Gounsovski had seen them come with a sinister chuckle
and had lavished upon them his marks of devotion.
He loved Annouchka. It would have sufficed to have surprised just
once the jealous glance he sent from beneath his great blue glasses
when he gazed at the singer to have understood the sentiments that
actuated him in the presence of the beautiful daughter of the Black
Land.
Annouchka was seated, or, rather, she lounged, Oriental fashion,
on the sofa which ran along the wall behind the table. She paid
attention to no one. Her attitude was forbidding, even hostile.
She indifferently allowed her marvelous black hair that fell in two
tresses over her shoulder to be caressed by the perfumed hands of
the beautiful Onoto, who had heard her this evening for the first
time and had thrown herself with enthusiasm into her arms after the
last number. Onoto was an artist too, and the pique she felt at
first over Annouchka's success could not last after the emotion
aroused by the evening prayer before the hut. "Come to supper,"
Annouchka had said to her.
"With whom?" inquired the Spanish artist.
"With Gounsovski."
"Never."
"Do come. You will help me pay my debt and perhaps he will be
useful to you as well.
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