Claude AnetNADIA

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NADIA

Claude Anet

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Run: 2026-09-11 13:56BokRobot · Page 1 / 31

The young lieutenant of dragoons Alexandre Naudin had spent a year attending the excellent Russian language course taught by Mr. Paul Boyer at the School of Oriental Languages in Paris. He knew the grammar, syntax, and the complex laws of Russian phonetics. He was able to read a simple text, but spoke with difficulty. He decided to perfect his knowledge of this arduous language and requested and obtained a three-month leave for a study trip to the land of the tsars. It must be admitted that he was also drawn to Russia by the stories of comrades who had preceded him there and brought back enticing memories.

Alexandre Naudin, son of Édouard Naudin of the firm Leredu, Naudin, Jouaust et Cie, wholesale hatmakers in Troyes, the leading credit house in the region, had sufficient income to allow him to travel comfortably without having to consult his bank balance at the end of each day.

He traveled directly from Paris to Moscow via Warsaw. There he made the acquaintance of an officer, Serge Platonof, with whom he spent a few evenings. They went to places of entertainment, listened to French singers and English girls, and applauded Japanese acrobats and wrestlers from Karelia. The beginning of July was already hot and stormy, as it often is in Moscow, and his stay in the city seemed far from pleasant. As he confided this to his new friend, the latter said to him:

« You must come to our country in winter. All our friends are now at the waters of the Caucasus, in Crimea, or on their estates. That is where you will see Russian society. Since you are free to choose your itinerary, go to the Caucasus. The nature there is rich, with something wild that you do not know in Europe. You will find delightful and easygoing women there; that has its price when one travels. I will give you a letter for a friend of mine who is aide-de-camp to the viceroy in Tiflis. Thanks to him, I think your stay will be full of pleasure. »

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Two days later, Alexandre Naudin boarded the luxury train that led to the waters of the Caucasus via Rostov-on-Don; but he stopped neither at Pyatigorsk nor at Essentuki. The modern spa resorts seemed to him of little interest. He wanted to see sites and cities with more local color and continued his journey to Vladikavkaz, a charming little town situated north of the last foothills of the high chain that separates Transcaucasia from the plains of the Northern Caucasus and Russia.

He spent the late afternoon and evening in the town’s beautiful garden on the banks of the Terek, whose muddy waters arrive leaping straight from the mountains. The heat was already intense. The regulars of the garden came as early as six o’clock to seek coolness under the shade along the flowing waters. Families sat in the restaurant, playing cards or drinking wine. Young girls, schoolgirls and others already out of school, strolled in pairs along the paths. They all wore dresses of very fine white linen, and, because of the high temperature, they had under their dresses exactly nothing but a shirt; of this it was easy to be convinced when they passed between the setting sun and an interested observer.

Young Alexandre Naudin thought he had entered the paradise of the houris as soon as he arrived in the Orient. Sitting on a bench, he savored the warm voluptuousness of the hour, watching these young girls stroll past him, laughing or serious, more than one of whom cast a quick glance at him in passing. Beautiful black eyes that half-closed, a sudden flash of white teeth between lips that owed their redness only to the fresh blood of adolescence, the light and almost transparent fabrics that covered these youthful bodies—there was enough there, one must admit, to drive a French dragoon officer to madness. Alexandre Naudin was already thinking of not leaving Vladikavkaz and of spending the rest of his leave there. Where would he find a more pleasant garden, fresher waters, a more picturesque mountain backdrop, and more seductive women?

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But it must be admitted that even amidst these delights, the young lieutenant felt a certain unease. These beauties were not women, but young girls. Alexandre Naudin had received an excellent education, first within his bourgeois family, then at the Post Office School, and finally in the regiment. And like a well-bred young man, he had never had the impertinence to question the traditional ideas that had been instilled in him or the rules of conduct that one must follow. Yet it is obvious, though unspoken, that for a young man, and especially for an officer, and particularly an officer of the cavalry, the world belongs to him: he can do, as they say, whatever he pleases with it, provided he does not touch the young girls. Young girls are meant to be married, not to be toyed with.

These commandments of the morality that has made our country strong are, thank God, respected today, and for a long time to come, I hope.

So the presence of these young girls could not but worry our lieutenant. Alexandre Naudin thought, like Leibniz, whom he had never read, that all things are arranged for the best in the best of all possible worlds, that young girls are meant to be married, that as wives they have children and thus become sacred, and that for the natural pleasures of men there is a class of women, numerous and varied, where one can exercise the right of choice without scruple of conscience. At thirty years of age, I feel certain, Alexandre Naudin, who is no fool, will have taken a few more steps and understood things that still elude him. But what? He is only twenty-four years old at the moment when this story begins and ends.

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He therefore hesitated to approach these young girls who, nevertheless, smiled at him sympathetically. Under the glare of their gazes, he burned, but dared not declare his love. Twenty times he was on the verge of making up his mind; twenty times he drew back. However, he strolled through the lighted alleys, his chest puffed out, his calves tensed. To add insult to injury, the young girls were always in groups of two, three, or four. Had he found one alone, perhaps he would have pursued her. But one can see the difficulty of striking up a conversation with several laughing, mocking young girls, especially when one does not speak their language fluently, despite the excellent lessons of Mr. Paul Boyer.

Thus he spent a delightful yet tormented evening, and with a soul full of regret, he left the city garden for a restless night in a mediocre hotel bed.

The next morning, he took his place at the first hour in one of the many automobiles providing service between Vladikavkaz and Tiflis along the famous Georgian Military Road that crosses the Caucasus range.

The beauty of the sites traversed, their variety, and their contrasts restored peace to our traveler’s soul. He journeyed first through the gorges at the bottom of which the roaring Terek flows. He admired, on a high rock overlooking the river, the ruins of Queen Tamara’s castle, from where travelers whom this haughty woman had deigned to make her lovers for a night were thrown into the foaming waters in the morning.

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After two and a half hours of continuous ascent, and after crossing the famous Dariel Pass, the automobile arrived at the post station of Kasbek, where a lunch was being prepared. Alexandre Naudin ate crayfish caught in the icy mountain torrents with great appetite; he was served captivating wine from Kakheti, and, while waiting for the car to depart, he smoked a cigarette facing the volcanic peak of Kazbek, which raised its eternal snows and rocks, where Prometheus was chained, to more than five thousand meters. He felt full of joy and was glad to have followed the advice of his friend from Moscow who had sent him to the Caucasus. The hours spent in the city garden in Vladikavkaz seemed to promise him unparalleled happiness in the near future, and it was in the best mood in the world that he continued his journey by automobile through the wild and grandiose regions of Ossetia.

