Her other thoughts ran: "The police sold it for eight thousand. That's what he's done with his patrimony. To sell one's patrimony for eight thousand rubles!"
"Who told you?" she asked, realizing finally that the house had been sold and the chance to secure it cheaply was gone forever.
"Ivan Mikhailov, the inn-keeper."
"Why didn't he let me know in time?"
"I suppose he was afraid."
"Afraid? I'll teach him to be afraid. I'll make him come here from Moscow, and the moment he comes I'll have him drafted into the army. He was afraid!"
Although on the decline, serfdom still existed. Anton Vasilyev had known his mistress to impose the most peculiar punishments, but, even so, her present decision was so unexpected that it made him miserable. He thought of his nickname Telltale. Ivan Mikhailov was an upright peasant, and Anton never dreamed that misfortune would touch him. Besides, Ivan Mikhailov was his friend and godfather. Now, all of a sudden, he was to be made a soldier just because he, Anton Vasilyev, the Telltale, could not hold his tongue.
"Forgive him—Ivan Mikhailov, I mean," he pleaded.
"Go away, you mollycoddler," she shouted in a voice so loud that he lost all desire to intercede any further for his friend.