"Why, whatever hope can you have?" said Betsy, offended on behalf
of her friend. "_Enendons nous...._" But in her eyes there were
gleams of light that betrayed that she understood perfectly and
precisely as he did what hope he might have.
"None whatever," said Vronsky, laughing and showing his even rows
of teeth. "Excuse me," he added, taking an opera glass out of
her hand, and proceeding to scrutinize, over her bare shoulder,
the row of boxes facing them. "I'm afraid I'm becoming
ridiculous."
He was very well aware that he ran no risk of being ridiculous in
the eyes of Betsy or any other fashionable people. He was very
well aware that in their eyes the position of an unsuccessful
lover of a girl, or of any woman free to marry, might be
ridiculous. But the position of a man pursuing a married woman,
and, regardless of everything, staking his life on drawing her
into adultery, has something fine and grand about it, and can
never be ridiculous; and so it was with a proud and gay smile
under his mustaches that he lowered the opera glass and looked at
his cousin.
"But why was it you didn't come to dinner?" she said, admiring
him.
"I must tell you about that. I was busily employed, and doing
what, do you suppose? I'll give you a hundred guesses, a
thousand...you'd never guess. I've been reconciling a husband
with a man who'd insulted his wife. Yes, really!"
"Well, did you succeed?"
"Almost."
"You really must tell me about it," she said, getting up. "Come
to me in the next _entr'acte._"
"I can't; I'm going to the French theater."
"From Nilsson?" Betsy queried in horror, though she could not
herself have distinguished Nilsson's voice from any chorus
girl's.
"Can't help it. I've an appointment there, all to do with my
mission of peace."
"Blessed are the peacemakers; theirs is the kingdom of heaven,'"
said Betsy, vaguely recollecting she had heard some similar
saying from someone. "Very well, then, sit down, and tell me
what it's all about."
And she sat down again.