“His majesty drew his attention to the grenadier division and the parade march,” pursued the general; “and it seems the ambassador took no notice and had the insolence to say ‘We in France,’ says he, ‘don’t pay attention to such trivial matters.’ The emperor did not vouchsafe him a reply. At the review that followed the emperor, they say, did not once deign to address him.”
Every one was silent; upon this fact which related to the Tsar personally, no criticism could be offered.
“Impudent rogues！” said the old prince. “Do you know Metivier？ I turned him out of the house to-day. He was here, he was allowed to come in, in spite of my begging no one should be admitted,” said the old prince, glancing angrily at his daughter. And he told them his whole conversation with the French doctor and his reasons for believing Metivier to be a spy. Though his reasons were very insufficient and obscure, no one raised an objection.
After the meat, champagne was handed round. The guests rose from their places to congratulate the old prince. Princess Marya too went up to him. He glanced at her with a cold, spiteful glance, and offered her his shaven, wrinkled cheek. The whole expression of his face told her that their morning’s conversation was not forgotten, that his resolution still held good, and that it was only owing to the presence of their visitors that he did not tell her so now.
When they went into the drawing-room to coffee, the old men sat together.
Prince Nikolay Andreitch grew more animated, and began to express his views on the impending war. He said that our wars with Bonaparte would be unsuccessful so long as we sought alliances with the Germans and went meddling in European affairs, into which we had been drawn by the Peace of Tilsit. We had no business to fight for Austria or against Austria. Our political interests all lay in the East, and as regards Bonaparte, the one thing was an armed force on the frontier, and a firm policy, and he would never again dare to cross the Russian frontier, as he had done in 1807.
“And how should we, prince, fight against the French！” said Count Rastoptchin. “Can we arm ourselves against our teachers and divinities？ Look at our young men, look at our ladies. Our gods are the French, and Paris—our Paradise.”
He began talking more loudly, obviously with the intention of being heard by every one.
“Our fashions are French, our ideas are French, our feelings are French！ You have sent Metivier about his business because he’s a Frenchman and a scoundrel, but our ladies are crawling on their hands and knees after him. Yesterday I was at an evening party, and out of five ladies three were Catholics and had a papal indulgence for embroidering on Sundays. And they sitting all but naked, like the sign-boards of some public bath-house, if you’ll excuse my saying 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 break a few ribs in the good old Russian style, to knock the nonsense out of them！”
All were silent. The old prince looked at Rastoptchin with a smile on his face and shook his head approvingly.
“Well, good-bye, your excellency; don’t you be ill,” said Rastoptchin, getting up with the brisk movements characteristic of him, and holding out his hand to the old prince.
“Good-bye, my dear fellow. Your talk is a music I’m always glad to listen to！” said the old prince, keeping hold of his hand and offering him his cheek for a kiss. The others, too, got up when Rastoptchin did.