After another hour and a half of ascent, they reached the summit of the pass, Krestovsky Pass, which is at nearly two thousand five hundred meters, and, with the long descent to Tiflis, there were new enchantments. As if by miracle, the landscape changed in the blink of an eye. No more narrow gorges, but vast expanses. A wide panorama opened before the delighted eyes of our lieutenant. In this rapid march southward toward the sun-scorched lands, the vegetation became richer with every moment. Warm, fragrant breezes passed through the air, and even the names of the villages they passed through—Passanaour, Ananaour—had something voluptuous about them.

Around four o’clock, Alexandre Naudin saw in the distance, nestled in a valley with rocky, bare slopes, a large city above which a mist floated. It was Tiflis.

He arrived there only at six o’clock. The heat was still intense; he was covered in dust and battered by the jolts of the road. He went to the Hotel de Londres, on the banks of the Kura.

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He was so eager to enjoy the Caucasian life as quickly as possible that, that very evening, he took with him the letter of recommendation that had been given to him for the post of vice-regal aide-de-camp, and he almost had a fit of despair when he learned that this officer, Ivan Ilyich Poutilof, was still at Borjomi for another three days. It seemed to him that he would never make up for those lost three days, for our friend Alexandre Naudin felt that, in a country so new to him, he needed a guide and that, left to his own devices, he would never discover the secret charms of Tiflis.

He was forced to be patient and devoted those three days, “erased from my life,” as he said, to exploring the city and familiarizing himself with the places where he promised himself so much happiness. Although he was alone and did not have many resources of his own, Alexandre Naudin took more pleasure than he had expected in visiting Tiflis.

He wandered through the bazaars and the old city, where the Koura is squeezed between the walls of ancient houses; he strolled in the Persian quarter, ventured into the picturesque botanical garden set up in the ruins of the former fortress of the Safavid shahs. There he drank kefir, a drink he found bland. Around six o’clock, he walked along Golovine Avenue and stopped at the local French pastry shop, where he chatted for a moment. Unfortunately, the theaters were closed, and the evenings seemed long to him. This was all the more so because the heat during the day was excessive; having spent the morning running around the city, he, like all the inhabitants of Tiflis, took a long nap after lunch, and, thus rested, found himself little inclined, in the evening, to go to bed early.

But Tiflis did not have a garden comparable to that of Vladicaucase.

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His three days of purgatory came to an end, and on the appointed date he had the pleasure of meeting Captain Ivan Ilyich Poutilof. He was a young man of barely thirty years, already covered with decorations, and for whom the brightest military future seemed assured. He showed great pleasure in making the acquaintance of his French brother-in-arms. Judging by the way he received him and the way he decided to devote himself to him during his stay in Tiflis, it seemed that his life had had no purpose until then, and that the arrival of Alexandre Naudin filled a cruelly felt void. He immediately asked him his father’s name, and from that moment on, Alexandre Naudin became Alexandre Eduardovich.

On the very first evening, the Russian officer took his friend to one of the summer gardens on the left bank of the Kura. It was a garden where people dined outdoors starting at eleven o’clock. The entire society of Tiflis was gathered there, and seeing them eat with great appetite, Alexandre Naudin found the solution to a small problem that had been puzzling him since he arrived in the capital of the Caucasus: the time of meals for the city’s inhabitants.

He had seen people having lunch in the hotels and restaurants he frequented. But no matter what time or where he showed up for dinner, he found himself alone. What was this mystery?

He asked Ivan Ilyich for an explanation.

Ivan Ilyich replied:

“My dear Alexandre Edouardovitch, we indeed have lunch, like you, between noon and one o’clock. Then comes the siesta, a sacred rest for Russians and Caucasians in our torrid summer. After the siesta, around five or six o’clock, we have tea, either at a pastry shop or, preferably, at home. And social life begins again with the supper you see here. How, then, can one live by day, when the nights of the Caucasus are incomparable? Men, women, and young girls gather here in the evening and stay until one or two o’clock in the morning. We walk, chat, listen to music, eat, drink, and, finally, we have the joys of the lottery, to which I will introduce you.”

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Alexandre Naudin saw at the far end of the garden a large board divided into a hundred small squares in which the numbers that had come up were displayed, according to the call shouted out by a croupier. The assembly followed the game with passionate interest, all the while having supper.

The two officers each bought a card for the price of a ruble and began marking off the called numbers. As luck would have it, our young officer completed his card first. He told his friend, who shouted in a loud voice:

« Davolno. » (Satisfied.)

The game immediately stopped. An employee came to take the winning card and took it to the checker. He returned a moment later and said:

« Correct. »

Having spoken thus, he placed sixty-six rubles on the table. From all sides people turned to see the lucky winner, and since he was not known to them, they looked at him more closely. The young Alexandre Naudin enjoyed his success and stood very straight.

« So you are in luck, my dear Alexandre Edouardovitch, » said his companion. « We will drink a bottle of champagne to your victory.»

He would never allow his excellent friend to pay for the bottle, and Alexandre Naudin found himself obliged to order a second one.

Meanwhile, friends of the Russian officer had drawn nearer and sat down at his table. Our compatriot thus made more acquaintances in an hour than he would have done in a year had he been alone in Tiflis. They drank to the health of France, and when Alexandre Naudin, around three o’clock in the morning, returned to the Hotel de Londres, he was pleased to have found such a perfect companion for his stay in the Caucasus.

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These friendly gatherings were repeated. He did not see Ivan Ilyich by day, but they spent the nights together and dined as a pair or in company at the summer gatherings. He thus became acquainted with some notable figures of the city, with the vice-regal notary, with the intendant of the crown estates. The wives of these well-known personalities were ladies already of a certain age, and their antics did not bother our lieutenant. He was beginning to find that his Russian friends led a very monotonous life in which wine took the place of all pleasures. One evening, he said to his friend Poutilof:

“Are there not in your beautiful city, my dear Ivan Ilyich, ladies younger and less virtuous than those I meet here?”

