"Of course," said Dumnoff, carelessly. "Schmidt was saying to me only
yesterday that you were going to have a worse attack of it than usual
because you were so silent."
"Vjera, too!" repeated the Count in a low voice. "And no one ever told
me--" He passed his hand over his eyes.
"Tell me"--Dumnoff began in the tone of jocular familiarity which he
considered confidential--"tell me--the whole thing is just a joke of yours
to amuse us all, is it not? You do not really believe that you are a
count, any more than I really believe that you are mad, you know. You do
not act like a madman, except when you let the police catch you and lock
you up for the night, instead of running away like a sensible man."
The Count's face grew bright again all at once. In the present state of
his hopes no form of doubt seemed able to take a permanent hold of him.
"No, I am not mad," he said. "But on the other hand, Dumnoff, it is my
conviction that you are exceedingly drunk. No other hypothesis can account
for your very singular remarks about me."
"Oh, I am drunk, am I?" laughed the peasant. "It is very likely, and in
that case I had better go to sleep. Good-night, and do not forget that you
are to take me with you to Russia."
"I will not forget," said the Count.
Dumnoff stretched his heavy limbs on the wooden pallet, rolled his great
head once or twice from side to side until his fur-like hair made
something like a cushion and then, in the course of three minutes, fell
fast asleep.
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