How are you? We have talked about you every
day. And Marya Ivanofna, what has she not suffered anent you, my pigeon?
But tell me, my father, how did you get out of the difficulty with
Pugatchef? How was it that he did not kill you? Well, for _that_, thanks
be to the villain."
"There, hush, old woman," interrupted Father Garasim; "don't gossip
about all you know; too much talk, no salvation. Come in, Petr'
Andrejitch, and welcome. It is long since we have seen each other."
The pope's wife did me honour with everything she had at hand, without
ceasing a moment to talk.
She told me how Chvabrine had obliged them to deliver up Marya Ivanofna
to him; how the poor girl cried, and would not be parted from them; how
she had had continual intercourse with them through the medium of
Polashka, a resolute, sharp girl who made the _"ouriadnik"_ himself
dance (as they say) to the sound of her flageolet; how she had
counselled Marya Ivanofna to write me a letter, etc. As for me, in a few
words I told my story.
The pope and his wife crossed themselves when they heard that Pugatchef
was aware they had deceived him.
"May the power of the cross be with us!" Akoulina Pamphilovna said. "May
God turn aside this cloud.
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