Hearing these words, Ivan Ilyich burst out laughing.

“Younger, certainly, but less virtuous, I cannot promise you that,” thereby implying, no doubt, that nothing could be more unexpected than to look for virtue among the wives of his friends.

When he had regained his seriousness, he said to Naudin:

“You want to see our Caucasian girls, Alexander Eduardovich. You are right: they are delightful; I will take you to them. We had in fact made that plan and had arranged to offer you, as a friend and ally, a little feast in the Caucasian style. If you wish, it will be for the day after tomorrow. Until then, rest, fast, and go to bed early, for you will need to show endurance, and we will let you taste our best wines. Our next meeting is therefore set for the day after tomorrow, at the Hotel de Londres, at three o’clock.”

“At three o’clock?” asked Alexander Naudin, astonished.

“Do not have lunch,” continued Ivan Ilyich; “we will sit down to table immediately. And keep your evening free for us.”

“Will there be women?” asked Naudin, following his thought.

“All this will be revealed to you in due time,” said Poutilof with a mysterious air.

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At the appointed day and hour, Alexander Naudin waited for his friends. The table had been set up in a private room, a vast space whose windows were closed due to the heat. The guests arrived punctually. There were Poutilof, the organizer of the feast, a cavalry colonel, a superb man over six feet tall who commanded a regiment of the “Wild Division,” a young lieutenant from the same regiment, the vice-roy’s notary, and a prince bearing one of the great names of the Georgian nobility, whose origins, as is well known, are lost in the mists of time. They began by eating standing up: delicious zakouskis, Astara caviar, slices of raw ham, small hot pâtés with mushrooms, others with fish, and still others with chopped cabbage, all washed down, as is proper, with several glasses of vodka.

Then they sat down to the table. The meal was copious and magnificent; the hotel’s chef, renowned throughout Russia, had outdone himself. After the beet consommé accompanied by small cheese flutes, there was a coulibiak of Caspian sturgeon, then a dish of enormous crayfish from the Terek, then a grouse with stuffed and truffled gelatin. As a matter of natural coquetry, the wines were all from the Caucasus, chosen from among the best of the appanages: wines from Kakheti, colored and potent, that went straight to the head.

The toasts were innumerable. They drank to the Emperor and the President of the Republic, to the Russian and French armies, to the cavalry of both countries, to the regiment of Alexander Eduardovich and to those of his hosts. Each time, as politeness demanded, the glass was filled and emptied. Only at the coffee did French champagne make its appearance.

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Our friend Alexandre Naudin bore these libations as best he could. Moreover, by the middle of the meal, his hosts were so animated that they no longer paid close attention to what the French lieutenant was drinking—he was doing his best to cheat them. Like many of our compatriots, he detested getting drunk. He enjoyed a touch of wine, but it was difficult to get him to cross the limit he had set for himself. Furthermore, he had very good reasons to remain sober. He knew that the evening would not end at the Hotel de Londres, and he wanted to be in a state to enjoy the pleasures that had been promised to him.

At dusk, they went out onto a terrace that overlooked the Koura. The Georgian prince, a pale and silent young man, grew increasingly melancholy.

He sat down in an armchair a little apart and, accompanying himself on a balalaika, began to sing to himself a strange and sad melody to a broken rhythm, with modulations that seemed monotonous but gradually captured one’s heart and locked it within their intricate weave. Evening was falling; Alexandre Naudin enjoyed the charm of the hour; he let himself drift into reverie, something that did not happen to him often. The cavalry colonel emptied all the glasses of champagne or liqueur that were served to him without appearing in any way affected by it. He was neither more cheerful, nor more sad, nor more talkative than before. He sat upright, and on his handsome, impassive face one could read, literally, nothing. Poutilof discussed passionately with the vice-king’s notary, who was red and glowing. They had chosen the eternal subject of death, on which no Russian ever runs short after a dinner watered with good wine.

As for the great lieutenant, he said not a word and contented himself with smoking cigarettes that he threw away barely lit. To certain notes of the balalaika, his feet moved on the tiles with marvelous agility.

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And so it went on for a long time, until night fell completely and sparkling stars came out to embroider the dark blue velvet of the sky. In the distance, voices and flutes could be heard; oriental melodies reached the terrace in fragments, where the guests savored the sweetness of the evening that had finally arrived.

Alexandre Naudin, despite the pleasantness of the evening, was beginning to grow impatient. He had promised to let his friends arrange the festivities as they wished, but he hoped they would not remain indefinitely on the terrace of the Hotel de Londres.

Finally, Poutilof stopped talking with the vice-king’s notary and exclaimed:

« I think it is time, my friends, to go and enjoy the fresh air of the countryside. »

They agreed without discussion. It was evident that the program of the evening had been fixed in advance according to the rites that govern such ceremonies.

“We are tired of being among men,” Poutilof continued. “If our host does not object, we will take some young women to dinner with us. We are going to visit our old friend on X Street... I telephoned her that we were coming tonight and I have no doubt that she has summoned the best of her acquaintances.”

At the hotel door, three automobiles were waiting, two of them military vehicles, each driven by a soldier. During the very short journey, Alexandre Naudin asked his companion where they were going.

“But, Alexandre Eduardovitch, you know these houses. They exist in Paris as well as in Russia. There you find young and friendly women whom you take out to dinner.”

“Professionals?” asked Naudin, who was determined to get to the bottom of things.

“Undoubtedly, dear friend, undoubtedly, although some of them pretend to be ladies of the world eager to have an adventure one evening. Doesn’t that happen in your country too?”

Alexandre Naudin agreed that sometimes it did in France.

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The automobiles stopped on a quay on the left bank of the Koura, at the entrance to an alley so narrow that they could not enter it. Poutilof, followed by his companions, entered a small house whose windows opened onto the river. A middle-aged lady received them like old friends and led them into a room where, around a round table, a dozen women were playing lotto. The game fascinated them to such an extent that they did not even look up from their cards to see who was arriving. The officers went around the table, shaking hands, caressing, or kissing their female friends.

Alexandre Naudin watched the scene with pleasure. All the women were young, and most of them were pretty. They were dressed as is customary in Tiflis in summer: in white linen skirts and more or less elegant blouses, depending on the vagaries of changing fortune. Many of them had short hair. But Naudin noted with surprise that they did not have the outward characteristics of European professionals, and that if he had met them on the street, he would not have recognized them for what they were.

