Ermolai, who had his own haughtiness, dodged Koupriane’s
fist and replied that he had wished to prevent the
young Frenchman, hut the reporter had shown him a
police-paper on which Koupriane himself had declared
in advance that the young Frenchman was to do anything
he pleased.
PERE ALEXIS
Koupriane jumped into his carriage and hurried toward
St. Petersburg. On the way he spoke to three
agents who only he knew were posted in the neighborhood
of Eliaguine. They told him the route Rouletabille
had taken. The reporter had certainly returned
into the city. He hurried toward Troitski Bridge.
There, at the corner of the Naberjnaia, Koupriane
saw the reporter in a hired conveyance. Rouletabille
was pounding his coachman in the back, Russian fashion,
to make him go faster, and was calling with all his
strength one of the few words he had had time to learn,
“Naleva, naleva” (to the left).
The driver was forced to understand at last, for there
was no other way to turn than to the left. If
he had turned to the right (naprava) he would have
driven into the river. The conveyance clattered
over the pointed flints of a neighborhood that led
to a little street, Aptiekarski-Pereoulok, at the corner
of the Katharine canal. This “alley of
the pharmacists” as a matter of fact contained
no pharmacists, but there was a curious sign of a
herbarium, where Rouletabille made the driver stop.
As the carriage rolled under the arch Rouletabille
recognized Koupriane. He did not wait, but cried
to him, “Ah, here you are. All right; follow
me.” He still had the flask and the glasses
in his hands. Koupriane couldn’t help
noticing how strange he looked. He passed through
a court with him, and into a squalid shop.
“What,” said Koupriane, “do you
know Pere Alexis?”
They were in the midst of a curious litter.
Clusters of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, and
all among them were clumps of old boots, shriveled
skins, battered pans, scrap-iron, sheep-skins, useless
touloupes, and on the floor musty old clothes, moth-eaten
furs, and sheep-skin coats that even a moujik of the
swamps would not have deigned to wear. Here
and there were old teeth, ragged finery, dilapidated
hats, and jars of strange herbs ranged upon some rickety
shelving. Between the set of scales on the counter
and a heap of little blocks of wood used for figuring
the accounts of this singular business were ungilded
ikons, oxidized silver crosses, and Byzantine pictures
representing scenes from the Old and New Testaments.
Jars of alcohol with what seemed to be the skeletons
of frogs swimming in them filled what space was left.
In a corner of this large, murky room, under the
vault of mossed stone, a small altar stood and the
light burned in a hanging glass of oil before the holy
images. A man was praying before the altar.
He wore the costume of old Russia, the caftan of
green cloth, buttoned at the shoulder and tucked in
at the waist by a narrow belt. He had a bushy
beard and his hair fell to his shoulders. When
he had finished his prayer he rose, perceived Rouletabille
and came over to take his hand. He spoke French
to the reporter:
