“French dresses, French ideas, French feelings! There now, you turned Métivier out by the scruff of his neck because he is a Frenchman and a scoundrel, but our ladies crawl after him on their knees. I went to a party last night, and there out of five ladies three were Roman Catholics and had the Pope’s indulgence for doing woolwork on Sundays. And they themselves sit there nearly naked, like the signboards at our Public Baths if I may say so. Ah, when one looks at our young people, Prince, one would like to take Peter the Great’s old cudgel out of the museum and belabor them in the Russian way till all the nonsense jumps out of them.”

All were silent. The old prince looked at Rostopchín with a smile and wagged his head approvingly.

“Well, goodbye, your excellency, keep well!” said Rostopchín, getting up with characteristic briskness and holding out his hand to the prince.

“Goodbye, my dear fellow.⁠ ⁠… His words are music, I never tire of hearing him!” said the old prince, keeping hold of the hand and offering his cheek to be kissed.