He expected to be surrounded, flattered, and pampered. He was quite surprised to see that these charming girls, barely of legal age, paid no attention to him, even though they did not know him.

However, some of them had left the gaming table. Poutilof took Naudin by the arm and introduced him. Conversations began. Alexandre Naudin had noticed a young woman who kept to herself and had not played the lottery. She spoke little with her companions. He found her attractive. He thought of making her his friend for the evening. He asked Poutilof what her name was.

“Well, I don’t know her,” the latter said. “She’s a new arrival. She’s pleasant, though.”

And, going over to her, he said:

“What’s your name?”

“Nadia,” she replied in a quiet tone.

“Well, Nadia, let me introduce my friend, Alexandre Edouardovitch. As you can see, he’s French, and an excellent fellow. He speaks Russian slowly, but almost without mistakes. You’ll understand each other with just a few words.”

Alexandre Naudin approached and shook the hand Nadia extended to him.

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“Would you do me the pleasure of coming to have dinner with me and my friends in a garden?” he said.

Nadia looked at the Frenchman with some mistrust, hesitated for a moment, then, slightly shrugging her shoulders, replied:

“Why not?”

Meanwhile, the notary, who, after the conversation about death, was full of energy, had put his arm around the waist of a plump, blonde, cheerful girl.

Poutilof, increasingly in charge of the proceedings, installed Alexandre Naudin in the back of a large open limousine, between Nadia and a girl named Maroussia. He sat himself in the front next to the soldier and let the others arrange themselves as they pleased in the remaining two cars.

The cars sped through the city and soon entered the countryside. The air was still warm, but after the heat of the day, it seemed almost cool, and Alexandre Naudin feared that his friend Nadia, who was wearing a transparent blouse, might catch a cold.

“Nitchevo,” she said simply.

He looked at her. In the half-darkness, he could only see her small head, her pure profile, and a long, slender neck.

Because of the car’s jolting on the rough road, he thought he was justified in putting his arm around Nadia’s waist. She did not resist, and he had the pleasure of embracing a body of extreme suppleness that seemed completely undressed. In a natural burst of joy, he pressed his young friend against him.

But, to his great surprise, she freed herself from the embrace and pushed away the hand that was becoming too insistent.

“One must believe,” he thought, “that things do not move as quickly in Russia as they do here, and that these girls require winning over.” But he felt confident of making this not-so-difficult conquest and postponed his attack.

The walk continued under the silent stars. Soon the carriages crossed a bridge and stopped in front of a house in the middle of the countryside. It was the restaurant called Fantaisie, whose very name made young women from Tiflis dream, for there, in a large garden on the banks of a tributary of the Kura, one could find pavilions where one could dine.

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One of these pavilions had been reserved by Captain Poutilof, and the young Frenchman admired the charm of its setting. It consisted of two or three fairly spacious rooms furnished with divans covered with Caucasian carpets.

These rooms opened onto a gallery overlooking the garden and the river, whose water flowed with a joyful and incessant murmur right next door. It was on this gallery that the dinner was served.

A small orchestra, the zourna, occupied one of its ends. It consisted of four Caucasians of Persian appearance, one of whom played the flute, another the clarinet, a third the accordion, and the last, crouching on his heels, tapped his fingers on a tall drum. These four scoundrels, who seemed to obey no measure whatsoever, made music that seemed incomprehensible to our lieutenant, accustomed to our charming and simple café-concert refrains. They were monotonous and wild melodies that kept returning to themselves with some variations that were astonishing and whose meaning he did not understand. There were rhythms there that were unknown to him, something spicy to which his palate was not accustomed.

Although it was past seven o’clock and barely ten, they had to eat again, and Alexandre Naudin admired the appetite of his friends, who did justice to the menu. They began with small trout in jelly. The wine flowed abundantly, and its mixture was dangerous. Alexandre Naudin, who felt on the verge of drunkenness, promised himself to watch his drinking, so as to get through the rest of the evening without losing his head. He looked at his neighbor, Nadia. She was very young, and fresh despite the profession she practiced. Her complexion was pale, and she did not enliven it with any rouge; she did not use lipstick. Her only artifice was to apply a little rice powder. She did not try to please Alexandre Edouardovitch, did not cast him any glances, and remained remarkably silent.

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She seemed indifferent to the splendor of the party, the excellence of the food, the warmth of the wine, the jarring accents of the music, and finally to the beauty of the night that surrounded them. Yet she was not sulking; there was no trace of bad temper in her; she protested against nothing. That was just how she was! There was no point in resenting her. Alexandre Naudin understood this.

He had tried once or twice to take her by the waist, to draw her to him, and to kiss her on the neck, on that supple, white neck, whose lines attached themselves in a ravishing way to a throat beneath which he could see her two twin breasts through the transparent chemise.

At the thought that he was about to possess these treasures, he struggled to maintain his composure. But Nadia did not lend herself to these games; she gently pushed away the intrepid lieutenant, without a word, with a look that meant: “That is not done in our house.”

Indeed, “that” did not happen around the table. Only the viceroy’s notary, at one point, applied two sound kisses to the cheeks of the big blonde girl, but they were quasi-paternal kisses from which all sensuality was absent, and, that formality fulfilled, the dignified man paid no further attention to his neighbor. The officers imitated him in this. On rare occasions, they barely spoke to the pretty girls who dined with them. Their main concern that evening was wine, not women. And they consumed wine prodigiously, mixing sweet French champagne with the most violent vintages from the Caucasus. It seemed that the high-pitched accents of the music, those eternal and enveloping Asian variations, those desperate laments, sent fever through their bodies and compelled them to drink endlessly to calm the delirium that seized them.

The notary, at times, would stand up and direct the small orchestra with broad sweeps of his arms; sometimes he would sing a Caucasian folk song at the top of his voice. The Russian lieutenant, hearing the Lesghinskaia, could no longer contain himself, left the table, and, however unsteady he was, began to dance, a bottle on his head, with a grace, a flexibility, and a certainty that astonished Alexandre Naudin.

