“Let the lad try. He accomplishes miracles.”
THE TSAR
“I have escaped by remarkable luck,” cried
Rouletabille, as he found himself, in the middle of
the night, at the corner of the Katharine and the
Aptiekarski Pereoulok Canals, while the mysterious
carriage which had brought him there returned rapidly
toward the Grande Ecurie. “What a country!
What a country!”
He ran a little way to the Grand Morskaia, which was
near, entered the hotel like a bomb, dragged the interpreter
from his bed, demanded that his bill be made out and
that he be told the time of the next train for Tsarskoie-Coelo.
The interpreter told him that he could not have his
bill at such an hour, that he could not leave town
without his passport and that there was no train for
Tsarskoie-Coelo, and Rouletabille made an outcry that
woke the whole hotel. The guests, fearing always
“une scandale,” kept close to their rooms.
But Monsieur le directeur came down, trembling.
When he found all that it was about he was inclined
to be peremptory, but Rouletabille, who had seen “Michael
Strogoff” played, cried, “Service of the
Tsar!” which turned him submissive as a sheep.
He made out the young man’s bill and gave him
his passport, which had been brought back by the police
during the afternoon. Rouletabille rapidly wrote
a message to Koupriane’s address, which the messenger
was directed to have delivered without a moment’s
delay, under the pain of death! The manager
humbly promised and the reporter did not explain that
by “pain of death” he referred to his own.
Then, having ascertained that as a matter of fact
the last train had left for Tsarskoie-Coelo, he ordered
a carriage and hurried to his room to pack.
And he, ordinarily so detailed, so particular in his
affairs, threw things every which way, linen, garments,
with kicks and shoves. It was a relief after
the emotions he had gone through. “What
a country!” he never ceased to ejaculate.
“What a country!”
Then the carriage was ready, with two little Finnish
horses, whose gait he knew well, an evil-looking driver,
who none the less would get him there; the trunk;
roubles to the domestics. “Spacibo, barine.
Spacibo.” (Thank you, monsieur. Thank
you.)
The interpreter asked what address he should give
the driver.
“The home of the Tsar.”
The interpreter hesitated, believing it to be an unbecoming
pleasantry, then waved vaguely to the driver, and the
horses started.
“What a curious trot! We have no idea
of that in France,” thought Rouletabille.
“France! France! Paris! Is
it possible that soon I shall be back! And that
dear Lady in Black! Ah, at the first opportunity
I must send her a dispatch of my return — before
she receives those ikons, and the letters announcing
my death. Scan! Scan! Scan! (Hurry!)”
The isvotchick pounded his horses, crowding past the
dvornicks who watched at the corners of the houses
during the St. Petersburg night. “Dirigi!
dirigi! dirigi! (Look out!)”
