“I’ll stand, Fëdor Iványch.”

“Sit down; nonsense! Have a drink!” said Anatole, and filled a large glass of Madeira for him.

The driver’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the wine. After refusing it for manners’ sake, he drank it and wiped his mouth with a red silk handkerchief he took out of his cap.

“And when are we to start, your excellency?”

“Well⁠ ⁠…” Anatole looked at his watch. “We’ll start at once. Mind, Balagá! You’ll get there in time? Eh?”

“That depends on our luck in starting, else why shouldn’t we be there in time?” replied Balagá. “Didn’t we get you to Tver in seven hours? I think you remember that, your excellency?”