Two soldiers conducted me across a court to the Commandant's house,
then, remaining in the ante-room, left me to enter alone the inner
chamber. I entered a rather large reception room. Behind the table,
covered with papers, were seated two persons, an elderly General,
looking severe and cold, and a young officer of the Guard, looking, at
most, about thirty, of easy and attractive demeanour; near the window at
another table sat a secretary with a pen behind his ear, bending over
his paper ready to take down my evidence.
The cross-examination began. They asked me my name and rank. The
General inquired if I were not the son of Andrej Petrovitch Grineff, and
on my affirmative answer, he exclaimed, severely--
"It is a great pity such an honourable man should have a son so very
unworthy of him!"
I quietly made answer that, whatever might be the accusations lying
heavily against me, I hoped to be able to explain them away by a candid
avowal of the truth.
My coolness displeased him.
"You are a bold, barefaced rascal," he said to me, frowning. "However,
we have seen many of them."
Then the young officer asked me by what chance and at what time I had
entered Pugatchef's service, and on what affairs he had employed me.
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