“Wait a bit, Mr. Bombarnac.  Imagine a colossal workshop, immense buildings for the mounting and adjusting of the pieces, a steam engine of fifteen hundred horse-power, ventilators making six hundred revolutions a minute, boilers consuming a hundred tons of coals a day, a chimney stack four hundred and fifty feet high, vast outhouses for the storage of our goods, which we send to the five parts of the world, a general manager, two sub-managers, four secretaries, eight under-secretaries, a staff of five hundred clerks and nine hundred workmen, a whole regiment of travelers like your servant, working in Europe, Asia, Africa, America, Australasia, in short, a turnover exceeding annually one hundred million dollars!  And all that, Mr. Bombarnac, for making millions of—­yes, I said millions—­”

At this moment the train commenced to slow under the action of its automatic brakes, and he stopped.

“Elisabethpol!  Elisabethpol!” shout the guard and the porters on the station.

Our conversation is interrupted.  I lower the window on my side, and open the door, being desirous of stretching my legs.

Ephrinell did not get out.

Here was I striding along the platform of a very poorly lighted station.  A dozen travelers had already left the train.  Five or six Georgians were crowding on the steps of the compartments.  Ten minutes at Elisabethpol; the time-table allowed us no more.

As soon as the bell begins to ring I return to our carriage, and when I have shut the door I notice that my place is taken.  Yes!  Facing the American, a lady has installed herself with that Anglo-Saxon coolness which is as unlimited as the infinite.  Is she young?  Is she old?  Is she pretty?  Is she plain?  The obscurity does not allow me to judge.  In any case, my French gallantry prevents me from claiming my corner, and I sit down beside this person who makes no attempt at apology.

Ephrinell seems to be asleep, and that stops my knowing what it is that Strong, Bulbul & Co., of New York, manufacture by the million.

The train has started.  We have left Elisabethpol behind.  What have I seen of this charming town of twenty thousand inhabitants, built on the Gandja-tchai, a tributary of the Koura, which I had specially worked up before my arrival?  Nothing of its brick houses hidden under verdure, nothing of its curious ruins, nothing of its superb mosque built at the beginning of the eighteenth century.  Of its admirable plane trees, so sought after by crows and blackbirds, and which maintain a supportable temperature during the excessive heats of summer, I had scarcely seen the higher branches with the moon shining on them.  And on the banks of the stream which bears its silvery murmuring waters along the principal street, I had only seen a few houses in little gardens, like small crenelated fortresses.  All that remained in my memory would be an indecisive outline, seized in flight from between the steam puffs of our engine.  And why are these houses always in a state of defence?  Because Elisabethpol is a fortified town exposed to the frequent attacks of the Lesghians of Chirvan, and these mountaineers, according to the best-informed historians, are directly descended from Attila’s hordes.