But the Frenchman did not reply, and soon began to snore.
“He is snoring, the French brute,” thought Anton Pafnoutitch, “while I can’t even think of going to sleep. Thieves might walk in at any moment through the open doors or climb in through the window, and the firing of a cannon would not wake him, the beast!”
“Mossoo! mossoo!—the devil take you!”
Anton Pafnoutitch became silent. Fatigue and the effects of wine gradually overcame his fear. He began to doze, and soon fell into a deep sleep. A strange sensation aroused him. He felt in his sleep that someone was gently pulling him by the collar of his shirt. Anton Pafnoutitch opened his eyes and, by the pale light of an autumn morning, he saw Desforges standing before him. In one hand the Frenchman held a pocket pistol, and with the other he was unfastening the strings of the precious leather pouch. Anton Pafnoutitch felt faint.
“Qu’est ce que c’est, Mossoo, qu’est ce que c’est?” said he, in a trembling voice.
“Hush! Silence!” replied the tutor in pure Russian.
“Silence! or you are lost. I am Doubrovsky.”
[1] The Russians put double frames to their windows in winter.