At noon on the following day he put on his chain and all his badges of distinction and went to the ‘Japan.’  Destiny favoured him.  When he entered the distinguished Persian’s apartment the latter was alone and doing nothing.  Rahat-Helam, an enormous Asiatic, with a long nose like the beak of a snipe, with prominent eyes, and with a fez on his head, was sitting on the floor rummaging in his portmanteau.

“I beg you to excuse my disturbing you,” began Kutsyn, smiling.  “I have the honour to introduce myself, the hereditary, honourable citizen and cavalier, Stepan Ivanovitch Kutsyn, mayor of this town.  I regard it as my duty to honour, in the person of your Highness, so to say, the representative of a friendly and neighbourly state.”

The Persian turned and muttered something in very bad French, that sounded like tapping a board with a piece of wood.

“The frontiers of Persia”—­Kutsyn continued the greeting he had previously learned by heart—­“are in close contact with the borders of our spacious fatherland, and therefore mutual sympathies impel me, so to speak, to express my solidarity with you.”

The illustrious Persian got up and again muttered something in a wooden tongue.  Kutsyn, who knew no foreign language, shook his head to show that he did not understand.

“Well, how am I to talk to him?” he thought.  “It would be a good thing to send for an interpreter at once, but it is a delicate matter, I can’t talk before witnesses.  The interpreter would be chattering all over the town afterwards.”

And Kutsyn tried to recall the foreign words he had picked up from the newspapers.

“I am the mayor of the town,” he muttered.  “That is the lord mayor . . . municipalais . . .  Vwee?  Kompreney?”

He wanted to express his social position in words or in gesture, and did not know how.  A picture hanging on the wall with an inscription in large letters, “The Town of Venice,” helped him out of his difficulties.  He pointed with his finger at the town, then at his own head, and in that way obtained, as he imagined, the phrase:  “I am the head of the town.”  The Persian did not understand, but he gave a smile, and said: 

“Goot, monsieur . . . goot . . . . .”  Half-an-hour later the mayor
was slapping the Persian, first on the knee and then on the shoulder,
and saying: 

“Kompreney?  Vwee?  As lord mayor and municipalais I suggest that you should take a little promenage . . . kompreney?  Promenage.”

Kutsyn pointed at Venice, and with two fingers represented walking legs.  Rahat-Helam who kept his eyes fixed on his medals, and was apparently guessing that this was the most important person in the town, understood the word promenage and grinned politely.  Then they both put on their coats and went out of the room.  Downstairs near the door leading to the restaurant of the ‘Japan,’ Kutsyn reflected that it would not be amiss to entertain the Persian.  He stopped and indicating the tables, said: