“There are some still at my locksmith’s place.  The proof is that to-day in the little Kaniouche my locksmith, whose name is Smith, when into the house of the grocer at the corner and wished to sell him a revolver.  It was a Browning.  ’An arm of the greatest reliability,’ he said to him, ’which never misses fire and which works very easily.’  Having pronounced these words, the locksmith tried his revolver and lodged a ball in the grocer’s lung.  The grocer is dead, but before he died he bought the revolver.  ’You are right,’ he said to the locksmith; ‘it is a terrible weapon.’  And then he died.”

The others laughed heartily.  They thought it very funny.  Decidedly this great Gounsovski always had a funny story.  Who would not like to be his friend?  Annouchka had deigned to smile.  Gounsovski, in recognition, extended his hand to her like a mendicant.  The young woman touched it with the end of her fingers, as if she were placing a twenty-kopeck piece in the hand of a hooligan, and withdrew from it with disgust.  Then the doors opened for the Bohemians.  Their swarthy troupe soon filled the room.  Every evening men and women in their native costumes came from old Derevnia, where they lived all together in a sort of ancient patriarchal community, with customs that had not changed for centuries; they scattered about in the places of pleasure, in the fashionable restaurants, where they gathered large sums, for it was a fashionable luxury to have them sing at the end of suppers, and everyone showered money on them in order not to be behind the others.  They accompanied on guzlas, on castanets, on tambourines, and sang the old airs, doleful and languorous, or excitable and breathiess as the flight of the earliest nomads in the beginnings of the world.

When they had entered, those present made place for them, and Rouletabille, who for some moments had been showing marks of fatigue and of a giddiness natural enough in a young man who isn’t in the habit of drinking the finest champagnes, profited by the diversion to get a corner of the sofa not far from Prince Galitch, who occupied the place at Annouchka’s right.

“Look, Rouletabaille is asleep,” remarked la belle Onoto.

“Poor boy!” said Annouchka.

And, turning toward Gounsovski: 

“Aren’t you soon going to get him out of our way?  I heard some of our brethren the other day speaking in a way that would cause pain to those who care about his health.”

“Oh, that,” said Gounsovski, shaking his head, “is an affair I have nothing to do with.  Apply to Koupriane.  Your health, belle Annouchka.”