“I say, Rondonneau, Tobolsk is a Russian town, isn’t it?”
Rondonneau, raising his innocent, bald head towards the préfet, replied that Tobolsk was, indeed, a town in Asiatic Russia.
“Well,” cried M. le préfet Worms-Clavelin, “we are going to give an entertainment for the benefit of the sufferers by the fire at Tobolsk.”
And he added between his teeth:
“I’ll make … a Russian entertainment for ’em. I shall have six weeks’ peace, and they won’t talk any more about transfers.”
At that moment Abbé Guitrel, with anxious eyes, his hat under his arm, entered the jeweller’s shop.
“Do you know, monsieur l’abbé,” said the préfet to him, “that, by general request, I am authorising entertainments for the benefit of the sufferers from the fire at Tobolsk—concerts, special performances, bazaars, &c.? I hope that the Church will join in these benevolent entertainments.”
“The Church, monsieur le préfet,” replied Abbé Guitrel, “has her hands full of comfort for the afflicted who come to her. And doubtless her prayers …”
“À propos, my dear abbé, your affairs are not getting on at all. I come from Paris. I saw the friends whom I have at the Department of Religion. And I bring back bad news. To start with, there are eighteen of you.”
“Eighteen?”