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 r