If you wish to know what is going on in that room, I should advise you not to enter within, but only to look in, as though merely passing by to take a sandwich. Otherwise you will feel ill at ease from the interrogative silence and glances, and you will certainly take your tail between your legs and skulk away to one of the tables in the large hall, or to the winter garden. Nobody will keep you from doing so. These tables are for everybody, and there, in your solitude, you may call Dey a garçon and order as many truffles as you please. The room with the Frenchwoman, however, exists for the select, golden Moscow youth, and it is not so easy to find your way among the select as you imagine. On returning to this room, M. Chevalier told his wife that the gentleman from Siberia was dull, but that his son and daughter were fine people, such as could be raised only in Siberia. "You ought just to see the daughter! She is a little rose-bush!" "Oh, this old man is fond of fresh-looking women," said one of the guests, who was smoking a cigar. (The conversation, of course, was carried on in French, but I render it in Russian, as I shall continue to do in this story.) "Oh, I am very fond of them!" replied M. Chevalier. "Women are my passion. Do you not believe me?" "Do you hear, Madame Chevalier?" shouted a stout officer of Cossacks, who owed a big bill in the institution and was fond of chatting with the landlord. "He shares my taste," said M. Chevalier, patting the stout man on his epaulet. "And is this Siberian young lady really pretty?" M. Chevalier folded his fingers and kissed them. After that the conversation between the guests became confidential and very jolly. They were talking about the stout officer; he smiled as he listened to what they were saying about him. "How can one have such perverted taste!" cried one, through the laughter. "Mlle. Clarisse! You know, Strúgov prefers such of the women as have chicken calves." Though Mlle. Clarisse did not understand the salt of that remark, she behind her counter burst out into a laughter as silvery as her bad teeth and advanced years permitted. "Has the Siberian lady turned him to such thoughts?" and she laughed more heartily still. M. Chevalier himself roared with laughter, as he said: "_Ce vieux coquin_," patting the officer of Cossacks on his head and shoulders. "But who are they, those Siberians? Mining proprietors or merchants?" one of the gentlemen asked, during a pause in the laughter. "Nikíta, ask ze passport from ze chentleman zat as come," said M. Chevalier. "We, Alexander, ze Autocrat--" M. Chevalier began to read the passport, which had been brought in the meantime, but the officer of Cossacks tore it out of his hands, and his face expressed surprise. "Guess who it is," he said, "for you all know him by reputation." "How can we guess? Show it to us! Well, Abdel Kader, ha, ha, ha! Well, Cagliostro-- Well, Peter III.--ha, ha, ha, ha!" "Well, read it!"