And this was the affectionate reception of the weary statesman to his home. Perhaps others have shared his experiences—who shall say?
However, at supper they made it up again; and Daimona recounted to him the history of the field-flasks.
"Well, my dear hen"—this was his pet name for Daimona—"you know more about it than I do, whose province it is, as Intendant-General, to see to the fitting out of the army. I am on leave from court—ostensibly on account of my health. This that scoundrel Zsabakoff knew, hence he got back his present to you. He knew that I am 'very' ill just now."
"But what's the matter with you?"
"The matter is, that I am a follower of the Czar."
"Try to get cured of that ailment."
"I know that I shall soon be recalled, and very soon fall back into my old ailment."
"Bungler! If only you had kept the Czar's favor until the field-flask contract had been delivered!"
"Bah! Say no more about it. Sing me something nice. It's so long since I heard a woman's voice."
Alexis Andreovitch really meant it when he said he wanted to hear Daimona sing. Now, the screech of a peacock was a swan's song compared with Daimona's croak. Her voice was out of tune, throaty, and harsh; but if it pleased her lord, what matter? And then the words of her song, with its refrain, "Give him a taste of the knife!" In truth, an extraordinary ditty to choose; and that it should just have come into Daimona's head! Yet what so extraordinary in it, after all, for the fallen favorite's chère amie to choose a revolutionary song, when he had been dismissed from court by his imperial master, and when the matter of the flasks was not settled? Surely reason enough that he who yesterday kissed the dust from off the tyrant's feet to-day should throw it back in his face!