!" which turned him submissive as a sheep. He
made out the young man's bill and gave him his passport, which had been
brought back by the police during the afternoon. Rouletabille rapidly
wrote a message to Koupriane's address, which the messenger was directed
to have delivered without a moment's delay, under the pain of death! The
manager humbly promised and the reporter did not explain that by "pain
of death" he referred to his own. Then, having ascertained that as a
matter of fact the last train had left for Tsarskoie-Coelo, he ordered a
carriage and hurried to his room to pack.

And he, ordinarily so detailed, so particular in his affairs, threw
things every which way, linen, garments, with kicks and shoves. It was
a relief after the emotions he had gone through. "What a country!" he
never ceased to ejaculate. "What a country!"

Then the carriage was ready, with two little Finnish horses, whose gait
he knew well, an evil-looking driver, who none the less would get him
there; the trunk; roubles to the domestics. "Spacibo, barine. Spacibo."
(Thank you, monsieur. Thank you.)

The interpreter asked what address he should give the driver.

"The home of the Tsar."

The interpreter hesitated, believing it to be an unbecoming pleasantry,
then waved vaguely to the driver, and the horses started.

"What a curious trot! We have no idea of that in France," thought
Rouletabille. "France! France! Paris! Is it possible that soon I shall
be back! And that dear Lady in Black! Ah, at the first opportunity I
must send her a dispatch of my return--before she receives those ikons,
and the letters announcing my death. Scan! Scan! Scan! (Hurry!)"

The isvotchick pounded his horses, crowding past the dvornicks who
watched at the corners of the houses during the St. Petersburg night.
"Dirigi! dirigi! dirigi! (Look out!)"

The country, somber in the somber night. The vast open country. What
monotonous desolation! Rapidly, through the vast silent spaces, the
little car glided over the lonely route into the black arms of the
pines.

Rouletabille, holding on to his seat, looked about him.

"God! this is as sad as a funeral display."

Little frozen huts, no larger than tombs, occasionally indicated the
road, but there was no mark of life in that country except the noise of
the journey and the two beasts with steaming coats.

Crack! One of the shafts broken. "What a country!" To hear Rouletabille
one would suppose that only in Russi