“You see,” the little old man broke in, “he lies to you right in your face. All the fugitives testify as one that there’s starvation and pestilence in Orenburg, that they eat carrion and are happy to have that; and his honor assures us there’s plenty of everything. If you want to hang Shvabrin, hang this fine fellow from the same gallows, so there’s no bad feelings.”
The cursed old man’s words seemed to make Pugachev hesitate. Luckily, Khlopusha began to contradict his comrade.
“Enough, Naumych,” he said to him. “With you it’s all strangling and stabbing. What kind of mighty man are you? By the look of it, you can barely keep body and soul together. You’re staring into the grave yourself, and you destroy others. Isn’t there enough blood on your conscience?”
“And what sort of saint are you?” Beloborodov retorted. “Where did you suddenly get this pity?”
“Of course,” replied Khlopusha, “I’m sinful, too, and this right arm” (here he clenched his bony fist and, pushing up his sleeve, bared his shaggy arm), “and this right arm is guilty of shedding Christian blood. But I killed my enemy, not my guest; at open crossroads and in the dark forest, not at home, sitting warm and cozy; with a bludgeon and an axe, not with womanish slander.”
The old man turned away and muttered the words: “Torn nostrils!…”
“What’s that you’re whispering, you old geezer?” cried Khlopusha. “I’ll show you torn nostrils; just wait, your time will come; God grant, you’ll get a taste of the pincers yourself…And meanwhile watch out or I’ll tear your little beard off!”
“Gentlemen yennerals!” Pugachev intoned solemnly. “Enough of your quarreling. There’s nothing wrong if all the Orenburg dogs jerk their legs under the same crossbeam; it is wrong if our own start snapping at each other. Make peace now.”
Khlopusha and Beloborodov did not say a word and looked darkly at each other. I saw it was necessary to change the conversation, which could have ended very unprofitably for me, and, turning to Pugachev, I told him with a cheerful air:
“Ah! I almost forgot to thank you for the horse and the coat. Without you I wouldn’t have made it to the town and would have frozen on the way.”
My ruse worked. Pugachev cheered up.
“One good turn deserves another,” he said, winking and narrowing his eyes. “Tell me now, what have you got to do with the girl Shvabrin’s mistreating? Not the darling of a young lad’s heart, is she?”
“She’s my bride-to-be,” I replied to Pugachev, seeing the weather change for the better and finding no need to conceal the truth.
“Your bride-to-be!” cried Pugachev. “Why didn’t you say so before? We’ll get you married and feast at your wedding!” Then, turning to Beloborodov: “Listen, Field Marshal! His honor and I are old friends; let’s sit down and have supper; morning’s wiser than evening. Tomorrow we’ll see what we’ll do with him.”
I would have been glad to decline the proposed honor, but there was no help for it. Two young Cossack women, the daughters of the cottage’s owner, covered the table with a white tablecloth, brought some bread, fish soup, and several bottles of vodka and beer, and for the second time I found myself sharing a meal with Pugachev and his frightful comrades.
The orgy of which I was an involuntary witness lasted till late in the night. Finally drunkenness began to get the better of the company. Pugachev dozed off where he sat; his comrades stood up and gave me a sign to leave him. I went out together with them. On Khlopusha’s orders, a Cossack led me to the guardhouse, where I found Savelyich and where we were locked up together. My tutor was so amazed at the sight of all that was going on that he did not ask me any questions. He lay down in the dark and sighed and groaned for a long time; finally he started snoring, and I gave myself up to reflections that did not allow me to doze off for a single moment all night.
In the morning Pugachev sent for me. I went to him. By his gate stood a kibitka hitched to a troika of Tatar horses. People crowded the street. In the entryway I ran into Pugachev: he was dressed for the road, in a fur coat and a Kirghiz hat. Yesterday’s companions surrounded him, assuming an air of obsequiousness that sharply contradicted everything I had witnessed the evening before. Pugachev greeted me cheerfully and ordered me to get into the kibitka with him.
We took our seats.
“To the Belogorsk fortress!” Pugachev said to the broad-shouldered Tatar, who drove the troika standing up. My heart beat fast. The horses started, the bell jingled, the kibitka flew off…
“Stop! Stop!” called out a voice all too familiar to me, and I saw Savelyich running towards us. Pugachev gave the order to stop. “Dearest Pyotr Andreich!” my tutor shouted. “Don’t abandon me in my old age among these rasc—”
“Ah, the old geezer!” Pugachev said to him. “So God’s brought us together again. Well, get up on the box.”
