“I say, my man!” the staff-captain asked him: “Whose is that marvellous carriage?—Eh?—A beautiful carriage!”
Without turning round the manservant growled something to himself as he undid a portmanteau. Maksim Maksimych grew angry.
“I am speaking to you, my friend!” he said, touching the uncivil fellow on the shoulder.
“Whose carriage?—My master’s.”
“And who is your master?”
“Pechorin—”
“What did you say? What? Pechorin?—Great Heavens!... Did he not serve in the Caucasus?” exclaimed Maksim Maksimych, plucking me by the sleeve. His eyes were sparkling with joy.
“Yes, he served there, I think—but I have not been with him long.”
“Well! Just so!... Just so!... Grigori Aleksandrovich?... that is his name, of course? Your master and I were friends,” he added, giving the manservant a friendly clap on the shoulder with such force as to cause him to stagger.
“Excuse me, sir, you are hindering me,” said the latter, frowning.