“To the next town,” the Frenchman replied, “and from there I’ll make my way to a certain landowner who has hired me as a tutor sight unseen. I had hoped to get there today, but it seems Mister Stationmaster has judged otherwise. It is difficult to find horses in these parts, Mister Officer.”
“And with which of the local landowners have you found employment?” asked the officer.
“With Mr. Troekurov,” replied the Frenchman.
“Troekurov? Who is this Troekurov?”
“
“Good heavens! And you’d venture to be employed by such a monster?”
“What can I do, Mister Officer? He offers me a good salary, three thousand roubles a year and everything provided. Maybe I’ll be luckier than the others. I have an old mother, I’ll send half the salary for her upkeep, and with the rest of the money I can lay aside a small capital in five years, enough to secure my future independence—and then,
“Does anyone at Troekurov’s know you?” he asked.
“No one,” replied the tutor. “He invited me from Moscow through one of his friends, whose chef, my compatriot, recommended me. You should know that I was trained to be a pastry chef, not a tutor, but I was told that in your country the title of tutor is much more advantageous…”
The officer pondered.
“Listen,” he interrupted the Frenchman, “what if, instead of this future, you were offered ten thousand in ready cash, with the provision that you go back to Paris at once?”
The Frenchman looked at the officer in amazement, smiled, and shook his head.
“The horses are ready,” said the stationmaster, coming in. The servant confirmed it.
“Right away,” said the officer. “Step out for a moment.” The stationmaster and the servant left. “I’m not joking,” he went on in French. “I can give you ten thousand. All I need is your absence and your papers.” With those words he unlocked the box and took out several wads of banknotes.
The Frenchman goggled his eyes. He did not know what to think.
“My absence…my papers,” he repeated in amazement. “Here are my papers…But you’re joking: what do you need my papers for?”
“That’s not your business. I’m asking, do you agree or not?”
The Frenchman, still refusing to believe his ears, handed his papers to the young officer, who quickly looked through them.
“Your passport…good. A letter of introduction, let’s see. Birth certificate, excellent. Well, here’s your money, go back home. Good-bye…”
The Frenchman stood as if rooted to the spot.
The officer came back.
“I almost forgot the most important thing. Give me your word of honor that all this will remain just between us—your word of honor.”
“On my word of honor,” said the Frenchman. “But my papers, what am I to do without them?”
“At the first town you come to, declare that you were robbed by Dubrovsky. They’ll believe you and give you the necessary papers. Good-bye, and God grant you get to Paris quickly and find your mother in good health.”
Dubrovsky left the room, got into the carriage, and galloped off.
The stationmaster was looking out the window, and when the carriage had driven off, he turned to his wife and exclaimed: “Do you know what, Pakhomovna? That was Dubrovsky!”
His wife rushed headlong to the window, but it was too late: Dubrovsky was already far away. She started scolding her husband:
“Have you no fear of God, Sidorych? Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I could at least have caught a glimpse of Dubrovsky, but now just sit and wait till he comes this way again! Shame on you, really, shame on you!”
The Frenchman stood as if rooted to the spot. The arrangement with the officer, the money—it all seemed like a dream to him. But the wads of banknotes were there in his pocket and eloquently confirmed the reality of the astonishing incident.
He decided to hire horses for town. The coachman drove at a walk and it was night by the time they dragged their way to town.
