After dinner she drives to the Pergola Theater. As she descends the
stairs in her black velvet dress with its large collar of ermine and
with a diadem of white roses on her hair, she is literally stunning.
I open the carriage-door, and help her in. In front of the theater
I leap from the driver’s seat, and in alighting she leaned on my arm,
which trembled under the sweet burden. I open the door of her box,
and then wait in the vestibule. The performance lasts four hours; she
receives visits from her cavaliers, the while I grit my teeth with
rage.
It is way beyond midnight when my mistress‘s bell sounds for the
last time.
“Fire!” she orders abruptly, and when the fire-place crackles, “Tea!”
When I return with the samovar, she has already undressed, and with
the aid of the negress slipped into a white negligee.
Haydee thereupon leaves.
“Hand me the sleeping-furs,” says Wanda, sleepily stretching her
lovely limbs. I take them from the arm-chair, and hold them while she
slowly and lazily slides into the sleeves. She then throws herself
down on the cushions of the ottoman.
“Take off my shoes, and put on my velvet slippers.”
I kneel down and tug at the little shoe which resists my efforts.
“Hurry, hurry!” Wanda exclaims, “you are hurting me! just you wait–I
will teach you.” She strikes me with the whip, but now the shoe is
off.
“Now get out!” Still a kick–and then I can go to bed.
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