"Let us see," said he, "if you will be able to keep your word; poets
have as much need of an audience as Iván Kouzmitch has need of his
'_petit verre_' before dinner. And who is this Masha to whom you declare
your tender sentiments and your ardent flame? Surely it must be Marya
Ivánofna?"

"That does not concern you," replied I, frowning; "I don't ask for your
advice nor your suppositions."

"Oh! oh! a vain poet and a discreet lover," continued Chvabrine,
irritating me more and more. "Listen to a little friendly advice: if you
wish to succeed, I advise you not to stick at songs."

"What do you mean, sir?" I exclaimed; "explain yourself if you please."

"With pleasure," rejoined he. "I mean that if you want to be well with
Masha Mironoff, you need only make her a present of a pair of earrings
instead of your languishing verses."

My blood boiled.

"Why have you such an opinion of her?" I asked him, restraining with
difficulty my indignation.

"Because," replied he, with a satanic smile, "because I know by
experience her views and habits."

"You lie, you rascal!" I shouted at him, in fury. "You are a shameless