As soon as Ivan Ivanovich had arranged his domestic affairs, and stepped out upon the veranda, according to his custom, to lie down, then, to his indescribable amazement, he saw something red at the gate. This was the red facings of the chief of police’s coat, which were polished equally with his collar, and had turned on the edges into varnished leather. Ivan Ivanovich thought to himself, “It’s not bad that Peter Feodorovich has come to talk it over.” But he was very much surprised to see that the chief was walking remarkably fast, and flourishing his hands, which very rarely happened with him. There were eight buttons planted about on the chief of police’s uniform; the ninth, torn off in some manner during the procession at the consecration of the church two years before, the desyatskie [constables] had not been able to find up to this time; although the chief, on the occasion of the daily reports made to him by the sergeants of police, always asked, “Has that button been found?” These eight buttons were strewn about him as women sow beans—one to the right, and one to the left. His left foot had been struck by a ball in the last campaign, and therefore he limped, and threw it out so far to one side as to almost counteract the efforts of the right foot. The more briskly the chief of police worked his walking apparatus, the less progress it made in advance; and so, while the chief was getting to the veranda, Ivan Ivanovich had plenty of time to lose himself in surmises as to why the chief was flourishing his hands so vigorously. This interested him the more, as the matter seemed one of unusual importance; for the chief had on a new dagger.

“Good-morning, Peter Feodorovich!” cried Ivan Ivanovich, who was, as has already been stated, exceedingly curious, and could not restrain his impatience at the sight as the chief of police began to ascend to the veranda, yet never raised his eyes, and scolded at his foot, which could not be persuaded to mount the step at only one flourish.

“I wish my good friend and benefactor, Ivan Ivanovich, a good-day,” replied the chief.

“Pray sit down. I see that you are weary, as your lame foot hinders”…

“My foot!” screamed the chief, bestowing upon Ivan Ivanovich a glance such as a giant might cast upon a pygmy, a pedant upon a dancing-master: thereupon he stretched out his foot, and stamped upon the floor with it. But this boldness cost him dear; for his whole body wavered, and his nose struck the railing; but the brave preserver of order, with the purpose of making light of it, righted himself immediately, and began to feel in his pocket as if to get his snuff-box. “I must report to you, my dear friend and benefactor, Ivan Ivanovich, that never in all my days have I made such a march. Yes, seriously. For instance, during the campaign of 1807.… Ah! I will relate to you in what manner I crawled through the enclosure to see a pretty little German.” Here the chief closed one eye, and executed a diabolically sly smile.

“Where have you been to-day?” asked Ivan Ivanovich, wishing to cut the chief short, and bring him more speedily to the object of his visit. He would have very much liked to inquire what the chief meant to tell him, but his extensive knowledge of the world showed him all the impropriety of such a question; and so Ivan Ivanovich had to keep himself well in hand, and await a solution, his heart, meanwhile, beating with unusual force.

“Ah, excuse me! I was going to tell you—where was I?” answered the chief of police. “In the first place, I report that the weather is fine to-day”…

At these last words, Ivan Ivanovich nearly died.

“But permit me,” went on the chief. “I came to you to-day about a very important affair.” Here the chief’s face and bearing assumed the same careworn guise with which he had ascended to the veranda. Ivan Ivanovich lived again, and shook as if in a fever, omitting not, as was his habit, to put a question. “What is the important matter? Is it important?”

“Pray judge for yourself: first I venture to report to you, dear friend and benefactor, Ivan Ivanovich, that you… I beg you to observe that, for my own part, I should have nothing to say; but the rules of government require it… you have transgressed the rules of propriety.”