They received him, but they had long since finished dinner.

Monsieur and Madame Gounsovski were playing a game of draughts under the lamp.  Rouletabille as he entered the drawing-room recognized the shining, fattish bald head of the terrible man.  Gounsovski came to him, bowing, obsequious, his fat hands held out.  He was presented to Madame Gounsovski, who was besprinkled with jewels over her black silk gown.  She had a muddy skin and magnificent eyes.  She also was tentatively effusive.  “We waited for you, monsieur,” she said, smirking timidly, with the careful charm of a woman a little along in years who relies still on infantine graces.  As the recreant young man offered his apologies, “Oh, we know you are much occupied, Monsieur Rouletabille.  My husband said that to me only a moment ago.  But he knew you would come finally.  In the end one always accepts my husband’s invitation.”  She said this with a fat smile of importance.

Rouletabille turned cold at this last phrase.  He felt actual fear in the presence of these two figures, so actrociously commonplace, in their horrible, decent little drawing-room.

Madame continued: 

“But you have had rather a bad dinner already, through that dreadful affair at General Trebassof’s.  Come into the dining-room.”  “Ah, so someone has told you?” said Rouletabille.  “No, no, thanks; I don’t need anything more.  You know what has happened?”

“If you had come to dinner, perhaps nothing would have happened at all, you know,” said Gounsovski tranquilly, seating himself again on the cushions and considering his game of draughts through his glasses.  “Anyway, congratulations to Koupriane for being away from there through his fear.”

For Gounsovski there was only Koupriane!  The life or death of Trebassof did not occupy his mind.  Only the acts and movements of the Prefect of Police had power to move him.  He ordered a waiting-maid who glided into the apartment without making more noise than a shadow to bring a small stand loaded with zakouskis and bottles of champagne close to the game-table, and he moved one of his pawns, saying, “You will permit me?  This move is mine.  I don’t wish to lose it.”

Rouletabille ventured to lay his hand on the oily, hairy fist which extended from a dubious cuff.

“What is this you tell me?  How could you have foreseen it?”

“It was easy to foresee everything,” replied Gounsovski, offering cigars, “to foresee everything from the moment Matiew’s place was filled by Priemkof.”

“Well?” questioned Rouletabille, recalling with some inquietude the sight of the whipping in the guards’ chapel.