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Updated: June 9, 2025
One evening early in October, 1773, Captain Mironoff called Chvabrine and me to his house. He had received a letter from the general at Orenburg with information that a fugitive Cossack named Pugatchéf had taken the name of the late Czar, Peter III., and, with an army of robbers, was rousing the country, destroying forts and committing murder and theft.
As for Alexis, it is quite different; he was transferred to us from the Guards for having caused a soul to perish; and he does not believe in our blessed Saviour." Ivan Mironoff approved increasingly all that his wife said: "You see! You see! Basilia is right, duels are forbidden by the military code." Meantime Polacca had carried off our swords to the garret.
"I mean that if you want to be well with Masha Mironoff, you need only make her a present of a pair of earrings instead of your languishing verses." My blood boiled. "Why have you such an opinion of her?" I asked him, restraining with difficulty my indignation. "Because," replied he, with a satanic smile, "because I know by experience her views and habits." "You lie, you rascal!"
There was no drill, no mounting guard, no reviewing of troops. Sometimes Captain Mironoff tried to drill his soldiers, but he never succeeded in making them know the right hand from the left. All seemed peace, in spite of my quarrels with Chvabrine.
It was the same when Pugatchéf was actually at our door, and the assault had actually begun. Old Ivan Mironoff blessed his daughter, and embraced his wife, and then faced death. There was no fight in the poor old pensioners who made up our garrison, and both Mironoff and myself were soon captured, bound with ropes, and led before Pugatchéf.
"Is an attack from the Kirghis feared? Is it possible that Mironoff would hide from me so mere a trifle?" She called Ignatius, determined to know the secret that excited her woman's curiosity. Basilia began by making some remarks about household matters, like a judge who begins his interrogation with questions foreign to the affair, in order to reassure the accused, and throw him off his guard.
Lock up these boys instantly; put them in separate rooms on bread and water, to expel this stupid idea of theirs. Let Father Garasim give them a penance on order that they may repent before God and man." Ivan Mironoff did not know what to do. Marie was extremely pale. The tempest, however, subsided little by little. Basilia ordered us to embrace each other, and the maid was sent for our swords.
"Tzar," said he, furiously, "I am guilty, I have lied to you; but Grineff also deceives you. This young girl is not the pope's niece; she is the daughter of Iván Mironoff, who was executed when the fort was taken." Pugatchéf turned his flashing eyes on me. "What does all this mean?" cried he, with indignant surprise. But I made answer boldly "Chvabrine has told you the truth."
Garrison life did not offer me much attraction. I tried to imagine what my future chief, Commandant Mironoff, would be like. I saw in my mind's eye a strict, morose old man, with no ideas beyond the service, and prepared to put me under arrest for the smallest trifle. Twilight was coming on; we were driving rather quickly. "Is it far from here to the fort?" I asked the driver.
Some minutes later the clank of iron fetters resounded, and Alexis entered. He was pale and thin. His hair, formerly black as a raven's wing, was turning gray. He repeated his accusation in a weak but decided tone. According to him, I was Pougatcheff's spy. I heard him to the end in silence, and rejoiced at one thing: he never pronounced the name of Marie Mironoff.
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