PATIOMKIN [growls; then wipes his nose with his dressing-gown]!!

VARINKA. Pig. Ugh! [She curls herself up with a shiver of disgust
and retires from the conversation.]

THE SERGEANT [stealing across to the coat, and picking it up to
replace it on the back of the chair]. Little Father, the English
captain, so highly recommended to you by old Fritz of Prussia, by
the English ambassador, and by Monsieur Voltaire (whom [crossing
himself] may God in his infinite mercy damn eternally!), is in
the antechamber and desires audience.

PATIOMKIN [deliberately]. To hell with the English captain; and
to hell with old Fritz of Prussia; and to hell with the English
ambassador; and to hell with Monsieur Voltaire; and to hell with
you too!

THE SERGEANT. Have mercy on me, Little Father. Your head is bad
this morning. You drink too much French brandy and too little
good Russian kvass.

PATIOMKIN [with sudden fury]. Why are visitors of consequence
announced by a sergeant? [Springing at him and seizing him by the
throat.] What do you mean by this, you hound? Do you want five
thousand blows of the stick? Where is General Volkonsky?

THE SERGEANT [on his knees]. Little Father, you kicked his
Highness downstairs.