“Well,” he asked, conquering his misgivings and resuming, as always, his confidence in himself, “then, what did they do then, after reading the sentence?”

“The Chief of the Surete knew he had no time to spare.  He did not ask for it.  The revolutionaries ordered him to bid his family farewell.  He raised his wife, his children, clasped them, bade them be of good courage, then said he was ready.  They took him into the street.  They stood him against a wall.  His wife and children watched from a window.  A volley sounded.  They descended to secure the body, pierced with twenty-five bullets.”

“That was exactly the number of wounds that were made on the body of little Jacques Zloriksky,” came in the even tones of Natacha.

“Oh, you, you always find an excuse,” grumbled the general.  “Poor Boichlikoff did his duty, as I did mine.

“Yes, papa, you acted like a soldier.  That is what the revolutionaries ought not to forget.  But have no fears for us, papa; because if they kill you we will all die with you.”

“And gayly too,” declared Athanase Georgevitch.

“They should come this evening.  We are in form!”

Upon which Athanase filled the glasses again.

“None the less, permit me to say,” ventured the timber-merchant,
Thaddeus Tchnitchnikof, timidly, “permit me to say that this
Boichlikoff was very imprudent.”

“Yes, indeed, very gravely imprudent,” agreed Rouletabille.  “When a man has had twenty-five good bullets shot into the body of a child, he ought certainly to keep his home well guarded if he wishes to dine in peace.”

He stammered a little toward the end of this, because it occurred to him that it was a little inconsistent to express such opinions, seeing what he had done with the guard over the general.

“Ah,” cried Athanase Georgevitch, in a stage-struck voice, “Ah, it was not imprudence!  It was contempt of death!  Yes, it was contempt of death that killed him!  Even as the contempt of death keeps us, at this moment, in perfect health.  To you, ladies and gentlemen!  Do you know anything lovelier, grander, in the world than contempt of death?  Gaze on Feodor Feodorovitch and answer me.  Superb!  My word, superb!  To you all!  The revolutionaries who are not of the police are of the same mind regarding our heroes.  They may curse the tchinownicks who execute the terrible orders given them by those higher up, but those who are not of the police (there are some, I believe) — these surely recognize that men like the Chief of the Surete our dead friend, are brave.”

“Certainly,” endorsed the general.  “Counting all things, they need more heroism for a promenade in a salon than a soldier on a battle-field.”