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As for the Georgian prince, he had withdrawn to a neighboring room with one of the girls, and, lying on the sofa, he recited to her in a low, passionate voice amorous verses by Lermontov. Naudin, alone, courted Nadia in his own way. But he was singularly hampered by his imperfect knowledge of the Russian language, and these dialogues, conducted with difficulty, soon came to nothing. It took him more than five minutes to finish such a complicated sentence and make himself understood.

Nadia looked at him with a certain astonishment and replied:

“We must drink.”

And she poured him a full glass of red wine from Kakheti. It was the first time she had paid any attention to him and seemed to take an interest in him as a person. However strange her response was, Alexandre Naudin accepted it as a sign of attention and felt compelled to empty the glass she had filled.

However, he kept glancing at his wristwatch. Two o’clock in the morning already! “It’s been twelve hours now,” he thought, “that we’ve been doing nothing but drinking and eating. To each his own. I would like to finish the night in our own way, alone with this charming girl.”

But the guests showed no sign of fatigue and, evidently, did not share the very natural desire that had seized the young Frenchman. Finally, he spoke of it to his friend Poutilof, who was in a very cheerful mood, while the admirable colonel, the more he drank, the more he became talkative and sculptural.

“What are you thinking about?” he said. “We’re spending the night together. Tonight we’re drinking. Love is for tomorrow, if we feel like it. Besides, my dear Alexandre Edouardovitch, today you are our guest; you belong to us, and the night isn’t over yet. We’ll go on to Mskhet, whose church houses the tombs of the kings of Georgia. We’ll surely find an open tavern there. It’s a walk of about twenty versts. The fresh air will do us good.”

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Alexandre Naudin was in that happy state where one finds no great strength within oneself to resist such a cordial invitation, and half an hour later the company left Fantaisie. Only the Georgian prince remained on the sofa where he had fallen asleep in the middle of the most pathetic passage from Lermontov. The vice-roy’s notary could barely keep his legs. The colonel and Ivan Iliitch Poutilof lifted him into his carriage. No sooner was he in the open air than he fell into a deep sleep. All was asleep in the ancient city of Mskhet as well. The officers, not without difficulty, roused a tavern-keeper who served wine. The Russian lieutenant woke up a young, muzzled bear that was tied up in the inn’s courtyard and began wrestling with it to the great delight of the onlookers. He managed to roll it over on the ground, but the struggle had been fierce and the lieutenant’s torn uniform showed that the bear had known how to use its claws.

Finally, the signal to return was given. The sky was already clearing in the east, and Venus shone brightly above the rocky hills that rose north of Tiflis. Alexandre Naudin rested his head on his neighbor’s shoulder and found a way to say a few words of gallantry to which she made no reply. The fresh air that whipped his face dispelled the faint fumes of the intoxication that had begun to overcome him. He felt full of strength and thrilled with pleasure at the thought of soon possessing Nadia.

But, upon arriving in Tiflis, he saw the wisdom of Poutilof’s words. The men went home, and the women went home. He did not feel inclined to imitate them and asked Nadia if he could accompany her to her room.

“Impossible,” she said laconically.

“But then, you will come to my place, at the hotel.”

“If you wish,” she replied indifferently. “I am sleepy.”

At the Hotel de Londres, the night porter refused to receive them. Naudin, who was beginning to be annoyed, inquired about a place where they would be taken in for the night.

“For the night, you would need your passports,” said the porter. “For an hour or two, they will probably take you at the Hotel Belmont.”

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Naudin, growing increasingly angry, gave the name of the hotel to the soldier in the automobile, without even consulting his companion.

A few minutes later, they were received in a seedy hotel by a boy in a shirt who, after making them pay a few rubles in advance, opened the door to a room for them.

The heat inside, behind the closed windows, was stifling. Nadia let herself fall onto the bed.

“I want to sleep,” she said, with the grimace of a tired child.

“Undress, my little dove,” said Alexandre Naudin, who himself was beginning to undress and to perform a hasty toilette at a shaky and cramped washstand.

However, without a sound, Nadia undressed, and when Alexandre Naudin turned around he saw that she was lying naked on the sheets. Her eyes were closed, and her head, thrown back, rested on the arm that supported it.

The supple lines of her body, her small, perfectly shaped breasts, her barely developed hips, her flat belly without a wrinkle, her slender legs, and the freshness and glow of her flesh offered an admirable sight to the eyes of the young lieutenant.

He sat down on the bed and took Nadia’s hand, which she relinquished without resistance. When he let go, that hand fell limply onto the bed. He leaned over and placed his lips on the young woman’s slightly parted mouth. Nadia did not return his kiss, nor did she seem to feel it. But her head rolled, and her cheek came to rest on his shoulder. Her eyes remained closed the whole time.

“But she’s sleeping,” thought Alexandre Naudin. “She’s sleeping like a marmot! We absolutely must wake her up.”

“Nadia,” he said, shaking her gently, “Nadia!”

She couldn’t hear him. He insisted, speaking louder. He tried to sit her up on the bed. Her supple body offered no resistance, slipping through his fingers and returning to a horizontal position.

For a moment, she opened her eyes, but her gaze was vague.

“I’m sleeping,” she said softly.

She turned to her side, placing one arm above her head to shield herself from the glare of the electric light, and fell asleep again immediately.

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Our friend Alexandre Naudin was prey to conflicting feelings. He was justifiably angry, as is only natural. But it was difficult for him to be angry with Nadia, who, after a night of partying, a copious dinner, a little too much wine, and a long drive in the car, succumbed to the first and most natural of needs: sleep. She was so beautiful lying there before him that he felt both a stronger desire to possess her and a greater indulgence for the weakness that deprived him of her. He remembered what Ivan Ilyich Poutilof had said. In short, he was asking of his friend of one night for things that were, in the circumstances in which he found himself, beyond the norm. To live among the Caucasians, one had to adopt the customs of the Caucasus.

Alexandre Naudin therefore got dressed again, somewhat melancholic, while continuing to look at Nadia’s beautiful body stretched out on the bed. However painful the present moment might be, the certainty of finding the young woman at a more propitious hour made the sacrifice less painful.

He took a business card and a twenty-five-rouble bill from his wallet. On the card, he wrote with great care, in Russian, these words: “Tomorrow, Thursday, at five o’clock, Hotel de Londres, number sixteen.” And he added, as a joke, two more words: “Sleep well.”

