"Stop!" cried Petritsky to Vronsky as he was just going out.

"Your brother left a letter and a note for you. Wait a bit;

where are they?"

Vronsky stopped.

"Well, where are they?"

"Where are they? That's just the question!" said Petritsky

solemnly, moving his forefinger upwards from his nose.

"Come, tell me; this is silly!" said Vronsky smiling.

"I have not lighted the fire. Here somewhere about."

"Come, enough fooling! Where is the letter?"

"No, I've forgotten really. Or was it a dream? Wait a bit, wait

a bit! But what's the use of getting in a rage. If you'd drunk

four bottles yesterday as I did you'd forget where you were

lying. Wait a bit, I'll remember!"

Petritsky went behind the partition and lay down on his bed.

"Wait a bit! This was how I was lying, and this was how he was

standing. Yes--yes--yes.... Here it is!"--and Petritsky pulled

a letter out from under the mattress, where he had hidden it.

Vronsky took the letter and his brother's note. It was the

letter he was expecting--from his mother, reproaching him for

not having been to see her--and the note was from his brother to

say that he must have a little talk with him. Vronsky knew that

it was all about the same thing. "What business is it of

theirs!" thought Vronsky, and crumpling up the letters he thrust

them between the buttons of his coat so as to read them carefully

on the road. In the porch of the hut he was met by two officers;

one of his regiment and one of another.

Vronsky's quarters were always a meeting place for all the

officers.

"Where are you off to?"

"I must go to Peterhof."

"Has the mare come from Tsarskoe?"

"Yes, but I've not seen her yet."

"They say Mahotin's Gladiator's lame."

"Nonsense! But however are you going to race in this mud?" said

the other.

"Here are my saviors!" cried Petritsky, seeing them come in.

Before him stood the orderly with a tray of brandy and salted

cucumbers. "Here's Yashvin ordering me to drink a pick-me-up."

"Well, you did give it to us yesterday," said one of those who

had come in; "you didn't let us get a wink of sleep all night."

"Oh, didn't we make a pretty finish!" said Petritsky. "Volkov

climbed onto the roof and began telling us how sad he was. I

said: 'Let's have music, the funeral march!' He fairly dropped

asleep on the roof over the funeral march."




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