a rebel." And I remember that that word greatly surprised me at the
time. The former commissary of police, it is true, had a habit of
descrying rebels everywhere.

Just this sort of exemplary youth did Mísha remain until the age of
eighteen,--until the death of his parents, whom he lost on almost one
and the same day. As I resided constantly in Moscow, I heard nothing
about my young relative. Some one who came to town from his government
did, it is true, inform me that Mísha had sold his ancestral estate for
a song; but this bit of news seemed to me altogether too
incredible!--And lo! suddenly, one autumn morning, into the courtyard of
my house dashes a calash drawn by a pair of splendid trotters, with a
monstrous coachman on the box; and in the calash, wrapped in a cloak of
military cut with a two-arshín[5] beaver collar, and a fatigue-cap over
one ear--_à la diable m'emporte_--sits Mísha!

On catching sight of me (I was standing at the drawing-room window and
staring in amazement at the equipage which had dashed in), he burst into
his sharp laugh, and jauntily shaking the lapels of his cloak, he
sprang out of the calash and ran into the house.

"Mísha! Mikhaíl Andréevitch!" I was beginning ... "is it you?"

"Call me 'thou' and 'Mísha,'" he interrupted me.--"'Tis I ... 'tis I, in
person.... I have come to Moscow ... to take a look at people ... and to
show myself. So I have dropped in on you.--What do you think of my
trotters?... Hey?" Again he laughed loudly.

Although seven years had elapsed since I had seen Mísha for the last
time, yet I recognised him on the instant.--His face remained thoroughly