“That’s it—speak to them, father,” shouted the crowd: “put the accursed wretches to shame!”
Vladimir, approached the officials. Shabashkin, with his cap on his head, stood with his arms akimbo, looking proudly around him. The sheriff, a tall stout man, of about fifty years of age, with a red face and a moustache, seeing Doubrovsky approach, cleared his throat and called out in a hoarse voice:
“And therefore I repeat to you what I have already said: by the decision of the district Court, you now belong to Kirila Petrovitch Troekouroff, who is here represented by M. Shabashkin. Obey him in everything that he orders you; and you, women, love and honour him, as he loves you.”
At this witty joke the sheriff began to laugh. Shabashkin and the other officials followed his example. Vladimir boiled over with indignation.
“Allow me to ask, what does all this mean?” he inquired, with pretended calmness, of the jocular sheriff.
“It means,” replied the witty official, “that we have come to place Kirila Petrovitch Troekouroff in possession of this property, and to request certain others to take themselves off for good and all!”
“But I think that you could have communicated all this to me first, rather than to my peasants, and announced to the landholder the decision of the authorities——”
“The former landowner, Andrei Gavrilovitch, is dead according to the will of God; but who are you?” said Shabashkin, with an insolent look. “We do not know you, and we don’t want to know you.”
“Your Honour, that is our young master,” said a voice in the crowd.
“Who dared to open his mouth?” said the sheriff, in a terrible tone. “That your master? Your master is Kirila Petrovitch Troekouroff.... do you hear, idiots?”