“Is she now in Petersburg, my good fellow?”
“I believe she is—but why do wish to know?”
“Merely asked—that’s all.”
“Now, Macshanovich,”—for such was the familiar way in which Dimitri addressed his supposed brother-servant—“I suspect this Princess Czartorinski is some way connected with your master’s coming here. Tell me the truth—is such the case? I’m sure it is.”
“Then you know more than I do,” replied McShane, correcting himself, “for I’m not exactly in my master’s secrets; all that I do know is, that my master met her in England, and I thought her very handsome.”
“And so did he?”
“That’s as may be; between ourselves, I’ve an idea he was a little smitten in that quarter; but that’s only my own opinion, nothing more.”
“Has he ever spoken about her since you were here?” said Dimitri.
“Just once, as I handed his waistcoat to him; he said—‘I wonder if all the ladies are as handsome as that Polish princess that we met in Cumberland?’”
“If I thought he wished it, or cared for her, I would make inquiry, and soon find out all about her; but otherwise, it’s no use taking the trouble,” replied the courier.