Varvara Pavlovna afterwards played two or three little pieces by Thalberg, and coquettishly chanted a French song.  Maria Dmitrievna did not know how to express her delight, and several times she felt inclined to send for Liza.  Gedeonovsky, too, could not find words worthy of the occasion, and could only shake his head.  Suddenly, however, and quite unexpectedly, he yawned, and only just contrived to hide his mouth with his hand.

That yawn did not escape Varvara’s notice.  She suddenly turned her back upon the piano, saying, “Assez de musique comme ca; let us talk a little,” and crossed her hands before her.

“Oui, asses de musique,” gladly repeated Panshine, and began a conversation with her—­a brisk and airy conversation, carried on in French.  “Exactly as if it were in one of the best Paris drawing-rooms,” thought Maria Dmitrievna, listening to their quick and supple talk.

Panshine felt completely happy.  He smiled, and his eyes shone.  At first, when he happened to meet Maria Dmitrievna’s eyes, he would pass his hand across his face and frown and sigh abruptly, but after a time he entirely forgot her presence, and gave himself up unreservedly to the enjoyment of a half-fashionable, half-artistic chat.

Varvara Pavlovna proved herself a great philosopher.  She had an answer ready for everything; she doubted nothing; she did not hesitate at anything.  It was evident that she had talked often and much with all kinds of clever people.  All her thoughts and feelings circled around Paris.  When Panshine made literature the subject of the conversation, it turned out that she, like him, had read nothing but French books.  George Sand irritated her; Balzac she esteemed, although he wearied her; to Eugene Sue and Scribe she ascribed a profound knowledge of the human heart; Dumas and Feval she adored.  In reality she preferred Paul de Kock to all the others; but, as may be supposed, she did not even mention his name.  To tell the truth, literature did not interest her overmuch.

Varvara Pavlovna avoided with great skill every thing that might, even remotely, allude to her position.  In all that she said, there was not even the slightest mention made of love; on the contrary, her language seemed rather to express an austere feeling with regard to the allurements of the passions, and to breathe the accents of disillusionment and resignation.

Panshine replied to her, but she refused to agree with him.  Strange to say, however, at the very time when she was uttering words which conveyed what was frequently a harsh judgment, the accents of those very words were tender and caressing, and her eyes expressed—­What those charming eyes expressed it would be hard to say, but it was something which had no harshness about it, rather a mysterious sweetness.  Panshine tried to make out their hidden meaning, tried to make his own eyes eloquent, but he was conscious that he failed.  He acknowledged that Varvara Pavlovna, in her capacity as a real lioness from abroad, stood on a higher level than he; and, therefore, he was not altogether master of himself.