in vain for a repetition of the prayer by Annouchka, commenced to disperse, and the reporter was swept along with them for a few moments.  When he reached the range of boxes he saw that Natacha and the family she had been with were gone.  He looked on all sides without seeing the object of his search and like a madman commenced to run through the passages, when a sudden idea struck his blood cold.  He inquired where the exit for the artists was and as soon as it was pointed out, he hurried there.  He was not mistaken.  In the front line of the crowd that waited to see Annouchka come out he recognized Natacha, with her head enveloped in the black mantle so that none should see her face.  Besides, this corner of the garden was in a half-gloom.  The police barred the way; he could not approach as near Natacha as he wished.  He set himself to slip like a serpent through the crowd.  He was not separated from Natacha by more than four or five persons when a great jostling commenced.  Annouchka was coming out.  Cries rose:  “Annouchka!  Annouchka!” Rouletabille threw himself on his knees and on all-fours succeeded in sticking his head through into the way kept by the police for Annouchka’s passage.  There, wrapped in a great red mantle, his hat on his arm, was a man Rouletabille immediately recognized.  It was Prince Galitch.  They were hurrying to escape the impending pressure of the crowd.  But Annouchka as she passed near Natacha stopped just a second — a movement that did not escape Rouletabille — and, turning toward her said just the one word, “Caracho.”  Then she passed on.  Rouletabille got up and forced his way back, having once more lost Natacha.  He searched for her.  He ran to the carriage-way and arrived just in time to see her seated in a carriage with the Mourazoff family.  The carriage started at once in the direction of the datcha des Iles.  The young man remained standing there, thinking.  He made a gesture as though he were ready now to let luck take its course.  “In the end,” said he, “it will be better so, perhaps,” and then, to himself, “Now to supper, my boy.”

He turned in his tracks and soon was established in the glaring light of the restaurant.  Officers standing, glass in hand, were saluting from table to table and waving a thousand compliments with grace that was almost feminine.

He heard his name called joyously, and recognized the voice of Ivan Petrovitch.  The three boon companions were seated over a bottle of champagne resting in its ice-bath and were being served with tiny pates while they waited for the supper-hour, which was now near.

Rouletabille yielded to their invitation readily enough, and accompanied them when the head-waiter informed Thaddeus that the gentlemen were desired in a private room.  They went to the first floor and were ushered into a large apartment whose balcony opened on the hall of the winter-theater, empty now.  But the apartment was already occupied.  Before a table covered with a shining service Gounsovski did the honors.