Chapter 1321: Chapter 179: Mysterious Guest (Part 2)
I am Arthur Hastings, Cultural Counsellor of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland to Russia. Actually, I am neither dead nor missing; I have been staying at a small inn in Druiysk. I need 500 rubles to go to St. Petersburg and take office, whether they are silver rubles or paper rubles. If you give the money, as soon as I reach St. Petersburg, I will imdiately free you from serfdom and grant you a piece of land to beco a nobleman.
Would anyone believe such words?
Ha! Not even the Devil would believe such things, let alone people have faith in it?
Better to rely on oneself than on others!
Sir Arthur Hastings, after all, is a man who crawled his way out of the pigsties of Yorkshire, out of the riffraff of Greenwich, and through the hail of bullets under the Tower of London. If he were defeated by such petty difficulties, wouldn’t Talleyrand, that old la Frenchman, look down on him?
Arthur grabbed a large bowl, filled with fighting spirit, and devoured the stew down to the last drop, not even letting slip the fat on the rim or the scraps at the bottom.
Don’t underestimate this sustenance; to withstand the cold and squat outside the City Hall for an hour or two, it all relies on this bit of at!
Agares glanced at Arthur’s poor appearance, disdainfully snorting through his nose. The Red Devil gave a slight humph, then adjusted his unknown source of golden-rimd spectacles, lifted a long parchnt, and passionately recited the immortal masterpiece created by the Sir.
“I loved studying from a young age. But because I was born a tenant farr in the countryside of York, my family was poor, and my parents died early, I couldn’t get books to read. I often borrowed from families who had collections in York, copied them by hand, and returned them on an agreed date. In the bitter cold, the ink made from charcoal turned into solid ice, my fingers couldn’t bend, yet I did not relax in copying books…”
Arthur could endure physical poverty but could not tolerate spiritual tornt. He glared at the Red Devil, about to restart the tale of Baal, when he unexpectedly heard the inn’s door being pushed open.
The sound was extraordinarily loud, echoing through the quiet inn with few guests, breaking the brief silence.
Arthur looked up and saw, against the darkening sky, a figure tall like a bear entering the inn.
Although the person’s back was sowhat hunched, it didn’t hide the fact that in his youth, he was certainly a strapping lad.
He was a silver-haired old squire wearing a bearskin hat and a fox-fur coat, with snowflakes covering his shoulders, indicating the heavy snowfall outside.
His hat appeared a bit damp from prolonged exposure to the snow, and the cold weather made the old man’s shoulders tremble slightly, as if he had just struggled out of the snowfield.
The innkeeper’s eyes instantly lit up, his face seed almost greasy with a smile, oozing a bit of inescapable sycophancy. He quickly stepped forward, almost clutching the person’s sleeves, continuously flattering: “Isn’t this Master Zaharov? You braved the heavy snow to co; it’s truly bitter cold, isn’t it? You didn’t catch a chill, did you?”
The old squire wrinkled his brow, appearing a bit impatient, but he knew too well these were local customs, so not to exchange a few words would seem inappropriate.
He gave a slight humph, shook his snowy sleeves, and said coldly: “Yes, the snow is indeed heavy. However, I still think I must take the ti to visit this place. After all, interactions here are complicated; if I don’t co for a long ti, it might give the impression that the cold has frozen even human hearts here.”
The innkeeper detected sothing amiss in his tone but didn’t dare to ask further, assuming the old man was in a bad mood today.
“Ah yes, Master, you’re right! You’ve co through such snow to honor us with your presence to taste our tea and sip so sourish local wine. You’ve really given this place quite a face!”
The innkeeper’s smile beca even more exaggerated, speaking softly: “There really isn’t much to see here. If you don’t fancy anything, we won’t insist. Can we prepare sothing warm to help you warm up? The rooms here, the beds are warm, the pots are hot, don’t begrudge the food; it’s all homade, not too elegant but enough to fill up the stomach!”
The old squire was evidently not in the mood for flattery, removing his coat and hanging it on the chair, waving impatiently: “Hmm, as long as it’s hot, don’t delay. I was out today, and so beasts erged from the snow, hitting in the chest. My heart feels like it’s churning inside; I need so top-notch cod and strong wine to ease it.”
“Alright! Just wait a mont, your al will be served shortly.” The innkeeper had just rushed into the kitchen and quickly returned with a smile on his face: “Master, why don’t you sit in the small private room inside? I’ve stoked the fire in there, to drive away the cold for you.”
The old squire took out a pipe, while lighting it with a match, he took a mont to glance at the innkeeper: “You’re unusually attentive today, aren’t you?”
The innkeeper cheerfully took the cloth from the counter to wipe his hands, bowing slightly beside the old squire, humbly requesting: “You’re truly astute, having served by the Winter Palace, nothing escapes you.”
The old squire sat with his legs crossed, puffing on his pipe without acknowledging the innkeeper: “Hmph! I know your tricks well. Among those doing business in town, you’re certainly the slyest. Venturing far in this blustery snow to patronize your place, you should be grateful, but instead, you’re plotting sothing! Luckily, you’ve bumped into , the kindhearted old Grigori. Had you t with those sons of bitches from the City Hall, City Court, or Post Office, they’d have interrogated you in jail already!”
User Comments
0 comments from readers