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sideways to stare at them all, with an incredible degree of
nervous curiosity. His eyes looked starting out of his head.
‘You see, we have come to the elder upon business of our
own,’ observed Miusov severely. ‘That personage has grant-
ed us an audience, so to speak, and so, though we thank
you for showing us the way, we cannot ask you to accom-
pany us.’
‘I’ve been there. I’ve been already; un chevalier parfait,’
and Maximov snapped his fingers in the air.
‘Who is a chevalier?’ asked Miusov.
‘The elder, the splendid elder, the elder! The honour and
glory of the monastery, Zossima. Such an elder!’
But his incoherent talk was cut short by a very pale, wan-
looking monk of medium height wearing a monk’s cap, who
overtook them. Fyodor Pavlovitch and Miusov stopped.
The monk, with an extremely courteous, profound bow,
announced:
‘The Father Superior invites all of you gentlemen to dine
with him after your visit to the hermitage. At one o’clock,
not later. And you also,’ he added, addressing Maximov.
‘That I certainly will, without fail,’ cried Fyodor Pavlov-
itch, hugely delighted at the invitation. ‘And, believe me,
we’ve all given our word to behave properly here.... And you,
Pyotr Alexandrovitch, will you go, too?’
‘Yes, of course. What have I come for but to study all the
customs here? The only obstacle to me is your company...’
‘Yes, Dmitri Fyodorovitch is non-existent as yet.’
‘It would be a capital thing if he didn’t turn up. Do you
suppose I like all this business, and in your company, too?