The private carriages were followed by a few empty droschkies, which concluded the procession, and at last the road was free and open again for our hero's britchka, which began to speed on to make up for lost time.
Opening now freely again the leather curtains of his carriages, Tchichikoff heaved a deep sigh, and pronounced, as if from the innermost of his soul:
"There he went, the Imperial Procurator; he has lived and lived until he has come to his death! and now they will advertise in the newspapers, that his existence has terminated to the unspeakable regret of his inferiors and superiors, as well as to humanity at large, a respected citizen, a rare father, a beloved husband, and much more, they will print in his memory; add perhaps, that he was followed to his grave not only by his numerous friends, but also by many widows and orphans of the town; but if we were to examine your virtues and qualities more minutely and conscientiously, we would find perhaps nothing more remarkable than your bushy and heavy eyebrows."
After having concluded this observation, our hero ordered Selifan to speed on his horses, and meanwhile thought to himself—"however, it is rather lucky that I have met with a funeral procession; it is said that it prognosticates good fortune to meet with the dead."
Meanwhile, the britchka turned and passed through the more lonely and distant streets; soon after Tchichikoff saw only the long and uniform wooden walls of gardens and enclosed building grounds, which announced the end of the town. And now there was an end to the wretched pavement; and he had passed the last military frontier of the town of Smolensk, which now remained behind him; and he was again on the free and high wide road. And again, on either side of the britchka, were woods and forests, and fields and plains, brooks and wells, military posts, and grey villages, with chatting old women, and idle peasants, looking out from their huge beards, like a bear from his den.
At first, the changing scenes around him did not make any particular impression upon his mind; but by degrees, and as he continued to turn round to convince himself, that the town of Smolensk was really behind him, and nearly hidden from his sight, he began to pay a little more attention to the high road, and to his own reflections, which begun so fully to preoccupy his mind, that Smolensk was as much out of his mind as out of his sight; and he really fancied that he had merely passed through once in his early childhood. At last, even the high road ceased to possess any attractions whatever for him, and he began slightly to incline his head upon the leather pillow, and close his eyes.
Our hero was suddenly aroused from his slumber by an approaching noise on the high road, behind his britchka. The noise approached rapidly, and seemed to be caused by the galloping of numerous horses.
"Hallo! what are you about?" said Tchichikoff, calling out to his coachman, Selifan; "why don't you drive on?"
"Yes, your glory!" answered Selifan, in a slow voice, and with a sleepy countenance, without being able to comply at once with the request, so much was he benumbed by the chilly night-air.
"How are you driving, you stupid goose? Why don't you flog the horses?"
But before Selifan had the time to comply with his master's command, the last which either he or Petruschka was to receive from him; the horses galloping behind had rejoined the britchka, and in a few moments later Tchichikoff beheld before him the Commissioner of Police from Smolensk, and another gentleman on horseback, who was introduced to him as an imperial messenger.
The imperial messenger transmitted to Tchichikoff a document, with the imperial seal beneath; after the hasty perusal of this mysterious document, our hero's countenance changed suddenly; his eyes became dim, and his face as pale as death. The imperial messenger then pointed silently to a sinister-looking carriage, called a Siberian kibitka, into which our hero was assisted, without being able to utter a syllable, and the next moment he was a dead man.