He slipped the card and the bill into Nadia’s closed hand and left. When he went to bed, it was already daylight. He only dozed until one o’clock in the afternoon, had a very late lunch, and lay down on the sofa in his room, a cigarette in his mouth. He was waiting for Nadia. But would she come? The voluptuous images he had seen the previous night rose up before him. He couldn’t help laughing at the thought of his disappointment. To have a ravishing, naked young woman in his arms, and to do nothing with her! How, without being ridiculous, could he tell this story to his comrades in France? Fragments of Caucasian melodies—he was quite astonished to have been able to remember them—flashed through his memory.

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There was something about this feast—was it the gardens, the music coming from the depths of Asia, the silent women, the night so warm and so beautiful?—that compelled him to think about it again and set it apart from similar evenings experienced in the West.

While recalling these pleasant memories, our lieutenant fell asleep.

Small knocks at the door woke him up.

“Who’s there?” he cried, jumping up.

He sat down on the sofa and rubbed his eyes.

The door opened, and Nadia entered.

Judging by the astonishment with which this apparition plunged Alexandre Naudin into, one can conclude that he did not believe much in the arrival of his friend from the previous day. He hurried over to her, and, as he now knew Russian customs, he had the samovar and some cakes brought in.

Nadia was calm, as was her custom. She did not seek to please the lieutenant. She barely smiled at the bilingual antics he enthusiastically spouted to her, and when he began to undress her, she remained in the same state of indifference.

Around nine o’clock in the evening. Alexandre Naudin, who had many reasons to be satisfied with himself—he was now whistling “Le Père la Victoire”—proposed a drive in the car before dinner.

Nadia agreed, and so our young people left. They parted only at two in the morning.

From then on, they saw each other every day. Nadia would arrive at the Hotel de Londres barely after waking up—that is, in the late afternoon—and would stay with Alexandre Edouardovitch until late into the night, which, in the local custom, was spent in the gardens around the city. She was of a steady temperament, never losing her temper, never raising her voice, never seeking quarrels over anything; she was taciturn and remained little demonstrative. But our lieutenant had an excess of exuberance and enthusiasm, which he expended without worrying about his mistress. She was pretty, young, healthy, and easy to get along with. Moreover, she honored him in public, for she had impeccable manners and her beauty attracted attention—something to which Alexandre Naudin, with a vanity quite forgivable in a young man, was very sensitive. What more could one ask of a temporary mistress?

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Our lieutenant wanted to spend a fortnight in Tiflis, then travel through the Caucasus. But he became drawn to the lazy, monotonous, nocturnal life he led in the company of Nadia, and kept putting off his departure.

He looked at his companion like a curious, incomprehensible, and charming little animal. To tell the truth, there was one thing about her that greatly puzzled him: she did not seem to experience any extraordinary joy in the arms of her lover.

In fact, she seemed—how could one believe it?—not to be in love with him. Alexandre Naudin was a handsome young man who had enjoyed considerable success with women of easy virtue in France, whom he had frequented until then, and, as is fitting for his age, he expected to receive a thousand compliments from Nadia and the caresses that are the small currency by which a woman pays for the happiness she has been given. He received neither the one nor the other. The matter was strange and could only be explained by Nadia’s obvious frigidity—by “the young Siberian woman,” as he called her ever since he had learned that she came from Omsk.

“There isn’t enough sun in your country,” he said. “You haven’t thawed out yet.” (It should be noted that Alexandre Naudin was making rapid progress in learning the Russian language.)

To which Nadia replied:

“There is more sun in Omsk than in Tiflis, because we see it both in summer and winter. The thermometer can drop to thirty degrees below zero, but the sky is clear and the sun shines brightly.”

Still, there was something strange about it, and Alexander Eduardovitch did not know quite how to deal with it. He would have liked to be the Pygmalion of this northern Galatea. But she remained as cold as the snows of her native land. Even her skin had a special freshness, and he said to her:

“You are a perfect companion for the burning summer of Tiflis. But how can one live with you in winter?”

Nadia had a half-smile and did not answer.

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She now lived with him at the London Hotel. He marveled at her wonderful ability to spend time doing nothing and sleeping. Like all the inhabitants of Tiflis in summer, they lived at night, going to bed around three or four in the morning, and he had the greatest difficulty, in the early afternoon, waking his mistress. Soon after lunch, it was nap time. Nadia came back to life at tea time. Sometimes he urged her to go out with him while it was still daylight. Most often, she stayed at home, smoking cigarettes and dreaming about who knows what. Yet he managed to take her to a few shops where he bought her underwear and clothing, for she had hardly anything but what she was wearing. When she had chosen shirts, stockings, a skirt, a hat, and a traveling coat, she declared herself satisfied and did not accompany him any further. She never asked for money. He offered it to her.

“Why?” she said.

She sometimes went with him to the Orbeliani baths, at the far end of the old city, near the Koura. Hot sulfurous springs gush forth there, and the masseurs from Azerbaijan who work there are renowned throughout Russia. They took two rooms there: one served as a resting room, and the other as a steam room. Wrapped in a bathrobe, she watched her lover’s massage. A gaunt Persian, whose muscles bulged like bundles of rope, seized hold of him, laid him on a marble table, kneaded his limbs, cracked every joint, and finally, having laid him flat on his stomach and stretching his two arms backward, climbed onto his patient’s back and, with his heels pressed against the spine, let himself slide from the shoulders to the waist. When the massage was over, the Persian blew, as if into a bagpipe, into a small calico bag containing soap, and soon Alexandre Naudin disappeared beneath thousands of tiny, light bubbles.

Then followed a bath in a pool at forty degrees. Once the Persian had left, Nadia took her turn bathing, and her lover served as her awkward masseur. Finally, they enjoyed a prolonged rest on the beds in the adjoining room, all the while drinking cool beverages.

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They made a few excursions into the Caucasus, visiting, to escape the unbearable heat of Tiflis, the spa resort of Borjom. But the countless bedbugs, which, it must be admitted, Nadia tolerated, made the stay unbearable for the young Frenchman. They saw the famous ruins of Ani, the city of a thousand churches, stopped in Etchmiadzin at the foot of Ararat, and pushed on to the eastern city of Erivan, where Nadia seemed to enjoy herself.

Alexandre Naudin was enchanted by his traveling companion. With her, he never got bored. It is true, she continued to talk little, but Naudin wisely thought that, all things considered, a taciturn mistress is better than a talkative one.

