they lived all together in a sort of ancient patriarchal
community, with customs that had not changed for centuries; they
scattered about in the places of pleasure, in the fashionable
restaurants, where they gathered large sums, for it was a fashionable
luxury to have them sing at the end of suppers, and everyone showered
money on them in order not to be behind the others. They accompanied on
guzlas, on castanets, on tambourines, and sang the old airs, doleful and
languorous, or excitable and breathless as the flight of the earliest
nomads in the beginnings of the world.

When they had entered, those present made place for them, and
Rouletabille, who for some moments had been showing marks of fatigue and
of a giddiness natural enough in a young man who isn't in the habit
of drinking the finest champagnes, profited by the diversion to get a
corner of the sofa not far from Prince Galitch, who occupied the place
at Annouchka's right.

"Look, Rouletabaille is asleep," remarked la belle Onoto.

"Poor boy!" said Annouchka.

And, turning toward Gounsovski:

"Aren't you soon going to get him out of our way? I heard some of our
brethren the other day speaking in a way that would cause pain to those
who care about his health."

"Oh, that," said Gounsovski, shaking his head, "is an affair I have
nothing to do with. Apply to Koupriane. Your health, belle Annouchka."

But the Bohemians swept some opening chords for their songs, and the
singers took everybody's attention, everybody excepting Prince Galitch
and Annouchka, who, half turned toward one another, exchanged some
words on the edge of all this musical uproar. As for Rouletabille, he
certainly must have been sleeping soundly not to have been waked by
all that noise, melodious as it was. It is true that he
had--apparently--drunk a good deal and, as everyone knows, in Russia
drink lays out those who can't stand it. When the Bohemians had sung
three times Gounsovski made a sign that they might go to charm other
ears, and slipped into the hands of the chief of the band a twenty-five
rouble note. But Onoto wished to give her mite, and a regular collection
commenced. Each one threw roubles into the plate held out by a little
swarthy Bohemian girl with crow-black hair, carelessly combed, falling
over her forehead, her eyes and her face, in so droll a fashion that one
would have said the little thing was a weeping-willow soaked in ink. The
plate reached Prince Galitch, who fu