“Well! this,” continued the prince. “In somebody’s private rooms, Stephan Ivanovitch Sheshkovski was hurriedly called, and the following orders were given:--‘Batiushka, go immediately, this very minute, to the masquerade, find out the _Generalsha_ Kojin. Having found her, carry her off to the secret department, and having given her a slight taste of corporal punishment, as a small token of remembrance, bring back the aforesaid little lady, with all honour, and deliver her safely over to the masquerade.” “And Sheshkovski?” “Well! he took the little lady, whipped her soundly, and brought her back, with all honour, to the masquerade, and she, that no one should get a hint of this curious little incident, said nothing, and very wisely and assiduously went through all the dances to which she had been invited--every one to the last--minuet, _cotillon_, and all.” Orloff understood well the bitter allusion, and never mentioned Docifé again. Neither did the count find any pleasure in his conversations with his intendant, Terentitch Cabanoff, who sometimes used to come from Krenova to Niaskouchnavo. Terentitch was a serf, but knew how to read and write. He was always dressed in the latest fashion, with a pearl-grey _kaftan_[43] and waistcoat, shoes with huge steel buckles, ruffles, and a black silk purse[44] to his powdered pigtail. The count would pour out for him a goblet of rich foreign wine, saying, “Taste that, old fellow.… It’s not wine I’ve poured out, it’s a man’s life, … elixir.” Terentitch would refuse. “No! No nonsense, old man!” would press the count. “Don’t forget the proverb, ‘Enjoy life while it lasts.’ Be merry, in that alone lies happiness. Unfortunately, not for all.” “Too true, Batiushka Count!” would answer Cabanoff, drinking off the goblet. “We, well! we are but serfs; … but you, ought you to sigh, ought you not to enjoy sweet life in your own lovely, beautiful manors? The sites are so dry, so gay, the sloping fields are so fruitful; springs of water, forests, groves, everywhere. The serfs so industrious, so hardy, no beggars, thanks to you, our benefactor. We have noticed long ago, sir, that you are always very sad, and have heard something now and then which makes us all very anxious.” “Doubt and suspicion, my dear fellow, will constantly exist,” answered the count. “Last autumn, you yourself wrote to me, when I was in foreign parts, praising the coming crops, and how did they turn out? to be of no account at all? No, the proverb says, ‘Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched!’” “Yes, it’s the truth you’re saying,” answered Terentitch, sighing. “And in all other things,” continued the count. “I go about a great deal, and many come to me, and, would you believe it? I know nothing of what I used to know before. Phylia was high in favour, every one sought his patronage, but now, …” the count was silent and thoughtful.