The thin, hollow-cheeked Chekmár, having got everything ready, kept glancing at his master with whom he had lived on the best of terms for thirty years, and understanding the mood he was in expected a pleasant chat. A third person rode up circumspectly through the wood (it was plain that he had had a lesson) and stopped behind the count. This person was a gray-bearded old man in a woman’s cloak, with a tall peaked cap on his head. He was the buffoon, who went by a woman’s name, Nastásya Ivánovna.

“Well, Nastásya Ivánovna!” whispered the count, winking at him. “If you scare away the beast, Danílo’ll give it you!”

“I know a thing or two myself!” said Nastásya Ivánovna.

“Hush!” whispered the count and turned to Semën. “Have you seen the young countess?” he asked. “Where is she?”

“With Pyotr Ilýnich, by the Zhárov rank grass,” answered Semën, smiling. “Though she’s a lady, she’s very fond of hunting.”