that the coat was even better made than the trousers: there was not a single wrinkle; all the parts stretched smoothly, curving outward over the rounding portions of his body, and defining the hollows.

The tailor merely smiled at Tchitchikoff’s remark, that it pinched him a little under his left arm: it set all the better round the waist for that, said he. “Be at your ease, be at your ease, as regards the work,” he kept repeating with unconcealed triumph. “Things are made so nowhere else outside of Petersburg.” The tailor was from Petersburg himself; and on his sign he had inscribed, From London and Paris. He was not fond of jesting, and his object in employing the names of these two cities was to close the throats of all other tailors on the spot, so that, in the future, no one should present himself as coming from those cities, but might set himself down as from some Carlsruhe or Copenhagen.

Tchitchikoff settled his debt to the tailor in handsome style; and when he was alone once more, he began to survey himself at his leisure in the mirror, like an artist possessed of an æsthetic sense, and con amore. Everything seemed more satisfactory than before: his cheeks were more interesting, his chin was more captivating, his white collar imparted tone to his cheeks, his blue satin neckcloth imparted tone to his collar, the new-fangled plaits of his shirt-front gave tone to his neckcloth, his rich velvet waistcoat gave value to his shirt-front, and his swallow-tailed coat of Navarino smoke and flame, which was as glossy as silk, heightened the effect of all the rest.

He turned to the right—good! He turned to the left—better still! He bent forward as though in the house of a court-chamberlain, or of a gentleman who even scratches himself in the French style, and who, even when angry, never disgraces himself by an unclean word in the Russian language, but curses in the French dialect. Such delicacy!

Inclining his head a little on one side, he tried to strike an attitude as though in the act of addressing a lady of middle age, and of the highest cultivation. The attitude turned out a perfect picture. Artist, take your brush, and limn it! In his satisfaction he executed a little skip in the nature of a caper. The table trembled; and a glass bottle containing eau-de-Cologne fell to the floor; but this occasioned him no dismay.

He simply called the stupid bottle a “fool,” and was thinking, “To whom shall I show myself first? The best thing of all will be”—when suddenly there became audible in the ante-room a clanking resembling that produced by boots and spurs, and a gendarme entered in full uniform, and with a look on his face as though he were a whole army in himself. “You are ordered to present yourself instantly to the governor- general,” said he. Tchitchikoff was stunned. Before him towered a bearded scarecrow, with a horse- tail on his head, a cross-belt over one shoulder, another cross-belt over the other, and a huge sword suspended at his side. It seemed to Tchitchikoff that a gun and the deuce knows what besides was suspended from his other side. There was indeed a whole army contained in this one individual, and what an army! He attempted to make some reply; but the scarecrow interrupted him roughly, “You are to come with me immediately.”

On glancing through the doorway into the ante-room, Tchitchikoff caught a glimpse of another scarecrow; then he cast a glance through the window: there was a carriage in the court-yard. What was to be done? He was forced to seat himself just as he was, coat of Navarino smoke and flame and all, in the equipage; and, trembling in every limb, he was driven to the governor-general’s, and the gendarme with him. They did not even allow him time to recover himself in the ante-room. “Step up! The prince is waiting for you,” said the official who was on duty. The ante-room, filled with couriers who had received their packets, flashed past him as in a mist: then came a hall, through which he passed with but one thought, “This is the way one is seized, without a hearing or any formality, and sent to Siberia!” His heart beat with such violence as even that of the most sincere lover is incapable of. At length a door opened, a study filled with portfolios, book-cases, and books presented itself before him, and the prince stood there, as angry as wrath personified.