ed and shook me by the
hand.

"In this room," he told me, "there are no emperors and no empresses,
only Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas."

He presented me to the Czaritza, who received me in the same style of
simple friendliness, and then, pointing to a money-box which formed a
conspicuous object on the mantel-shelf, he added:

"For every time the word 'majesty' is used in this room there is a
fine of one ruble, which goes to our sick and wounded. So be careful,
M. V----."

In spite of this warning I did not fail to make a good many
contributions to the money-box in the course of the evening. In my
intercourse with royalty I model myself on the British Premier
Beaconsfield, and I regard my rubles as well spent.

We all three spoke in English till the arrival of M. Auguste, who
knew only French and a few words of Russian. I remarked afterward
that the spirit of Madame Blavatsky, a Russian by birth, who had
spent half her life in England, appeared to have lost the use of both
languages in the other world, and communicated with us exclusively in
French.

The appearance of M. Auguste did not help to overcome my prejudice
against him. He had too evidently made up for the part of the mystic.

The hair of M. Auguste was black and long, his eyes rolled much in
their sockets, and his costume was a compromise between the frock
coat and the cassock.

But it was above all his manner that impressed me disagreeably. He
affected to be continually falling into fits of abstraction, as if
his communings with the spirits were diverting his attention from the
affairs of earth. Even on his entrance he went through the forms of
greeting his host and hostess as though scarcely conscious of their
presence. I caught a sly look turned on myself, however, and when I
was presented to him as "Mr. Sterling" his reception of the name made
me think that he had expected something else.

The Czar having explained that I was a friend interested in
spiritualism, in whose presence he wished to hear again from Madame
Blavatsky, M. Auguste rolled his eyes formidably, and agreed to
summon the departed theosophist.

A small round table was cleared of the Czaritza's work-basket--she
had been knitting a soldier's comforter--and we took our seats around
it. The electric light was switched off, so that we were in perfect
darkness, except for the red glow of the coal fire.

A quarter of an hour or so passed in a solemn silence, broken only
by occasional whisp