kind and generous heart; but he has never understood the Russian peasant' (Paklin glanced at Sipyagin, who, turning slightly towards him, was scanning him with a chilly but not hostile expression). 'The Russian peasant cannot ever be induced to revolt except by taking advantage of his devotion to a higher authority, some sort of Tsar. Some sort of legend must be invented—you remember the false Demetrius—some sort of regal insignia, branded in burnt patches on the breast.'
'Yes, yes, like Pugatchev,' interrupted Sipyagin in a tone that seemed to say, 'I've not forgotten my history . . . you needn't enlarge!' and adding, 'It's madness! madness!' he turned to the contemplation of the swift coil of smoke rising from the end of his cigar.
'Your Excellency!' observed Paklin, gathering courage, 'I told you just now I didn't smoke . . . but that's not quite accurate. I do smoke at times; and your cigar smells so delicious.. . .'
'Eh? what? what's that?' said Sipyagin, as though waking up; and without letting Paklin repeat what he had said, he proved in the most unmistakable manner that he had heard him, and had uttered his reiterated questions solely for the sake of his dignity, by offering him his open cigar-case.
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