“Well, hold your tongue, blockhead! Here’s a rouble for you; get down and close the door,” said the Count. But as the coachman did not move he lifted the steps himself and, lowering the window, managed somehow to close the door. Inside the carriage, as in all old carriages, especially in those trimmed with yellow galloon, there was a musty smell, something like the smell of rotten and burnt bristles. The Count’s legs were wet with snow up to the knees and felt very cold in his thin boots and riding-breeches; in fact, the winter cold penetrated his whole body. The coachman grumbled on the box, and seemed to be preparing to get down. But the Count neither heard nor felt anything. His face burnt, his heart beat fast. In his nervous tension he seized the yellow window strap and leant out of the side window, and all his being merged into one feeling of expectation.

This feeling of expectation did not long continue. Someone called from the porch, “Záytsef’s carriage!” The coachman shook the reins, the body of the carriage swayed on its high springs, the lighted windows of the house ran one by one past the carriage windows.