He compared her to the French women of his class whom he had known. It was rare for them not to fall into vulgarity. Yet, there was nothing whatsoever of the vulgar in Nadia. The French women had more brilliance; they sought effect, sometimes found it, often missed it. Nadia had not the slightest pretension; she was a simple person (as far as Naudin understood her) and natural, who did not imagine that she could be any different, nor that there would be any advantage for her in appearing different from what she was. The French women were perhaps more amusing, but one grew tired in the long run of the amusement they provided, whereas there was in Nadia a secret charm that Alexandre Naudin would have had great difficulty analyzing, but whose continuous attraction he felt little by little, day by day.

Sometimes he said to himself that he knew nothing about his mistress. This ignorance had something pleasant about it, no doubt, but also something a little irritating.

He noted with surprise that she did not lack a certain degree of culture. She had done her schooling in a gymnasium. On the other hand, she was well-bred. To anyone who knew nothing about her, she could have passed for a young woman of the world.

« Why, in the world, did she take up prostitution? » wondered Alexandre Naudin, who had rather uncomplicated ideas.

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It was a subject that was not easy to broach with her. She found ways to evade her friend’s overly curious questions, and the easiest of all was not to answer. He only learned that she was nineteen years old and that she had arrived from Omsk to Tiflis on the very day before he met her. This news pleased Alexandre Naudin, who, deep down, had the ideas of a landowner and did not like to think that Nadia had been in the arms of the viceroy’s notary or of the handsome cavalry colonel.

« In Omsk, » he said, « did you have a friend like me? »

« Yes, » she replied.

« What did he do for a living? »

« He was an officer. »

« Why did you leave him? »

A shrug of the shoulders was the only answer. Naudin concluded that Nadia perhaps knew nothing about it. He continued his questioning.

« Are there houses in Omsk like the one by the water here? »

« Undoubtedly. »

“Are they as well-established as the one in Tiflis?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve never been there?” said Alexandre Naudin with an air of doubt.

She shook her head negatively.

“So you were faithful to your lover,” he concluded with rigorous logic.

She did not reply.

A few days later, Naudin returned to this topic. After much thought, he had prepared a trap to ensnare his friend.

“Ah!” he said, “I’ve learned something about your officer from Omsk. He drank.”

“Who told you that?” asked Nadia.

“I know it, that’s all,” concluded Alexandre Naudin, delighted with the success of his ruse. “Deep down, he was a real drunkard.

”

Nadia looked at him maliciously.

“And why wouldn’t he drink, if he enjoyed it?”

Alexandre Naudin was taken aback by this question. He launched into some unconvincing explanations, and Nadia remained firm. But our young lieutenant thus gained the conviction that Nadia could not bear life with a rude man who drank and, no doubt, mistreated her. That was why she had left Omsk. He once made this ingenious demonstration to her, not without a certain naiveté.

Nadia did not argue, but when he had finished, she said in a tone of quiet certainty:

“The French understand nothing.”

And that put an end to the debate. Besides, Naudin’s curiosity was satisfied and the question resolved.

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On another day, or rather another night, for it was at night that they spoke, he asked her:

“Do you love me?” —And this at a moment when these words could seem vain, so certain was he of the answer that the circumstances themselves imposed.

“No,” she said softly.

Our lieutenant could not believe his ears, and seeing this as a jest from his mistress, he burst out laughing.

He was convinced that Nadia was deeply attached to him and that she would suffer on the day, alas! all too soon, when he would be forced to leave her; for, after all, how could a young girl who had chosen this not very glamorous profession and had not managed to make her fortune not love an elegant, rich, handsome, young man who had admitted her to the honor of his intimacy? Perhaps she did not realize all the advantages such a relationship offered her? Besides, he had never lived with a mistress. He arranged to make her understand this. She accepted the news without fuss.

However, September was here and the time to return to France was approaching.

It was then that, one day, Alexandre Naudin had an idea which he immediately shared with his friend. Why not return via Constantinople, and why wouldn’t she accompany him there? They would take a boat from Batum, spend about a week on the shores of the Bosphorus, and from there return, she to Russia, he to France.

Nadia offered no opposition to this plan, and Alexandre Naudin, who had thought to make some impression by revealing such a magnificent plan and who was preparing to enjoy his mistress’s surprise, noticed that she accepted it without any more enthusiasm than if he had suggested an excursion to the outskirts of Tiflis.

He felt a little disappointed. But it was not in his nature to worry for long, and he soon returned to his usual good mood.

They began their preparations for departure and applied for the necessary visas for Turkey. They had only a week left to spend in Tiflis.

It was then, to his great surprise, that Nadia began to go out alone. She had not, to the letter, left his side for an hour since they had been living together.

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One morning, Naudin was running some errands in the center of the city. He had only a short time earlier left his mistress asleep in their room. What was his astonishment when he thought he saw her enter the central post office, past which he was passing? His first impulse was to follow her, then he hesitated and finally decided to join her. It was indeed her, busy writing a telegram at a table.

He approached her; she finished her message without hurrying and took it to the counter.

They went out together, and Naudin waited for her to explain what urgent news had torn her from her bed and led her to the telegraph so early in the day. But Nadia did not seem to understand that it was necessary to satisfy her lover’s curiosity, and she said nothing. This silence made an impression on the young lieutenant, who concluded that there was obviously nothing to say about such a simple matter.

That day, Nadia showed some tenderness toward him. As is well known, he was not accustomed to it, and he was charmed by this change.

He attributed the merit to himself and rejoiced in his triumph. “I have finally managed to thaw her out,” he said to himself.

But what Naudin felt was not a mere satisfaction of vanity. He had a sensitive heart, and he suddenly realized that this heart had, without his knowing it, become involved in a matter to which he was not invited. This realization was the starting point of a series of reflections that led him with extreme rapidity to a point he had never thought he would reach. He wondered why he would part from Nadia, when nothing would have been easier than to take her to France. Soon he saw only the good sides of this absurd plan. She would be a mistress who would bring him honor among his comrades. Her charm, her youth, that certain something that was uniquely hers would surely captivate his friends in the regiment. She would cost him little; she was simplicity itself. And besides, he had grown accustomed to Nadia and could no longer do without her.

