Thus we sat for a considerable time. The sun was sinking behind the cold
summits and a whitish mist was beginning to spread over the valleys,
when the silence was broken by the jingling of the bell of a
travelling-carriage and the shouting of drivers in the street. A few
vehicles, accompanied by dirty Armenians, drove into the courtyard of
the inn, and behind them came an empty travelling-carriage. Its light
movement, comfortable arrangement, and elegant appearance gave it a kind
of foreign stamp. Behind it walked a man with large moustaches. He was
wearing a Hungarian jacket and was rather well dressed for a manservant.
From the bold manner in which he shook the ashes out of his pipe and
shouted at the coachman it was impossible to mistake his calling. He was
obviously the spoiled servant of an indolent master--something in the
nature of a Russian Figaro.

"Tell me, my good man," I called to him out of the window. "What is
it?--Has the 'Adventure' arrived, eh?"

He gave me a rather insolent glance, straightened his cravat, and turned
away. An Armenian, who was walking near him, smiled and answered for
him that the "Adventure" had, in fact, arrived, and would start on the
return journey the following morning.

"Thank heavens!" said Maksim Maksimych, who had come up to the window at
that moment. "What a wonderful carriage!" he added; "probably it belongs
to some official who is going to Tiflis for a judicial inquiry. You can
see that he is unacquainted with our little mountains! No, my friend,
you're not serious! They are not for the like of you; why, they would
shake even an English carriage to bits!--But who could it be? Let us go
and find out."

We went out into the corridor, at the end of which there was an open
door leading into a side room. The manservant and a driver were dragging
portmanteaux into the room.

"I say, my man!" the staff-captain asked him: "Whose is that marvellous
carriage?--Eh?--A beautiful carriage!"

Without turning round the manservant growled something to himself as he
undid a portmanteau. Maksim Maksimych grew angry.

"I am speaking to you, my friend!" he said, touching the uncivil fellow
on the shoulder.

"Whose carriage?--My master's."

"And who is your master?"

"Pechorin--"

"What did you say? What? Pechorin?--Great Heavens!... Did he not serve
in the Caucasus?" exclaimed Maksim Maksimych, plucking me by the sleeve.
His eyes were sparkling with joy.

"Yes, he served the