. . there’s not the same spirit in him! not the spirit in him!  I don’t know how to explain it to you but, however one is to express it, there’s nothing in a Frenchman of . . . something . . . (the speaker flourishes his fingers) . . . of something . . . fanatical.  I remember I have read somewhere that all of you have intelligence acquired from books, while we Russians have innate intelligence.  If a Russian studies the sciences properly, none of your French professors is a match for him.”

“Perhaps,” says Champoun, as it were reluctantly.

“No, not perhaps, but certainly!  It’s no use your frowning, it’s the truth I am speaking.  The Russian intelligence is an inventive intelligence.  Only of course he is not given a free outlet for it, and he is no hand at boasting.  He will invent something—­and break it or give it to the children to play with, while your Frenchman will invent some nonsensical thing and make an uproar for all the world to hear it.  The other day Iona the coachman carved a little man out of wood, if you pull the little man by a thread he plays unseemly antics.  But Iona does not brag of it. . . .  I don’t like Frenchmen as a rule.  I am not referring to you, but speaking generally. . . .  They are an immoral people!  Outwardly they look like men, but they live like dogs.  Take marriage for instance.  With us, once you are married, you stick to your wife, and there is no talk about it, but goodness knows how it is with you.  The husband is sitting all day long in a cafe, while his wife fills the house with Frenchmen, and sets to dancing the can-can with them.”

“That’s not true!” Champoun protests, flaring up and unable to restrain himself.  “The principle of the family is highly esteemed in France.”

“We know all about that principle!  You ought to be ashamed to defend it:  one ought to be impartial:  a pig is always a pig. . . .  We must thank the Germans for having beaten them. . . .  Yes indeed, God bless them for it.”

“In that case, monsieur, I don’t understand. . .” says the Frenchman leaping up with flashing eyes, “if you hate the French why do you keep me?”

“What am I to do with you?”

“Let me go, and I will go back to France.”

“Wha-at?  But do you suppose they would let you into France now?  Why, you are a traitor to your country!  At one time Napoleon’s your great man, at another Gambetta. . . .  Who the devil can make you out?”

“Monsieur,” says Champoun in French, spluttering and crushing up his table napkin in his hands, “my worst enemy could not have thought of a greater insult than the outrage you have just done to my feelings!  All is over!”

And with a tragic wave of his arm the Frenchman flings his dinner napkin on the table majestically, and walks out of the room with dignity.

Three hours later the table is laid again, and the servants bring in the dinner.  Kamyshev sits alone at the table.  After the preliminary glass he feels a craving to babble.  He wants to chatter, but he has no listener.