“We all know where you must be off to!” said Mrs. Epanchin, in a meaning voice.
“Yes, yes—I must hurry away, I’m late! Look here, dears, let him write you something in your albums; you’ve no idea what a wonderful caligraphist he is, wonderful talent! He has just written out ‘Abbot Pafnúte signed this’ for me. Well, au revoir!”
“Stop a minute; where are you off to? Who is this abbot?” cried Mrs. Epanchin to her retreating husband in a tone of excited annoyance.
“Yes, my dear, it was an old abbot of that name—I must be off to see the count, he’s waiting for me, I’m late—Goodbye! Au revoir, prince!”—and the general bolted at full speed.
“Oh, yes—I know what count you’re going to see!” remarked his wife in a cutting manner, as she turned her angry eyes on the prince. “Now then, what’s all this about?—What abbot—Who’s Pafnúte?” she added, brusquely.
“Mamma!” said Alexandra, shocked at her rudeness.
Aglaya stamped her foot.
“Nonsense! Let me alone!” said the angry mother. “Now then, prince, sit down here, no, nearer, come nearer the light! I want to have a good look at you. So, now then, who is this abbot?”
“Abbot Pafnúte,” said our friend, seriously and with deference.
“Pafnúte, yes. And who was he?”
Mrs. Epanchin put these questions hastily and brusquely, and when the prince answered she nodded her head sagely at each word he said.