He found in their drawing-room a secretary of the legation, a very tall light-haired German, with the profile of a horse, and his hair parted down the back of his head (at that time a new fashion), and … oh, wonder! whom besides? Von Dönhof, the very officer with whom he had fought a few days before! He had not the slightest expectation of meeting him there and could not help being taken aback. He greeted him, however. “Are you acquainted?” asked Maria Nikolaevna who had not failed to notice Sanin’s embarrassment. “Yes … I have already had the honour,” said Dönhof, and bending a little aside, in an undertone he added to Maria Nikolaevna, with a smile, “The very man … your compatriot … the Russian …” “Impossible!” she exclaimed also in an undertone; she shook her finger at him, and at once began to bid good-bye both to him and the long secretary, who was, to judge by every symptom, head over ears in love with her; he positively gaped every time he looked at her. Dönhof promptly took leave with amiable docility, like a friend of the family who understands at half a word what is expected of him; the secretary showed signs of restiveness, but Maria Nikolaevna turned him out without any kind of ceremony. “Get along to your sovereign mistress,” she said to him (there was at that time in Wiesbaden a certain princess di Monaco, who looked surprisingly like a _cocotte_ of the poorer sort); “what do you want to stay with a plebeian like me for?” “Really, dear madam,” protested the luckless secretary, “all the princesses in the world….” But Maria Nikolaevna was remorseless, and the secretary went away, parting and all. Maria Nikolaevna was dressed that day very much “to her advantage,” as our grandmothers used to say. She wore a pink glacé silk dress, with sleeves _à la Fontange_, and a big diamond in each ear. Her eyes sparkled as much as her diamonds; she seemed in a good humour and in high spirits. She made Sanin sit beside her, and began talking to him about Paris, where she was intending to go in a few days, of how sick she was of Germans, how stupid they were when they tried to be clever, and how inappropriately clever sometimes when they were stupid; and suddenly, point-blank, as they say—_à brûle pourpoint_—asked him, was it true that he had fought a duel with the very officer who had been there just now, only a few days ago, on account of a lady? “How did you know that?” muttered Sanin, dumfoundered. “The earth is full of rumours, Dimitri Pavlovitch; but anyway, I know you were quite right, perfectly right, and behaved like a knight. Tell me, was that lady your betrothed?” Sanin slightly frowned … “There, I won’t, I won’t,” Maria Nikolaevna hastened to say. “You don’t like it, forgive me, I won’t do it, don’t be angry!” Polozov came in from the next room with a newspaper in his hand. “What do you want? Or is dinner ready?” “Dinner’ll be ready directly, but just see what I’ve read in the _Northern Bee_ … Prince Gromoboy is dead.”