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Naudin thought only when speaking, and he made these reflections out loud while they were having lunch. Nadia raised no objection. Naudin was not surprised, for who would be foolish enough to refuse such an invitation?

Our lovers were at this point when, two days before their departure, Nadia asked him if he could give her one hundred and fifty rubles.

She could have asked him for one hundred and fifty thousand, and Alexandre Naudin would not have been more surprised.

“You want money?” he said. “But what is going on?”

In a united tone, Nadia replied with the infallible art women possess of changing the subject and choosing one where they are sure of winning.

“Does that bother you? Tell me frankly, I’ll arrange to find it elsewhere.”

“But no, it doesn’t bother me at all,” said Alexandre Naudin proudly, unable to bear the thought that she might believe him stingy.

It was, indeed, a rather delicate matter. He knew that Nadia held the view, widespread in Russia, that the French are stingy with their money, while for the Russians the question of money hardly exists. Needless to say, Naudin had nothing to reproach himself for on this point. He had barely read a tacit disapproval in his mistress’s eyes when a dispute arose between him and a coachman over the price of a carriage. For Alexandre Naudin, as for all our compatriots, thank God, a franc was a franc. He spent his income, but wisely. In short, his mistress had so far cost him only her living expenses, and if she had not received any money, it was because she had refused to accept it. He therefore understood that the first time she asked him for money, he could not hesitate a second to give it to her, and, in the Russian manner, without explanation.

He therefore took out his wallet and handed Nadia a handsome banknote bearing the effigy of Catherine the Great and two small twenty-five-rouble notes.

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That same evening, they had their friend, Captain Poutilof, over for a farewell dinner. They went in the regimental automobile to Fantaisie, where Alexandre Naudin’s relationship with Nadia had begun. But Poutilof, who was tactful, did not bring a woman, for the Naudin household, by virtue of its long duration, had acquired something of the respectability of a legitimate union. Likewise, he avoided speaking French to the lieutenant in front of Nadia and had the pleasure of congratulating him on the progress he had made in the Russian language.

The evening was still warm. Yet a cooler wind caressed the branches of the trees around the pavilion; the slender crescent of the moon shone amidst the sparkling stars, and the ardent melodies of the zourna were the only thing disturbing the peace of the night. There was such a gentle sweetness in the air that our three guests were not insensible to it, and Alexandre Naudin began to search his memory for verses capable of expressing his emotion. Finally, to his great surprise, he found four Latin words he had not thought of since high school: Per amica silentia lunæ!

An excellent dinner and wines loaded with alcohol soon dispelled the slight awkwardness that the extreme beauty of the moment had created.

At dessert, Captain Poutilof stood up and drank to the health of his hosts.

“My dear Alexandre Edouardovitch,” he said, “I drink as an officer to the defeat that the French army, represented by one of its most eminent members, has suffered on Russian soil. It took only a woman from my country to defeat him. Nadia, I now drink to your victory and to the continuation of your successes. Our excellent friend is taking you to France, where you will show his compatriots what a true daughter of Russian blood is. Hurrah!”

With that, the captain drained his glass in one gulp, then smashed it, which did not prevent him from having another brought and continuing his libations.

Alexandre Naudin was overjoyed; Nadia herself, who normally hardly ever drank, had had a few glasses of wine. Ivan Ilyich Poutilof kissed them both before getting into the automobile to return to Tiflis.

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That night, when they were alone in the hotel, Nadia’s mood changed abruptly. She became sad, lay down on the sofa, and buried her head in her hands. At first, Alexandre Edouardovitch paid no attention to it. He undressed, whistling as best he could—which is not saying much—a Caucasian tune that he loved madly. When he lay down, he noticed that Nadia had not moved. He called out to her. She did not answer. He was forced to get up to go and find her. Even then, she resisted.

“I am tired,” she said, “I want to sleep on the sofa.”

She was agitated, worried.

“Come on,” said Naudin kindly, “you’ll sleep just as well next to me. This is our penultimate night in Tiflis.”

Nadia let herself be persuaded and joined her lover in the bed.

Later, as he was finally tired and about to fall asleep, he heard Nadia’s soft voice close to his ear:

“I’m unhappy,” she said.

“Sleep,” replied Alexandre Naudin, already half-asleep and whose serenity nothing could disturb at that moment.

She continued to moan a little, then spoke to him again:

“I love you,” she said.

Alexandre Naudin heard the words that automatically entered his memory, but which, at that moment, made no impression on him, even though it was the first time Nadia had uttered them. In other circumstances, they would have filled him with joy. In the state he was in, he simply registered them without being moved.

“Sleep, little one,” he said, “until tomorrow . . .”

And he fell into a deep sleep.

The next day, in the afternoon, they packed their bags. In the evening, Naudin, who had some visits to make, went out, promising his mistress that he would come to pick her up around ten o’clock for dinner.

At the appointed time, he returned.

Nadia was not in the room. There was nothing worrying about this. He lay down in an armchair for a moment, then suddenly got up and ran to the porter.

“Has Madame gone out?” he asked.

The porter, in a low voice, replied:

“Madame went out two hours ago with her suitcase. She took a car and left for the station.”

Naudin made a great effort to show no emotion in front of the porter and went back upstairs to his room.

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Only then did he get the idea to look on the table. A sheet of paper lay there in plain view with a few words from Nadia:

“I’m being called back to Omsk. That’s where I have to live. Forgive me.”

“The devil takes Russian girls!” cried Naudin. “They’re crazy as hell! . . . An alcoholic! A brutal man! . . . She doesn’t deserve better than that . . . Luckily I don’t love her!” he bravely added.

But he still had a heavy heart and a rather strange tingling under his eyelids. Since there was no one in the room, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

Six months later, he told one of his regimental friends in Vincennes:

« My dear fellow, Russian women—you must not try to understand them. You have a mistress: she loves you, she is faithful to you; she lives near you like your shadow. And then, suddenly, without any reason, she disappears... It seems she cannot bear more than a certain dose of happiness... Yes, I saw that there... These women—you wouldn’t believe it—suddenly develop a pathological need to be unhappy. And when that takes hold of them, there’s nothing to be done; they leave everything... So, with us, it cannot last, because we do not like catastrophes... Only, still, old chap, Russian girls—there’s nothing like them in the world...»

And he started whistling, not without many wrong notes, the Caucasian tune he loved so much.

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