“Where was that？ At Bykov’s？ At the rat’s？ … I knew it,” said a thin voice, and thereupon there walked into the room Lieutenant Telyanin, a little officer in the same squadron.
Rostov put the purse under the pillow, and shook the damp little hand that was offered him. Telyanin had for some reason been transferred from the guards just before the regiment set out. He had behaved very well in the regiment, but he was not liked, and Rostov, in particular, could not endure him, and could not conceal his groundless aversion for this officer.
“Well, young cavalryman, how is my Rook doing for you？” （Rook was a riding-horse Telyanin had sold to Rostov.） The lieutenant never looked the person he was speaking to in the face. His eyes were continually flitting from one object to another. “I saw you riding today …”
“Oh, he’s all right; a good horse,” answered Rostov, though the horse, for which he had paid seven hundred roubles, was not worth half that sum. “He’s begun to go a little lame in the left foreleg …” he added.
“The hoof cracked！ That’s no matter. I’ll teach you, I’ll show you the sort of thing to put on it.”
“Yes, please do,” said Rostov.
“I’ll show you, I’ll show you, it’s not a secret. But you’ll be grateful to me for that horse.”
“Then I’ll have the horse brought round,” said Rostov, anxious to be rid of Telyanin. He went out to order the horse to be brought round.
In the outer room Denisov was squatting on the threshold with a pipe, facing the sergeant, who was giving him some report. On seeing Rostov, Denisov screwed up his eyes, and pointing over his shoulder with his thumb to the room where Telyanin was sitting, he frowned and shook his head with an air of loathing.
“Ugh！ I don’t like the fellow,” he said, regardless of the presence of the sergeant.
Rostov shrugged his shoulders as though to say, “Nor do I, but what’s one to do？” And having given his order, he went back to Telyanin.
The latter was still sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostov had left him, rubbing his little white hands.
“What nasty faces there are in this world！” thought Rostov as he went into the room.
“Well, have you given orders for the horse to be fetched out？” said Telyanin, getting up and looking carelessly about him.
“Yes.”
“Well, you come along yourself. I only came round to ask Denisov about yesterday’s order. Have you got it, Denisov？”
“Not yet. But where are you off to？”
“I’m going to show this young man here how to shoe a horse,” said Telyanin.
They went out down the steps and into the stable. The lieutenant showed how to put on the remedy, and went away to his own quarters.
When Rostov went back there was a bottle of vodka and some sausage on the table. Denisov was sitting at the table, and his pen was squeaking over the paper. He looked gloomily into Rostov’s face.
“I am writing to her,” he said. He leaned his elbow on the table with the pen in his hand, and obviously rejoiced at the possibility of saying by word of mouth all he meant to write, he told the contents of his letter to Rostov. “You see, my dear boy,” he said, “we are plunged in slumber, we are the children of dust and ashes, until we love … but love, and you are a god, you are pure, as on the first day of creation.… Who’s that now？ Send him to the devil！ I’ve no time！” he shouted to Lavrushka, who, not in the slightest daunted, went up to him.
“Why, who should it be？ You told him to come yourself. The sergeant has come for the money.”
Denisov frowned, seemed about to shout some reply, but did not speak.
“It’s a nuisance,” he said to himself. “How much money was there left there in the purse？” he asked Rostov.
“Seven new and three old gold pieces.”
“Oh, it’s a nuisance！ Well, why are you standing there, you mummy？ Send the sergeant！” Denisov shouted to Lavrushka.
“Please, Denisov, take the money from me; I’ve plenty,” said Rostov, blushing.
“I don’t like borrowing from my own friends; I dislike it,” grumbled Denisov.
“But if you won’t take money from me like a comrade, you’ll offend me. I’ve really got it,” repeated Rostov.
“Oh, no.” And Denisov went to the bed to take the purse from under the pillow.
“Where did you put it, Rostov？”
“Under the lower pillow.”
“But it’s not there.” Denisov threw both the pillows on the floor. There was no purse. “Well, that’s a queer thing.”
“Wait a bit, haven’t you dropped it？” said Rostov, picking the pillows up one at a time and shaking them. He took off the quilt and shook it. The purse was not there.
“Could I have forgotten？ No, for I thought that you keep it like a secret treasure under your head,” said Rostov. “I laid the purse here. Where is it？” He turned to Lavrushka.
“I never came into the room. Where you put it, there it must be.”
“But it isn’t.”
“You’re always like that; you throw things down anywhere and forget them. Look in your pockets.”
“No, if I hadn’t thought of its being a secret treasure,” said Rostov, “but I remember where I put it.”
Lavrushka ransacked the whole bed, glanced under it and under the table, ransacked the whole room and stood still in the middle of the room. Denisov watched Lavrushka’s movements in silence, and when Lavrushka flung up his hands in amazement to signify that it was nowhere, he looked round at Rostov.
“Rostov, none of your schoolboy jokes.”
Rostov, feeling Denisov’s eyes upon him, lifted his eyes and instantly dropped them again. All his blood, which felt as though it had been locked up somewhere below his throat, rushed to his face and eyes. He could hardly draw his breath.
“And there’s been no one in the room but the lieutenant and yourselves. It must be here somewhere,” said Lavrushka.
