Once he brought with him a book entitled the history of Manon LESCAUT and the chevalier de Grieux, the work of Abbe Prevost.  It must be said that Soloviev himself was reading this remarkable book for the first time.  But still, Liubka appraised it far more deeply and finely.  The absence of a plot, the naiveness of the telling, the surplus of sentimentality, the olden fashion of the style—­all this taken together cooled Soloviev; whereas Liubka received the joyous, sad, touching and flippant details of this quaint immortal novel not only through her ears, but as though with her eyes and with all her naively open heart.

“‘Our intention of espousal was forgotten at St. Denis,’” Soloviev was reading, bending his tousled, golden-haired head, illuminated by the shade of the lamp, low over the book; “’we transgressed against the laws of the church and, without thinking of it, became espoused.’”

“What are they at?  Of their own will, that is?  Without a priest?  Just so?” asked Liubka in uneasiness, tearing herself away from her artificial flowers.

“Of course.  And what of it?  Free love, and that’s all there is to it.  Like you and Lichonin, now.”

“Oh, me!  That’s an entirely different matter.  You know yourself where he took me from.  But she’s an innocent and genteel young lady.  That’s a low-down thing for him to do.  And, believe me, Soloviev, he’s sure to leave her later.  Ah, the poor girl.  Well, well, well, read on.”

But already after several pages all the sympathies and commiserations of Liubka went over to the side of the deceived chevalier.

“’However, the visits and departures by thefts of M. de B. threw me into confusion.  I also recollected the little purchases of Manon, which exceeded our means.  All this smacked of the generosity of a new lover.  “But no, no,” I repeated, “it is impossible that Manon should deceive me!  She is aware, that I live only for her, she is exceedingly well aware that I adore her."’”

“Ah, the little fool, the little fool!” exclaimed Liubka.  “Why, can’t you see right off that she’s being kept by this rich man.  Ah, trash that she is!”

And the further the novel unfolded, the more passionate and lively an interest did Liubka take in it.  She had nothing against Manon’s fleecing her subsequent patrons with the help of her lover and her brother, while de Grieux occupied himself with sharping at the club; but her every new betrayal brought Liubka into a rage, while the sufferings of the gallant chevalier evoked her tears.  Once she asked: 

“Soloviev, dearie, who was he—­this author?”

“He was a certain French priest.”

“He wasn’t a Russian?”

“No, a Frenchman, I’m telling you.  See, he’s got everything so—­ the towns are French and the people have French names.”

“Then he was a priest, you say?  Where did he know all this from, then?”