I left him with his head down on his hands, in an agony of sorrow for Misha, and in an agony of fears for his own sake.

At about twenty to eight I entered the restaurant, having decided to keep silent, to give no chance to the man to understand me not only by questions, but even by the association of ideas:  I decided to be like stone.  He was talking to a chap in the hall, a tall, pimply young man of twenty-five, in the French style of blue khaki and with aviation insignia on his sleeve.  Frank left his friend and we both went to the dining room.

When we were through with our soup, Frank said: 

“I have touched today upon the case of the Baroness.  In fact you know the story from many sources, especially from Mikholavsky....  Please, please!” he exclaimed, when I made a movement of protest,—­“don’t.  So, if you are apt in making logical decisions and conclusions, you are in a position to understand all.  Don’t try to destroy anything by going around with your personal impressions, for it really would be bad.  Just look!”

The telegram he showed me read:  “Michael Mikhalovsky’s body found on the track near Vyborg station four in the morning suicide presumed.”  “There is no need for explanations,” he said, in putting the message back in his pocket, “nor sorrow—­all is over.  But it would be an excellent idea to appreciate this mere fact properly, don’t you think so?”

“So,” continued Frank, “to come closer to our own affairs, I must say that a young and charming lady is leaving for Stockholm on a special mission—­I know not exactly what it is—­and I must give her some information, some of which could be furnished by you.  Before I ask you for this little information, however, I must clearly apprehend one thing:  do you feel sufficiently interested in anything closely connected with the old regime?  And if so,—­how deep is your interest?  You understand?”

“I understand,” I said, after a second of thinking.  “I also get your threat.  Now—­my answer will be clearer than your insinuations, as I fear nothing that I cannot see.” (what a liar I am!)

Then I assumed my best poker face and calmly continued: 

“I don’t know, and do not care to know, what you are after, Frank.  Personally—­I cannot find anything in the old regime that I would regret to any important extent.  On the other hand—­I honestly do not see anything attractive, or particularly elegant, about the new regime.  Practically there is no regime whatsoever in this present concoction of kuvaka and elevated ideas.  So, finally, damn it all!  I would be grateful to a friend who would advise me how to get out of any activity, and of course, would not consider any suggestion leading me into it.  My decision is plain.  I resign.  Then I realize all I can and disappear from this rich field of political life.  That’s all, Frank.”

He looked at me.  He was very grave.  And then suddenly his face changed and he again became the chap that amused Maroossia and myself in Marienbad a few years ago.