But he himself appeared in our workshop. He kicked at the door, it flew open, and, keeping it open, he stood on the threshold, smiled, and said to us: "God be with you! I greet you, my children!" The frosty air, rushing through the door in thick smoky clouds, whirled round his feet, and there he stood on the threshold looking down upon us from his eminence, and from beneath his blonde, skilfully twisted moustaches gleamed his strong yellow teeth. His vest really was something quite out of the common--it was blue, embroidered with flowers, and had a sort of sparkle all over it, and its buttons were made of pretty little pearls. And the gold chain _was_ there.... He was handsome, that soldier was, quite tall, robust, with ruddy cheeks, and his large bright eyes looked good and friendly and clear. On his head was a white stiffly starched cap, and from beneath his clean spotless spats appeared the bright tops of his modish brilliantly polished boots. Our baker asked him, respectfully, to shut the door. He did so, quite deliberately, and began asking us questions about our master. We outdid each other in telling him that our master was a blood-sucker, a slave-driver, a malefactor, and a tormentor; everything in short that we could and felt bound to say about our master, but it is impossible to write it down here. The soldier listened, twirled his moustache, and regarded us with a gentle, radiant look. "And I suppose now you've a lot of little wenches about here?" he suddenly said. Some of us laughed respectfully, others made languishing grimaces; one of us made it quite clear to the soldier that there _were_ wenches here--a round dozen of them. "Do you amuse yourselves?" asked the soldier, blinking his eyes. Again we laughed, not very loudly, and with some confusion of face.... Many of us would have liked to show the soldier that they were as dashing fellows as himself, but none dared to do so; no, not one. One of us indeed hinted as much by murmuring: "Situated as we are...." "Yes, of course, it would be hard for you!" observed the soldier confidentially, continuing to stare at us. "You ought to be--well, not what you are. You're down on your luck--there's a way of holding one's self--there's the look of the thing--you know what I mean! And women you know like a man with style about him. He must be a fine figure of a man--everything neat and natty you know. And then, too, a woman respects strength. Now what do you think of that for an arm, eh?" The soldier drew his right arm from his pocket, with the shirt-sleeve stripped back, bare to the elbow, and showed it to us It was a strong, white arm, bristling with shiny, gold-like hair. "Legs and breast the same--plenty of grit there, eh? And then, too, a man must be stylishly dressed, and must have nice things. Now look at me--all the women love me! I neither call to them nor wink at them--they come falling on my neck by the dozen."