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ANATOLE went out of the room, and a few minutes later he came back wearing a
fur pelisse, girt with a silver belt, and a sable cap, jauntily stuck on one
side, and very becoming to his handsome face. Looking at himself in the
looking-glass, and then standing before Dolohov in the same attitude he had
taken before the looking-glass, he took a glass of wine.
“Well, Fedya, farewell; thanks for everything, and farewell,” said Anatole.
“Come, comrades, friends …”—he grew pensive—“of my youth … farewell,” he turned
to Makarin and the others.
Although they were all going with him, Anatole evidently wanted to make a
touching and solemn ceremony of this address to his comrades. He spoke in a
loud, deliberate voice, squaring his chest and swinging one leg.
“All take glasses; you too, Balaga. Well, lads, friends of my youth, we have
had jolly sprees together. Eh? Now, when shall we meet again? I'm going abroad!
We've had a good time, and farewell, lads. Here's to our health! Hurrah! …” he
said, tossing off his glass, and flinging it on the floor.
“To your health!” said Balaga. He, too, emptied his glass and wiped his lips
with his handkerchief.
Makarin embraced Anatole with tears in his eyes.
“Ah, prince, how it grieves my heart to part from you,” he said.
“Start! start!” shouted Anatole.
Balaga was going out of the room.
“No; stay,” said Anatole. “Shut the door; we must sit down. Like this.” They
shut the door and all sat down.
“Well, now, quick, march, lads!” said Anatole, getting up.
The valet, Joseph, gave Anatole his knapsack and sword, and they all went out
into the vestibule.
“But where's a fur cloak?” said Dolohov. “Hey, Ignatka! Run in to Matryona
Matveyevna, and ask her for the sable cloak. I've heard what elopements are
like,” said Dolohov, winking. “She'll come skipping out more dead than alive
just in the things she had on indoors; the slightest delay and then there are
tears, and dear papa and dear mamma, and she's frozen in a minute and for going
back again—you wrap her up in a cloak at once and carry her to the
sledge.”
The valet brought a woman's fox-lined pelisse.
“Fool, I told you the sable. Hey, Matryoshka, the sable,” he shouted, so that
his voice rang out through the rooms.
A handsome, thin, and pale gypsy woman, with shining black eyes and curly
black hair, with a bluish shade in it, ran out, wearing a red shawl and holding
a sable cloak on her arm.
“Here, I don't grudge it; take it,” she said, in visible fear of her lord and
regretful at losing the cloak.
Dolohov, making her no answer, took the cloak, flung it about Matryosha, and
wrapped her up in it.
“That's the way,” said Dolohov. “And then this is the way,” he said and he
turned the collar up round her head, leaving it only a little open before the
face. “And then this is the way, do you see?” and he moved Anatole's head
forward to meet the open space left by the collar, from which Matryosha's
flashing smile peeped out.
“Well, good-bye, Matryosha,” said Anatole, kissing her. “Ah, all my fun here
is over! Give my love to Styoshka. There, good-bye! Good-bye, Matryosha; wish me
happiness.”
“God grant you great happiness, prince,” said Matryosha, with her gypsy
accent.
At the steps stood two three-horse sledges; two stalwart young drivers were
holding them. Balaga took his seat in the foremost, and holding his elbows high,
began deliberately arranging the reins in his hands. Anatole and Dolohov got in
with him. Makarin, Hvostikov, and the valet got into the other sledge.
“Ready, eh?” queried Balaga. “Off!” he shouted, twisting the reins round his
hands, and the sledge flew at break-neck pace along the Nikitsky
Boulevard.
“Tprroo! Hi! … Tproo!!” Balaga and the young driver on the box were
continually shouting.
In Arbatsky Square the sledge came into collision with a carriage; there was
a crash and shouts, and the sledge flew off along Arbaty. Turning twice along
Podnovinsky, Balaga began to pull up, and turning back, stopped the horses at
the Old Equerrys' crossing.
A smart young driver jumped down to hold the horses by the bridle; Anatole
and Dolohov walked along the pavement. On reaching the gates, Dolohov whistled.
The whistle was answered, and a maid-servant ran out.
“Come into the courtyard, or you'll be seen; she is coming in a minute,” she
said.
Dolohov stayed at the gate. Anatole followed the maid into the courtyard,
turned a corner, and ran up the steps.
He was met by Gavrilo, Marya Dmitryevna's huge groom.
“Walk this way to the mistress,” said the groom in his bass, blocking up the
doorway.
“What mistress? And who are you?” Anatole asked in a breathless
whisper.
“Walk in; my orders are to show you in.”
“Kuragin! back!” shouted Dolohov. “Treachery, back!”
Dolohov, at the little back gate where he had stopped, was struggling with
the porter, who was trying to shut the gate after Anatole as he ran in. With a
desperate effort Dolohov shoved away the porter, and clutching at Anatole,
pulled him through the gate, and ran back with him to the sledge.
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