“You don’t say so! you have been to Poltava in such bad weather?”
“What was to be done? that lawsuit—”
At this I sighed involuntarily.
Ivan Nikiforovitch observed my sigh, and said, “Do not be troubled: I have reliable information that the case will be decided next week, and in my favour.”
I shrugged my shoulders, and went to seek news of Ivan Ivanovitch.
“Ivan Ivanovitch is here,” some one said to me, “in the choir.”
I saw a gaunt form. Was that Ivan Ivanovitch? His face was covered with wrinkles, his hair was perfectly white; but the pelisse was the same as ever. After the first greetings were over, Ivan Ivanovitch, turning to me with a joyful smile which always became his funnel-shaped face, said, “Have you been told the good news?”
“What news?” I inquired.
“My case is to be decided to-morrow without fail: the court has announced it decisively.”
I sighed more deeply than before, made haste to take my leave, for I was bound on very important business, and seated myself in my kibitka.