“My word of honour,” replied the Frenchman. “But my papers? What shall I do without them?”
“In the first town you come to, announce that you have been robbed by Doubrovsky. They will believe you, and give you fresh papers. Farewell: God grant you a safe and speedy return to Paris, and may you find your mother in good health.”
Doubrovsky left the room, mounted the caliche, and galloped off.
The postmaster stood looking out of the window, and when the caliche had driven off, he turned to his wife, exclaiming:
“Pakhomovna, do you know who that was? That was Doubrovsky!”
The postmistress rushed towards the window, but it was too late. Doubrovsky was already a long way off. Then she began to scold her husband.
“You have no fear of God. Why did you not tell me sooner, I should at least have had a glimpse of Doubrovsky. But now I shall have to wait long enough before I get a chance of seeing him again. Shameless creature that you are!”
The Frenchman stood as if petrified. The agreement with the officer, the money—everything seemed like a dream to him. But the bundle of bank notes was there in his pocket, eloquently confirming the reality of the wonderful adventure.
He resolved to hire horses to take him to the next town. The postilion drove him very slowly, and he reached the town at nightfall.
On approaching the barrier, where, in place of a sentinel, stood a dilapidated sentry-box, the Frenchman told the postilion to stop, got out of the britchka and proceeded on foot, explaining by signs to the driver that he might keep the vehicle and the portmanteau and buy brandy with them. The driver was as much astonished at his generosity as the Frenchman himself had been by Doubrovsky’s proposal. But concluding that the “German”[2] had taken leave of his senses, the driver thanked him with a very profound bow, and not caring about entering the town, he made his way to a house of entertainment that was well known to him, and the proprietor of which was a friend of his. There he passed the whole night, and the next morning he started back on his return journey with the troika, without the britchka and without the portmanteau, but with a swollen face and red eyes.