SUNDAY, midday
There 's something good in everyone . Who knows , '' sighed the colonel 's lady , looking her daughters up and down anxiously , `` perhaps your fate is here . Change your dresses anyway ... '' SUNDAY , midday . A landowner , called Kamyshev , is sitting in his dining-room , deliberately eating his lunch at a luxuriously furnished table . Monsieur Champoun , a clean , neat , smoothly-shaven , old Frenchman , is sharing the meal with him . This Champoun had once been a tutor in Kamyshev 's household , had taught his children good manners , the correct pronunciation of French , and dancing : afterwards when Kamyshev 's children had grown up and become lieutenants , Champoun had become something like a _ bonne _ of the male sex .