as he was in his laboratory.  But a person whom he did not recognize at first sight attracted the reporter’s attention.  In the half-light of the shop a melancholy shadow leaned over the ikons on the counter.  It was only when he straightened up, with a deep sigh, and a little light, deflected and yellow from passing through window-panes that had known no touch of cleaning since they were placed there, fell faintly on the face, that Rouletabille ascertained he was face to face with Boris Mourazoff.  It was indeed he, the erstwhile brilliant officer whose elegance and charm the reporter had admired as he saw him at beautiful Natacha’s feet in the datcha at Eliaguine.  Now, no more in uniform, he had thrown over his bowed shoulders a wretched coat, whose sleeves swayed listlessly at his sides, in accord with his mood of languid desperation, a felt hat with the rim turned down hid a little the misery in his face in these few days, these not-many hours, how he was changed!  But, even as he was, he still concerned Rouletabille.  What was he doing there?  Was he not going to go away, perhaps?  He had picked up an ikon from the counter and carried it over to the window to examine its oxidized silver, giving such close attention to it that the reporter hoped he might reach the door of the laboratory without being noticed.  He already had his hand on the knob of that door, which was behind the counter, when he heard his name called.

“It is you, Monsieur Rouletabille,” said the low, sad voice of Boris.  “What has brought you here, then?”

“Well, well, Monsieur Boris Mourazoff, unless I’m mistaken?  I certainly didn’t expect to find you here in Pere Alexis’s place.”

“Why not, Monsieur Rouletabille?  One can find anything here in Pere Alexis’s stock.  See; here are two old ikons in wood, carved with sculptures, which came direct from Athos, and can’t be equaled, I assure you, either at Gastini-Dvor nor even at Stchoukine-Dvor”

“Yes, yes, that is possible,” said Rouletabille, impatiently.  “Are you an amateur of such things?” he added, in order to say something.

“Oh, like anybody else.  But I was going to tell you, Monsieur Rouletabille, I have resigned my commission.  I have resolved to retire from the world; I am going on a long voyage.” (Rouletabille thought:  ‘Why not have gone at once?’) “And before going, I have come here to supply myself with some little gifts to send those of my friends I particularly care for, although now, my dear Monsieur Rouletabille, I don’t care much for anything.”

“You look desolate enough, monsieur.”

Boris sighed like a child.

“How could it be otherwise?” he said.  “I loved and believed myself beloved.  But it proved to be — nothing, alas!”

“Sometimes one only imagines things,” said Rouletabille, keeping his hand on the door.

“Oh, yes,” said the other, growing more and more melancholy.  “So a man suffers.  He is his own tormentor; he himself makes the wheel on which, like his own executioner, he binds himself.”