He walked about the room, sat down to the table, took a sheet of paper, traced a few lines on it, and at once blotted them out…. He recalled Gemma’s wonderful figure in the dark window, in the starlight, set all a-fluttering by the warm hurricane; he remembered her marble arms, like the arms of the Olympian goddesses, felt their living weight on his shoulders…. Then he took the rose she had thrown him, and it seemed to him that its half-withered petals exhaled a fragrance of her, more delicate than the ordinary scent of the rose. “And would they kill him straight away or maim him?” He did not go to bed, and fell asleep in his clothes on the sofa. Some one slapped him on the shoulder…. He opened his eyes, and saw Pantaleone. “He sleeps like Alexander of Macedon on the eve of the battle of Babylon!” cried the old man. “What o’clock is it?” inquired Sanin. “A quarter to seven; it’s a two hours’ drive to Hanau, and we must be the first on the field. Russians are always beforehand with their enemies! I have engaged the best carriage in Frankfort!” Sanin began washing. “And where are the pistols?” “That _ferroflucto Tedesco_ will bring the pistols. He’ll bring a doctor too.” Pantaleone was obviously putting a good face on it as he had done the day before; but when he was seated in the carriage with Sanin, when the coachman had cracked his whip and the horses had started off at a gallop, a sudden change came over the old singer and friend of Paduan dragoons. He began to be confused and positively faint-hearted. Something seemed to have given way in him, like a badly built wall. “What are we doing, my God, _Santissima Madonna!_” he cried in an unexpectedly high pipe, and he clutched at his head. “What am I about, old fool, madman, _frenetico_?” Sanin wondered and laughed, and putting his arm lightly round Pantaleone’s waist, he reminded him of the French proverb: “_Le vin est tiré—il faut le boire_.” “Yes, yes,” answered the old man, “we will drain the cup together to the dregs—but still I’m a madman! I’m a madman! All was going on so quietly, so well … and all of a sudden: ta-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta!” “Like the _tutti_ in the orchestra,” observed Sanin with a forced smile. “But it’s not your fault.” “I know it’s not. I should think not indeed! And yet … such insolent conduct! _Diavolo, diavolo_!” repeated Pantaleone, sighing and shaking his topknot. The carriage still rolled on and on. It was an exquisite morning. The streets of Frankfort, which were just beginning to show signs of life, looked so clean and snug; the windows of the houses glittered in flashes like tinfoil; and as soon as the carriage had driven beyond the city walls, from overhead, from a blue but not yet glaring sky, the larks’ loud trills showered down in floods. Suddenly at a turn in the road, a familiar figure came from behind a tall poplar, took a few steps forward and stood still. Sanin looked more closely…. Heavens! it was Emil!