“Not the higher nobility, Colonel,—not the people of rank,” objected Mrs. Ricketts.
“There are none such, madam. I have lived in intimacy with them all, from Alexander downwards. You may dress them how you please, but the Cossack is in the blood. Raw beef and red breeches are more than instincts with them; and, except the Poles, they are the dirtiest nation of Europe.”
“What you say of Polen?” asked Petrolaffsky.
“That if oil could smooth down the acrimony of politics, you ought to be a happy people yet, sir.”
“And we are a great people dis minet. Haven't we Urednfrskioctsch, de best general in de world; and Krakouventkay, de greatest poet; and Vladoritski, de most distinguish pianist?”
“Keep them, sir, with all their consonants; and Heaven give you luck with them,” said Haggerstone, turning away.
“On Tuesday—no, We-Wednesday next, they are to set out for St. P-P-Petersburg. And when the Emperor's leave is gr-granted, then Midchekoff is to follow; but not before.”
“An de tyrant no grant de leave,” said the Pole, gnashing his teeth and grasping an imaginary dagger in his wrath. “More like he send her to work in shains, wid my beautiful sisters and my faders.”
“He'll have more important matters to think of soon, sir,” said Haggerstone, authoritatively. “Europe is on the eve of a great convulsion. Some kings and kaisers will accept the Chiltern Hundreds before the year's out.”
“Shall we be safe, Colonel, here? Ought Martha and I—”