see, we do not know ourselves how long we are going to stay here, I and my wife—” and Peter Ivánovich, who had the weakness of seeing a neighbour in every man, began to expound his plans and affairs to him.
M. Chevalier did not share that view of people and was not interested in the information communicated to him by Peter Ivánovich, but the good French which Peter Ivánovich spoke (the French language, as is known, is something like rank in Russia) and his lordly manner somewhat raised the landlord’s opinion about the newcomers.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
This question did not embarrass Peter Ivánovich. He expressed his desire to have rooms, tea, a samovar, supper, dinner, food for the servants, in short, all those things for which hotels exist, and when M. Chevalier, marvelling at the innocence of the old man, who apparently imagined that he was in the Trukhmén steppe, or supposed that all these things would be given him without pay, informed him that he could have all those things, Peter Ivánovich was in ecstasy.