“Did you say,” Boris Andraevitch continued, still turned towards the footman with his nose screwed up, “that the business was an urgent one?”
“The gentleman said so, sir.”
“H’m.... No doubt some beggar or intriguer.”
“Or both,” Kollomietzev chimed in.
“Very likely. Ask him into my study.” Boris Andraevitch got up. “Pardon, ma bonne. Have a game of écarté till I come back, unless you would like to wait for me. I won’t be long.”
“Nous causerons.... Allez!” Kollomietzev said.
When Sipiagin entered his study and caught sight of Paklin’s poor, feeble little figure meekly leaning up against the door between the wall and the fireplace, he was seized by that truly ministerial sensation of haughty compassion and fastidious condescension so characteristic of the St. Petersburg bureaucrat. “Heavens! What a miserable little wretch!” he thought; “and lame too, I believe!”
“Sit down, please,” he said aloud, making use of some of his most benevolent baritone notes and throwing back his head, sat down before his guest did. “You are no doubt tired from the journey. Sit down, please, and tell me about this important matter that has brought you so late.”
“Your excellency,” Paklin began, cautiously dropping into an arm-chair, “I have taken the liberty of coming to you—”
“Just a minute, please,” Sipiagin interrupted him, “I think I’ve seen you before. I never forget faces. But er ... er ... really ... where have I seen you?”