Mavriky Nikolaevitch was there too, of course.
In the crowd of young ladies and rather vulgar young men who made up Yulia Mihailovna's usual retinue, and among whom this vulgarity was taken for sprightliness, and cheap cynicism for wit, I noticed two or three new faces: a very obsequious Pole who was on a visit in the town; a German doctor, a sturdy old fellow who kept loudly laughing with great zest at his own wit; and lastly, a very young princeling from Petersburg like an automaton figure, with the deportment of a state dignitary and a fearfully high collar.

But it was evident that Yulia Mihailovna had a very high opinion of this visitor, and was even a little anxious of the impression her salon was making on him.
_"Cher M.Karmazinov,"_ said Stepan Trofimovitch, sitting in a picturesque pose on the sofa and suddenly beginning to lisp as daintily as Karmazinov himself, "_cher M.Karmazinov,_ the life of a man of our time and of certain convictions, even after an interval of twenty-five years, is bound to seem monotonous..." The German went off into a loud abrupt guffaw like a neigh, evidently imagining that Stepan Trofimovitch had said something exceedingly funny.
The latter gazed at him with studied amazement but produced no effect on him whatever.

The prince, too, looked at the German, turning head, collar and all, towards him and putting up his pince-nez, though without the slightest curiosity.
"...

Is bound to seem monotonous," Stepan Trofimovitch intentionally repeated, drawling each word as deliberately and nonchalantly as possible.

"And so my life has been throughout this quarter of a century, _et comme on trouve partout plus de moines que de raison,_ and as I am entirely of this opinion, it has come to pass that throughout this quarter of a century I..." _"C'est charmant, les moines,"_ whispered Yulia Mihailovna, turning to Varvara Petrovna, who was sitting beside her.
Varvara Petrovna responded with a look of pride.