Monsieur le Marechal had no particular good news, evidently, for in terms quite without enthusiasm he invited the young man to luncheon for that same day, rather early, at midday, as he wished to see him once more before he left for France.  “I see,” said Rouletabille to himself; “Monsieur le Marechal pronounces my expulsion from the country “- and he forgot once more the Gounsovski luncheon.  The meeting-place named was the great restaurant called the Bear.  Rouletabille entered it promptly at noon.  He asked the schwitzar if the Grand Marshal of the Court had arrived, and was told no one had seen him yet.  They conducted him to the huge main hall, where, however, there was only one person.  This man, standing before the table spread with zakouskis, was stuffing himself.  At the sound of Rouletabille’s step on the floor this sole famished patron turned and lifted his hands to heaven as he recognized the reporter.  The latter would have given all the roubles in his pocket to have avoided the recognition.  But he was already face to face with the advocate so celebrated for his table-feats, the amiable Athanase Georgevitch, his head swathed in bandages and dressings from the midst of which one could perceive distinctly only the eyes and, above all, the mouth.

“How goes it, little friend?”

“How are you?”

“Oh, I!  There is nothing the matter.  In a week we shall have forgotten it.”

“What a terrible affair,” said the reporter, “I certainly believed we were all dead men.”

“No, no.  It was nothing.  Nitchevo!”

“And poor Thaddeus Tchitchnikoff with his two poor legs broken!”

“Eh!  Nitchevo!  He has plenty of good solid splints that will make him two good legs again.  Nitchevo!  Don’t you think anything more about that!  It is nothing.  You have come here to dine?  A very celebrated house this.  Caracho!” He busied himself to do the honors.  One would have said the restaurant belonged to him.  He boasted of its architecture and the cuisine “a la Francaise.”

“Do you know,” he inquired confidently, “a finer restaurant room anywhere in the world?”

In fact, it seemed to Rouletabille as he looked up into the high glass arch that he was in a railway station decorated for some illustrious traveler, for there were flowers and plants everywhere.  But the visitor whom the ball awaited was the Russian eater, the ogre who never failed to come to eat at The Bear.  Pointing out the lines of tables shining with their white cloths and bright silver, Athanase Georgevitch, with his mouth full, said: