A Cigarette-Makers Romance | Page 6

the Count.

"Do you call that a life for a Christian man?" asked Schmidt again,
looking at him and waving towards him the lighted cigarette he held.
"Is that a life for a gentleman, for a real Count, for a noble, for an
educated aristocrat, for a man born to be the heir of millions?"
"Thirty," said the Count. "No, it is not. But there is no reason why you
should remind us of the fact, that I know of. It is bad enough to be
obliged to do the thing, without being made to talk about it. Not that it
matters to me so much to-day as it did a year ago, as you may imagine.
Thirty-one. It will soon be over for me, at least. In fact I only finish
these two thousand out of kindness to Fischelowitz, because I know he
has a large order to deliver on the day after to-morrow. And, besides, a
gentleman must keep his word even--thirty-two--in the matter of
making cigarettes for other people. But the work on this batch shall be
a parting gift of my goodwill to Fischelowitz, who is an honest fellow
and has understood my painful situation all along. To-morrow at this
time, I shall be far away. Thirty-three."
The Count drew a long breath of relief in the anticipation of his release
from captivity and hard labour. Vjera dropped her glass tube and her
little pieces of paper and looked sadly at him, while he was speaking.
"By the by," observed the Cossack, "to-day is Tuesday. I had quite
forgotten. So you really leave us to-morrow."
"Yes. It is all settled at last, and I have had letters. It is to-morrow--and
this is my last hundred."
"At what time?" inquired Dumnoff, with a rough laugh. "Is it to be in
the morning or in the afternoon?"
"I do not know," answered the Count, quietly and with an air of
conviction. "It will certainly be before night."
"Provided you get the news in time to ask us to the feast," jeered the
other, "we shall all be as happy as you yourself."
"Thirty-four," said the Count, who had rolled the last cigarette very

slowly and thoughtfully.
Vjera cast an imploring look on Dumnoff, as though beseeching him
not to continue his jesting. The rough man, who might have sat for the
type of the Russian mujik, noticed the glance and was silent.
"Who is incredulous enough to disbelieve this time?" asked the
Cossack, gravely. "Besides, the Count says that he has had letters, so it
is certain, at last."
"Love-letters, he means," giggled the insignificant girl, who rejoiced in
the name of Anna Schmigjelskova. Then she looked at Vjera as though
afraid of her displeasure.
But Vjera took no notice of the silly speech and sat idle for some
minutes, gazing at the Count with an expression in which love,
admiration and pity were very oddly mingled. Pale and ill as she looked,
there was a ray of light and a movement of life in her face during those
few moments. Then she took again her glass tube and her bits of paper
and resumed her task of making shells, with a little heave of her thin
chest that betrayed the suppression of a sigh.
The Count finished his second thousand, and arranged the last hundreds
neatly with the others, laying them in little heaps and patting the ends
with his fingers so that they should present an absolutely symmetrical
appearance. Dumnoff plodded on, in his peculiar way, doing the work
well and then carelessly tossing it into a basket by his side. He was
capable of working fourteen hours at a stretch when there was a
prospect of cabbage soup and liquor in the evening. The Cossack
cleaned his cutting-block and his broad swivel knife and emptied the
cut tobacco into a clean tin box. It was clear that the day's work was
almost at an end for all present. At that moment Fischelowitz entered
with jaunty step and smiling face, jingling a quantity of loose silver in
his hand. He is a little man, rotund and cheerful, quiet of speech and
sunny in manner, with a brown beard and waving dark hair, arranged in
the manner dear to barbers' apprentices. He has very soft brown eyes, a
healthy complexion and a nose the inverse of aquiline, for it curves
upwards to its sharp point, as though perpetually snuffing after the

pleasant fragrance of his favourite "Dubec otborny."
"Well, my children," he said, with a slight stammer that somehow lent
an additional kindliness to his tone, "what has the day's work been?
You first, Herr Graf," he added, turning to the Count. "I suppose that
you have made a thousand at least?"
Fischelowitz possessed in abundance the tact which was