inish
his last phrase.

Maciek's speech did not suit the taste of the Chamberlain, and the young
men began to murmur; the Judge interrupted the wrangling, by announcing
the arrival of the third betrothed couple.

It was the Notary; he announced himself as the Notary, but nobody
recognised him. He had hitherto worn the Polish costume, but now his
future wife, Telimena, had forced him by a clause in the marriage articles
to renounce the kontusz;221 so the Notary willy-nilly had assumed French
garb. The dress coat had evidently deprived him of half his soul; he
strode along as if he had swallowed a walking-stick, stiffly and straight
forward; like a crane, he dared not look to the right or the left. His
expression was composed, and yet from his expression one could see that he
was in torture; he did not know how to bow or where to put his hands, he,
who was so fond of gestures! He tucked his hands into his belt--there was
no belt--he only stroked himself self on the stomach; he noticed his
mistake, was greatly confused, turned red as a lobster, and hid both his
hands in the same pocket of his dress coat. He advanced as if running the
gauntlet, amid whispers and banter, feeling as ashamed of his dress coat
as of a dishonourable deed; at last he met the eyes of Maciek, and
trembled with fright.

Maciej had hitherto lived on very friendly terms with the Notary; but now
he turned on him so sharp and furious a glance that the Notary grew pale
and began to button his coat, thinking that Maciej would tear it off him
with his glance. Dobrzynski merely repeated twice over in a loud voice,
"Idiot!" and was so fearfully disgusted with the Notary's change of garb
that he at once rose from the table; slipping out without saying good-bye,
he mounted his horse and returned to the hamlet.

But meanwhile the Notary's fair sweetheart, Telimena, was spreading abroad
the gleams of her beauty and of her toilet, from top to toe of the very
latest style. What manner of gown she wore, and what her coiffure was
like, it were vain to write, for the pen could never express it; only the
pencil could portray those tulles, muslins, laces, cashmeres, pearls and
precious stones--and her rosy cheeks and lively glances!

The Count at once recognised her, and, pale with astonishment, rose from
the table and looked about him for his sword.

"And is it thou!" he cried, "or do my eyes deceive me? Thou? In my
presence? Dost clasp another's hand? O faithle