“My master has no grievances,” he blurted out, evidently sore pressed for an evasion. “I am but a fool to speak of my own.”
“Your master strikes me as one who might have many,” I replied coolly; then, taking pity on a confusion that I understood without seeing it: “You have nothing to fear,” I said reassuringly; “I am not a friend of the boyar’s, though I did come out of his gate,” and I laughed a little, silently, at the thought of my strange exit.
“Your excellency is wise,” the fellow exclaimed earnestly; “no man is safe in such friendship.”
“Like master like man, you think, then, my good Michael,” I said lightly. “It is certain that I shall remember your fists for a while, and I venture to predict that Polotsky will presently have enough of them.”
“I beg your pardon a thousand times, my lord,” stammered the man, evidently divided between a desire to establish himself in my good graces, and to escape my inquiries.
“You have it freely,” I said laughing, “since I escaped with a whole crown; next time be sure of your adversary, and then be thorough in your castigation; but take my advice and fight by day, in the open, like a man.”
“It is rare for me to get the chance,” Michael protested; “he is a sneak, and hides himself away in secure places.”
“Such vermin usually do,” I replied calmly; “however, I wish you good-night and good luck, only be sure and be thorough next time.”
As I walked away down the street I laughed a little to myself at the absurdity of my adventure, ending, as it had, in a narrow escape from a thrashing at the hands of a lackey. I felt confident that Zénaïde would soon be rid of one of her uncle’s vilest tools, for Michael would probably murder Polotsky before many days; and I reflected that a kitchen feud was not without its advantages.
It was now late, and I proceeded directly to my own quarters, and found that my man had my supper waiting for me. Pierrot was an invaluable servant: devoted, accomplished, and discreet. I had obtained much useful information from this quarter, and I could always depend upon his fidelity; in fact, it was only that which kept him in Russia, for he hated it with a cordiality only equalled by his smooth appearance of complacence. It had cost me not a little trouble to have him instructed in the Russian tongue; but he amply repaid me by the usefulness that resulted from his acquirement: without it he could have been of little service, for it was almost impossible to find a humble Russian who understood French, or any language but his own. In that day accomplishments were not frequent, and few Russians spoke French: Prince Basil Galitsyn, who was in advance of his class, resorting to Latin in his intercourse with foreigners.