he was, he still concerned Rouletabille. What
was he doing there? Was he not going to go away, perhaps? He had picked
up an ikon from the counter and carried it over to the window to examine
its oxidized silver, giving such close attention to it that the reporter
hoped he might reach the door of the laboratory without being noticed.
He already had his hand on the knob of that door, which was behind the
counter, when he heard his name called.

"It is you, Monsieur Rouletabille," said the low, sad voice of Boris.
"What has brought you here, then?"

"Well, well, Monsieur Boris Mourazoff, unless I'm mistaken? I certainly
didn't expect to find you here in Pere Alexis's place."

"Why not, Monsieur Rouletabille? One can find anything here in Pere
Alexis's stock. See; here are two old ikons in wood, carved with
sculptures, which came direct from Athos, and can't be equaled, I assure
you, either at Gastini-Dvor nor even at Stchoukine-Dvor."

"Yes, yes, that is possible," said Rouletabille, impatiently. "Are you
an amateur of such things?" he added, in order to say something.

"Oh, like anybody else. But I was going to tell you, Monsieur
Rouletabille, I have resigned my commission. I have resolved to retire
from the world; I am going on a long voyage." (Rouletabille thought:
'Why not have gone at once?') "And before going, I have come here to
supply myself with some little gifts to send those of my friends I
particularly care for, although now, my dear Monsieur Rouletabille, I
don't care much for anything."

"You look desolate enough, monsieur."

Boris sighed like a child.

"How could it be otherwise?" he said. "I loved and believed myself
beloved. But it proved to be--nothing, alas!"

"Sometimes one only imagines things," said Rouletabille, keeping his
hand on the door.

"Oh, yes," said the other, growing more and more melancholy. "So a man
suffers. He is his own tormentor; he himself makes the wheel on which,
like his own executioner, he binds himself."

"It is not necessary, monsieur; it is not necessary," counseled the
reporter.

"Listen," implored Boris in a voice that showed tears were not far away.
"You are still a child, but still you can see things. Do you believe
Natacha loves me?"

"I am sure of it, Monsieur Boris; I am sure of it."

"I am sure of it, too. But I don't know what to think now. She has let
me go, without trying to detain me, without a word of hope."

"And where are you going like that?