"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