“Such vermin usually do,” I replied calmly; “however, I wish you good-night and good luck, only be sure and be thorough next time.” As I walked away down the street I laughed a little to myself at the absurdity of my adventure, ending, as it had, in a narrow escape from a thrashing at the hands of a lackey. I felt confident that Zénaïde would soon be rid of one of her uncle’s vilest tools, for Michael would probably murder Polotsky before many days; and I reflected that a kitchen feud was not without its advantages. It was now late, and I proceeded directly to my own quarters, and found that my man had my supper waiting for me. Pierrot was an invaluable servant: devoted, accomplished, and discreet. I had obtained much useful information from this quarter, and I could always depend upon his fidelity; in fact, it was only that which kept him in Russia, for he hated it with a cordiality only equalled by his smooth appearance of complacence. It had cost me not a little trouble to have him instructed in the Russian tongue; but he amply repaid me by the usefulness that resulted from his acquirement: without it he could have been of little service, for it was almost impossible to find a humble Russian who understood French, or any language but his own. In that day accomplishments were not frequent, and few Russians spoke French: Prince Basil Galitsyn, who was in advance of his class, resorting to Latin in his intercourse with foreigners. I was tired, and my appetite had been sharpened by a continued fast, so I sat down to my supper in a very good humor. Pierrot waited upon me with silent dexterity, and then, retiring to a little distance, stood watching me with folded arms, and an air which I was not slow to interpret: he had news, and longed to impart it. “Well, Pierrot,” I said at last, “were you in the Grand Square to-day?” “Yes, M. le Vicomte,” he replied eagerly; “and was it not a stirring sight?” “Very,” I answered dryly; “and what is the feeling among the people, Pierrot? Are they pleased with the election?” Pierrot shook his head with the air of a sage. “The people have not much to do with it after all,” he said gravely. “The rabble have not the intelligence of our peasantry.” This was a heavy judgment, for Pierrot, as an old retainer, looked down upon the peasantry as the scum of the earth. “It is the soldiers here,” he went on, evidently glad to speak his mind; “they have the upper hand. I can’t understand this Streltsi.” I laughed. “Few of us can, I suspect, Pierrot,” I said; “the Streltsi, or archers, were established by Ivan the Terrible, as a kind of national guard. Their duties descend from father to son, and they have ever been a privileged class.” “They are ill to guide, monsieur,” Pierrot remarked sagely, as he handed me the wine. “And what do they think?” I inquired, not a little amused but also curious.