“Description of Vladimir Dubrovsky, based on the testimony of his former household serfs.
“Twenty-three years old. Height: medium; complexion: clear; beard: shaved; eyes: brown; hair: light brown; nose: straight. Distinguishing marks: none found.”
“And that’s all?” asked Kirila Petrovich.
“That’s all,” replied the police chief, folding the document.
“Congratulations, Mister Police Chief. What a document! With that description it’ll be easy for you to track down Dubrovsky. Who isn’t of medium height, who doesn’t have light brown hair, a straight nose, and brown eyes! I’ll bet you could talk to Dubrovsky himself for three hours straight and not guess whom God has brought you together with. Brainy officials, to say the least!”
The police chief meekly put the document back in his pocket and quietly started on the goose and cabbage. Meanwhile the servants had already gone around several times filling each guest’s glass. Several bottles of Gorsky and Tsimliansky wine had been loudly uncorked and graciously received under the name of champagne, faces began to glow, conversations grew more noisy, incoherent, and merry.
“No,” Kirila Petrovich continued, “we won’t see another police chief like the late Taras Alexeevich! He was no foozler, no slouch. A pity the fine lad got burned up, otherwise not a single one of that whole band would escape him. He’d catch every one of them, and Dubrovsky himself wouldn’t give him the slip or buy his way out. Taras Alexeevich would take his money and not let the man go: that was the late man’s way. Nothing to be done, it looks like I’ll have to intervene in the matter and go against the robbers with my own people. I’ll send some twenty men to begin with, so they can clear the thieves’ woods; they’re not cowardly folk, each of them goes up against a bear single-handed, they won’t back away from robbers.”
“How’s your bear, my dear Kirila Petrovich?” asked Anton Pafnutych, reminded by those words of his shaggy acquaintance and certain jokes he had once been the victim of.
“Misha13 has bid us farewell,” Kirila Petrovich replied. “He died a glorious death at the hands of the enemy. There’s his vanquisher.” Kirila Petrovich pointed to Desforges. “Venerate the holy image of my Frenchman. He avenged your…if I may put it so…Remember?”
“How could I not?” Anton Pafnutych said, scratching himself. “I remember very well. So Misha’s dead. What a pity, by God, what a pity! He was so amusing! So clever! There’s no other bear like him. Why did moosieu kill him?”
With great pleasure, Kirila Petrovich began to tell the story of his Frenchman’s exploit, for he had a lucky capacity for glorying in all that surrounded him. The guests listened attentively to the tale of Misha’s death and glanced with amazement at Desforges, who, not suspecting that the conversation was about his courage, calmly sat in his place and made moral observations to his frisky charge.
The dinner, which had gone on for about three hours, came to an end; the host placed his napkin on the table; everyone stood up and went to the drawing room, where coffee, cards, and the continuation of the drinking so nicely begun in the dining room awaited them.
CHAPTER TEN
Around seven o’clock in the evening some of the guests wanted to leave, but the host, made merry by the punch, ordered the gates locked and announced that no one would go until the next morning. Soon music rang out, the doors to the reception room were opened, and a ball began. The host and his entourage sat in a corner, drinking glass after glass and admiring the young people’s gaiety. The old ladies played cards. Since there were fewer cavaliers than ladies, as everywhere where no uhlan brigade is quartered, all the men capable of dancing were recruited. The tutor distinguished himself among them all, he danced more than any of them, the young ladies all chose him and found him quite adept at waltzing. He made several turns with Marya Kirilovna, and the young ladies took mocking notice of them. Finally, around midnight, the tired host stopped the dancing, ordered supper served, and took himself off to bed.
Kirila Petrovich’s absence gave the company more freedom and animation. The cavaliers ventured to sit beside the ladies. The girls laughed and exchanged whispers with their neighbors; the ladies conversed loudly across the table. The men drank, argued, and guffawed—in short, the supper was extremely merry and left many pleasant memories behind it.
Only one person did not share in the general mirth: Anton Pafnutych sat gloomy and silent in his place, ate distractedly, and seemed extremely uneasy. The talk about robbers had stirred his imagination. We shall soon see that he had sufficient reason to fear them.
Anton Pafnutych, in calling upon God to witness that his red cashbox was empty, had not lied and had not sinned: the red cashbox was indeed empty; the money once kept in it had been transferred to a leather pouch, which he wore on his breast under his shirt. Only by this precaution had he calmed his mistrust of everyone and his eternal fear. Being forced to spend the night in a strange house, he was afraid lest they put him in a solitary room, where thieves might easily break in, and looking around for a trustworthy companion, he finally chose Desforges. His appearance betokened strength, and, more than that, the courage he had shown in the encounter with the bear, whom poor Anton Pafnutych could not recall without a shudder, determined his choice. When they got up from the table, Anton Pafnutych began circling around the young Frenchman, grunting and coughing, and finally addressed him with an explanation.
“Ahem, ahem, moosieu, might I not spend the night in your little nook, because kindly see…”
“Que désire monsieur?”*1 asked Desforges, bowing courteously to him.
“Too bad you still haven’t learned Russian, moosieu. Zhe veuh, mooah, shay voo kooshay,*2 do you understand?”
“Monsieur, très volontiers,” replied Desforges. “Veuillez donner des ordres en conséquence.”*3
Anton Pafnutych, very pleased with his knowledge of French, went at once to make the arrangements.
The guests started saying good night to each other, and each went to the room assigned to him. Anton Pafnutych went off to the wing with the tutor. The night was dark. Desforges lit the way with a lantern, Anton Pafnutych followed him quite cheerfully, every now and then pressing the secret pouch to his breast to make sure the money was still there.
They came to the wing, the tutor lit a candle, and they both started to undress; at the same time, Anton Pafnutych strolled around the room, examining the locks and windows and shaking his head at the inauspicious inspection. The door had only one latch, the windows did not yet have double frames. He tried to complain about it to Desforges, but his knowledge of French was too limited for such a complicated explanation; the Frenchman did not understand him, and Anton Pafnutych was forced to abandon his complaints. Their beds stood opposite each other, they both lay down, and the tutor snuffed out the candle.
“Poorkwa voo snuffay, poorkwa voo snuffay,”*4 cried Anton Pafnutych, barely managing to conjugate the verb “to snuff” in the French way. “I can’t dormir*5 in the dark.”
Desforges did not understand his exclamations and wished him good night.
“Cursed heathen,” Spitsyn grumbled, wrapping himself in the blanket. “As if he needed to snuff out the candle. The worse for him. I can’t sleep without a light. Moosieu, moosieu,” he went on, “zhe veuh avek voo parlay.”*6 But the Frenchman did not reply and soon began to snore.
“The beastly Frenchman’s snoring away,” Anton Pafnutych thought, “and I can’t even conceive of sleeping. At any moment thieves might come in the open door or climb through the window, and him, the beast, even gunshots won’t wake him up.”