"What, wear a mark of distinction behind! Who ever heard of such a thing?"
Mr. Eskimov arrived punctually to dinner. There were only three at table—the Starosta, the clergyman, and the Governor—and they very pleasantly drank a few glasses of Tokai together. When the pipes were produced, by way of winding up the repast, the Governor observed—
"Well, my good sir, we can now talk together about a very serious business. I didn't want to put you out in any way during the meal. I want to speak to you about your poor son."
"Oh, that won't put me out in the least; though I don't know why you should call him poor. I, for one, don't consider my son's fate at all a sorry one."
"Come, now, that's very noble of you to be so content with the Tsar's exalted measures, and not consider your son's fate so terrible, especially as I may at once give you the assurance that his fate has now come to an end; the Tsar has just issued a general amnesty for the leaders of the rebellion of 1824."
Moskowski shrugged his shoulders. "My son held no leading part in that rebellion."
"Come, come, my dear Starosta, don't tell me that. I am acquainted with all the details of the process. I know exactly what part Casimir took in it. I took a lot of trouble to get the capital sentence commuted to lifelong transportation to Siberia."
"My son in Siberia?"
"Yes. The Tsar's clemency delivered him from it not so very long ago."
"My friend, that little drop of Tokai has got into your head. You shouldn't play with your glass; take bigger gulps, and cure yourself that way. My son was never in Siberia."