My reflections were broken by the arrival of a Cossack, who came running
to tell me that the great Tzar summoned me to his presence.
"Where is he?" I asked, hastening to obey.
"In the Commandant's house," replied the Cossack. "After dinner our
father went to the bath; now he is resting. Ah, sir! you can see he is a
person of importance--he deigned at dinner to eat two roast
sucking-pigs; and then he went into the upper part of the vapour-bath,
where it was so hot that Tarass Kurotchkin himself could not stand it;
he passed the broom to Bikbaieff, and only recovered by dint of cold
water. You must agree; his manners are very majestic, and in the bath,
they say, he showed his marks of Tzar--on one of his breasts a
double-headed eagle as large as a petak,[58] and on the other his own
face."
I did not think it worth while to contradict the Cossack, and I followed
him into the Commandant's house, trying to imagine beforehand my
interview with Pugatchef, and to guess how it would end.
The reader will easily believe me when I say that I did not feel wholly
reassured.
It was getting dark when I reached the house of the Commandant.
The gallows, with its victims, stood out black and terrible; the body of
the Commandant's poor wife still lay beneath the porch, close by two
Cossacks, who were on guard.
He who had brought me went in to announce my arrival. He came back
almost directly, and ushered me into the room where, the previous
evening, I had bidden good-bye to Marya Ivanofna.
I saw a strange scene before me. At a table covered with a cloth and
laden with bottles and glasses was seated Pugatchef, surrounded by ten
Cossack chiefs, in high caps and coloured shirts, heated by wine, with
flushed faces and sparkling eyes. I did not see among them the new
confederates lately sworn in, the traitor Chvabrine and the
"ouriadnik."
"Ah, ah! so it is you, your lordship," said Pugatchef, upon seeing me.
"You are welcome. All honour to you, and a place at our feast."
The guests made room. I sat down in silence at the end of the table.
My neighbour, a tall and slender young Cossack, with a handsome face,
poured me out a bumper of brandy, which I did not touch. I was busy
noting the company.
Pugatchef was seated in the place of honour, his elbows on the table,
and resting his black beard on his broad fist. His features, regular and
agreeable, wore no fierce expression. He often addressed a man of about
fifty years old, calling him sometimes Count, sometimes Timofeitsh,
sometimes Uncle.
Each man considered himself as good as his fellow, and none showed any
particular deference to their chief. They were talking of the morning's
assault, of the success of the revolt, and of their forthcoming
operations.