“Let the lad try.  He accomplishes miracles.”

XIX

THE TSAR

“I have escaped by remarkable luck,” cried Rouletabille, as he found himself, in the middle of the night, at the corner of the Katharine and the Aptiekarski Pereoulok Canals, while the mysterious carriage which had brought him there returned rapidly toward the Grande Ecurie.  “What a country!  What a country!”

He ran a little way to the Grand Morskaia, which was near, entered the hotel like a bomb, dragged the interpreter from his bed, demanded that his bill be made out and that he be told the time of the next train for Tsarskoie-Coelo.  The interpreter told him that he could not have his bill at such an hour, that he could not leave town without his passport and that there was no train for Tsarskoie-Coelo, and Rouletabille made an outcry that woke the whole hotel.  The guests, fearing always “une scandale,” kept close to their rooms.  But Monsieur le directeur came down, trembling.  When he found all that it was about he was inclined to be peremptory, but Rouletabille, who had seen “Michael Strogoff” played, cried, “Service of the Tsar!” which turned him submissive as a sheep.  He made out the young man’s bill and gave him his passport, which had been brought back by the police during the afternoon.  Rouletabille rapidly wrote a message to Koupriane’s address, which the messenger was directed to have delivered without a moment’s delay, under the pain of death!  The manager humbly promised and the reporter did not explain that by “pain of death” he referred to his own.  Then, having ascertained that as a matter of fact the last train had left for Tsarskoie-Coelo, he ordered a carriage and hurried to his room to pack.

And he, ordinarily so detailed, so particular in his affairs, threw things every which way, linen, garments, with kicks and shoves.  It was a relief after the emotions he had gone through.  “What a country!” he never ceased to ejaculate.  “What a country!”

Then the carriage was ready, with two little Finnish horses, whose gait he knew well, an evil-looking driver, who none the less would get him there; the trunk; roubles to the domestics.  “Spacibo, barine.  Spacibo.” (Thank you, monsieur.  Thank you.)

The interpreter asked what address he should give the driver.

“The home of the Tsar.”

The interpreter hesitated, believing it to be an unbecoming pleasantry, then waved vaguely to the driver, and the horses started.

“What a curious trot!  We have no idea of that in France,” thought Rouletabille.  “France!  France!  Paris!  Is it possible that soon I shall be back!  And that dear Lady in Black!  Ah, at the first opportunity I must send her a dispatch of my return — before she receives those ikons, and the letters announcing my death.  Scan!  Scan!  Scan! (Hurry!)”

The isvotchick pounded his horses, crowding past the dvornicks who watched at the corners of the houses during the St. Petersburg night.  “Dirigi! dirigi! dirigi! (Look out!)”