My favourite little dog, Michot, sprang from the foot of grandmother’s dress, and began pawing me and ticking my face. We came up to grandmother and kissed her plump yellow hand. She put it under my chin, and began to caress me with her bent fingers. In spite of her perfumes, I felt that unpleasant odour about her. She continued talking to the Balafre. “Is he not a fine fellow?” she said, pointing to me. “You haven’t seen him before, have you, Count?”

“They are both fine fellows,” the Count replied, kissing our hands in turn.

“All right, all right!” she said to the maid, who was arranging a cap on her head. It was dear Marie Stepanovna, powdered and painted, who was always kind to me.

Lanskoy came up with an open snuffbox. Grandmother took some snuff, and smiled as she caught sight of Matriona Denisovna, her jester, who was just coming in.⁠ ⁠…

(Here the papers break off.)