Dom. (elevating his eyebrows and stopping suddenly). California? The great gold country? Where they dig gold out of the ground?
M. Yes—that’s my country.
Dom. (admiringly). Oh, then, Monsieur is a gentleman of fortune, just traveling for pleasure?
M. Precisely; for pleasure and information combined. My estates are situated in the city of Oakland.
Dom. Is that a large city?
M. Well, it covers a good deal of ground—as much, I think, as Moscow.
Dom. If Monsieur pleases, we will take a drosky and visit some of the gardens?
M. Agreed.
And so ended the conversation. It was marvelous, the change it produced in Dominico; how his dignity evaporated; how vivacious he became; how frank and unreserved he was in his descriptions of the wonders of Moscow; how he scorned to take trifles of change, and how magnificently he disregarded expenses. Wherever we went, however grand the domestics, soldiers, or police, Dominico was always high above them, and I could hear him descanting constantly on the wonderful richness of California. Doubtless the strain of his conversation ran about thus: “Behold, gentlemen, I have brought before you a living Californian! Notwithstanding the shabbiness of his hat, and the strange and uncivilized aspect of his clothes, he is the richest man in that land of gold! Yes, gentlemen, his income can scarcely fall short of ten millions of rubles per annum. Make way, if you please!”
All things considered, Dominico let me off pretty well at the close of our acquaintance, upon my explaining to him that a draft for five hundred thousand rubles which ought to be on the way had failed to reach me, owing doubtless to some irregularity in the mail service, or some sudden depression in my Washoe stocks.