It must be remembered that, after Tufáyev’s fall, the officials, seeing that his successor and I were on fairly good terms, were a little afraid of me.
I kept him off with my hand, and asked in a very serious voice: “How could you order that I was to have no horses? What an absurdity to detain travellers on the high road!”
“It was only a joke; I hope you won’t be angry about it.” Then he shouted at his messenger: “Horses! horses at once! What are you standing there for, you idiot?”
“I hope you will have a cup of tea with some rum in it,” he said to me.
“No, thank you.”
“Perhaps we have some champagne”; he rushed to the bottles, but they were all empty.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Holding an enquiry; this fine fellow took an axe and killed his father and sister. There was a quarrel and he was jealous.”
“And so you celebrate the occasion with champagne?” I said.
The man looked confused. I glanced at the murderer. He was a Cheremiss of about twenty; there was nothing savage about his face; it was of purely Oriental type with narrow flashing eyes and black hair.