derly, in a
tremulous voice.

"Like an angel, Boris Nikolaievitch. But why did she speak of his heart
oppressed? I don't see that General Trebassof has a heart oppressed, for
my part." Michael Korsakoff spoke roughly as he drained his glass.

"No, that's so, isn't it?" agreed the others.

"A young girl may wish her father a pleasant sleep, surely!" said
Matrena Petrovna, with a certain good sense. "Natacha has affected us
all, has she not, Feodor?"

"Yes, she made me weep," declared the general. "But let us have
champagne to cheer us up. Our young friend here will think we are
chicken-hearted."

"Never think that," said Rouletabille. "Mademoiselle has touched me
deeply as well. She is an artist, really a great artist. And a poet."

"He is from Paris; he knows," said the others.

And all drank.

Then they talked about music, with great display of knowledge concerning
things operatic. First one, then another went to the piano and ran
through some motif that the rest hummed a little first, then shouted in
a rousing chorus. Then they drank more, amid a perfect fracas of talk
and laughter. Ivan Petrovitch and Athanase Georgevitch walked across and
kissed the general. Rouletabille saw all around him great children who
amused themselves with unbelievable naivete and who drank in a fashion
more unbelievable still. Matrena Petrovna smoked cigarettes of yellow
tobacco incessantly, rising almost continually to make a hurried
round of the rooms, and after having prompted the servants to greater
watchfulness, sat and looked long at Rouletabille, who did not stir, but
caught every word, every gesture of each one there. Finally, sighing,
she sat down by Feodor and asked how his leg felt. Michael and Natacha,
in a corner, were deep in conversation, and Boris watched them with
obvious impatience, still strumming the guzla. But the thing that struck
Rouletabille's youthful imagination beyond all else was the mild face of
the general. He had not imagined the terrible Trebassof with so paternal
and sympathetic an expression. The Paris papers had printed redoubtable
pictures of him, more or less authentic, but the arts of photography and
engraving had cut vigorous, rough features of an official--who knew no
pity. Such pictures were in perfect accord with the idea one naturally
had of the dominating figure of the government at Moscow, the man who,
during eight days--the Red Week--had made so many corpses of students
and workmen tha