-marked to a hideous degree, curly-headed as a negro, round-shouldered, bandy-legged, and dressed in a military coat without epaulets, worn unbuttoned. “Write him a ticket, I tell you,” repeated the young princess. “What’s this mutiny? M’sieu Voldemar is with us for the first time, and there are no rules for him yet. It’s no use grumbling—write it, I wish it.” The count shrugged his shoulders but bowed submissively, took the pen in his white, ring-bedecked fingers, tore off a scrap of paper and wrote on it. “At least let us explain to Mr. Voldemar what we are about,” Lushin began in a sarcastic voice, “or else he will be quite lost. Do you see, young man, we are playing forfeits? the princess has to pay a forfeit, and the one who draws the lucky lot is to have the privilege of kissing her hand. Do you understand what I’ve told you?” I simply stared at him, and continued to stand still in bewilderment, while the young princess jumped up on the chair again, and again began waving the hat. They all stretched up to her, and I went after the rest. “Meidanov,” said the princess to a tall young man with a thin face, little dim-sighted eyes, and exceedingly long black hair, “you as a poet ought to be magnanimous, and give up your number to M’sieu Voldemar so that he may have two chances instead of one.” But Meidanov shook his head in refusal, and tossed his hair. After all the others I put my hand into the hat, and unfolded my lot…. Heavens! what was my condition when I saw on it the word, Kiss! “Kiss!” I could not help crying aloud. “Bravo! he has won it,” the princess said quickly. “How glad I am!” She came down from the chair and gave me such a bright sweet look, that my heart bounded. “Are you glad?” she asked me. “Me?” … I faltered. “Sell me your lot,” Byelovzorov growled suddenly just in my ear. “I’ll give you a hundred roubles.” I answered the hussar with such an indignant look, that Zinaïda clapped her hands, while Lushin cried, “He’s a fine fellow!” “But, as master of the ceremonies,” he went on, “it’s my duty to see that all the rules are kept. M’sieu Voldemar, go down on one knee. That is our regulation.” Zinaïda stood in front of me, her head a little on one side as though to get a better look at me; she held out her hand to me with dignity. A mist passed before my eyes; I meant to drop on one knee, sank on both, and pressed my lips to Zinaïda’s fingers so awkwardly that I scratched myself a little with the tip of her nail. “Well done!” cried Lushin, and helped me to get up.