"But he is a mere boy!" she exclaimed, without at all understanding
the matter, this youthful figure, with soft, rounded cheeks, eyes
clear and, at first view, extraordinarily naive, the eyes of an
infant. True, at the moment Rouletabille's expression hardly
suggested any superhuman profundity of thought, for, left in view
of a table, spread with hors-d'oeuvres, the young man appeared
solely occupied in digging out with a spoon all the caviare that
remained in the jars. Matrena noted the rosy freshness of his
cheeks, the absence of down on his lip and not a hint of beard, the
thick hair, with the curl over the forehead. Ah, that forehead
- the forehead was curious, with great over-hanging cranial lumps
which moved above the deep arcade of the eye-sockets while the mouth
was busy - well, one would have said that Rouletabille had not
eaten for a week. He was demolishing a great slice of Volgan
sturgeon, contemplating at the same time with immense interest a
salad of creamed cucumbers, when Matrena Petrovna appeared.

He wished to excuse himself at once and spoke with his mouth full.

"I beg your pardon, madame, but the Czar forgot to invite me to
breakfast."

Madame Matrena smiled and gave him a hearty handshake as she urged
him to be seated.

"You have seen His Majesty?"

"I come from him, madame. It is to Madame Trebassof that I have
the honor of speaking?"