"The money?" he said, excitedly. "The fifty marks? You have got it?"
She sat down at the table, and began to count the gold and silver,
producing it from her pocket in instalments of four or five coins, and
making little heaps of them before him.
"It is all there--every penny of it," she said, counting the piles again.
The poor man's eyes seemed starting from his head, as he leaned eagerly
forward over the money.
"Is it real? Is it true?" he asked in a low voice. "Oh, Vjera, do not
laugh at me--is it really true, child?"
"Really true--fifty marks." Her pale face beamed with pleasure. "And now
you can go and pay Fischelowitz at once," she added.
But he leaned back a moment in his chair, looking at her intently. Then
his eyes grew moist, and, when he spoke, his voice quivered.
"May God forgive me for taking it of you," he said. "You have saved me,
Vjera--saved my honour, my life--all. God bless you, dear, God bless you!
I am very, very thankful."
He put the coins carefully together and wrapped them in his silk
handkerchief, and rose from his seat. He had already paid for his cup of
coffee. They went out together. The Cossack had disappeared.
"You have saved my life and my honour--my honour and my life," repeated
the Count, softly and dwelling on the words in a dreamy way.
"I will wait outside," said Vjera as they reached the tobacconist's shop,
a few seconds later.
The Count turned to her and laid both hands upon her shoulders, looking
into her face.
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