CHAPTER XI.
We will now ask the permission of the reader to explain the last incidents of our story, by referring to the circumstances that preceded them, and which we have not yet had time to relate.
At the station of ——, at the house of the postmaster, of whom we have already spoken, sat a traveller in a corner, looking very modest and resigned, and having the appearance of a plebeian or a foreigner, that is to say, of a man having no voice in connection with the post route. His britchka[1] stood in the courtyard, waiting for the wheels to be greased. Within it lay a small portmanteau, evidence of a very modest fortune. The traveller ordered neither tea nor coffee, but sat looking out of the window and whistling, to the great annoyance of the postmistress sitting behind the partition.
“The Lord has sent us a whistler,” said she, in a low voice. “How he does whistle! I wish he would burst, the accursed pagan!”
“What does it matter?” said her husband. “Let him whistle!”
“What does it matter?” retorted his angry spouse; “don’t you know the saying?”
“What saying? That whistling drives money away? Oh, Pakhomovna, whether he whistles or not, we shall get precious little money out of him.”
“Then let him go, Sidoritch. What pleasure have you in keeping him here? Give him the horses, and let him go to the devil.”
“He can wait, Pakhomovna. I have only three troikas in the stable, the fourth is resting. Besides, travellers of more importance may arrive at any moment, and I don’t wish to risk my neck for a Frenchman.... Hallo! there you are! Don’t you hear the sound of galloping! What a rate! Can it be a general?”
A caliche stopped in front of the steps. The servant jumped down from the box, opened the door, and a moment afterwards a young man in a military cloak and white cap entered the station. Behind him followed his servant, carrying a small box which he placed upon the window-ledge.