“What are you talking about? Have you lost your mind? Absolutely not! Why would we sacrifice the life we lead? Sergei, Sergei, Sergei.” Once again Claudia’s eyes begin to search the dining room, observing every detail. She’s put so much care into building the home they enjoy. She’s not about to give it up for anything. And she’d never give up her Sergei either. “You really think you could be some kind of secret agent?”—here she lowers her voice, because in French it’s the same word—“You really see yourself as a member of the Okhrana?”—she raises her voice again—“You wouldn’t last two weeks!” She switches to Russian. “You don’t have the backbone for that.” Again she switches to French. “You, a member of the secret police! Impossible!”

Sergei shows no sign of being offended by her comments. He and the champagne foresaw it all. He begins to patiently explain, very quietly, in French, that if they remain in St. Petersburg, he can’t comply with the request from the tsar’s office, because he simply cannot. But if the tsar transfers him … he will gain favor for his unconditional offer to sacrifice himself, which is proof of his loyalty. They would leave everything behind, but in return, they would undoubtedly obtain the tsar’s good graces. Maybe he’d even grant them some land (no serfs, though, despite the fact that the dream of his class lives on, and when he dreams, he dreams of serfs). Land. He doesn’t elaborate on the detailed plan that he and the champagne have hatched. Instead he mentions something he thinks will matter to Claudia: he’ll receive another medal.

“Moreover,” he says, very quietly in Russian, “in the countryside, I won’t just be known as Anna Karenina’s son.” He raises his voice once more and ends in French. “I’ll have my own life. I’ll be more than a character.”

Sergei’s eyes are shining. He beats his chest with both fists, exhaling with an “Aaaaahhhh!” and smiles. He puts both hands on the table and turns to gauge his wife’s reaction. Claudia adopts a poker face. She speaks to him softly in French.

“You’re not offering one sacrifice, Sergei, but two: yours and mine. It’s you and me we’re talking about. What will I do if I’m not living in this city, in this house? What will I do with my life, so far from our gilded life here?”

“You’ll do something else….” Sergei replies tersely, in Russian. Arising from the table with his glass in his hand, he walks toward the living room.

“That’s impossible! Sergei … !”

Claudia follows him out, continuing to speak, waving her arms about wildly.