The Duellist
Kister waited for Lutchkov in vain till midnight, and next morning he went round himself to see him. The orderly informed Fyodor Fedoritch that his master was lying down and had given orders that he would see no one. 'He won't see me even?' 'Not even your honour.' Kister walked twice up and down the street, tortured by the keenest apprehensions, and then went home again. His servant handed him a note.
'From whom?'
'From the Perekatovs. Artiomka the postillion brought it.'
Kister's hands began to tremble.
'He had orders to give you their greetings. He had orders to wait for your answer. Am I to give Artiomka some vodka?'
Kister slowly unfolded the note, and read as follows:
'Dear good Fyodor Fedoritch,—I want very, very much to see you. Come to-day, if you can. Don't refuse my request, I entreat you, for the sake of our old friendship. If only you knew . . . but you shall know everything. Good-bye for a little while,—eh?
'P.S.—Be sure to come to-morrow.'
'So your honour, am I to give Artiomka some vodka?'
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