It was still early in the morning, and I had to walk some distance before I could secure a drosky. The driver, when I told him to take me to the Palace, appeared to think I was either some overnight reveller who had not shaken off the effects of the drink, or else a lunatic; for he laughed and swore good-humouredly, and then flatly refused to do as I bade him.
While we were wrangling, I saw some police approaching, and, having no mind to be interviewed by them, I ended the dispute by giving him a double fare and telling him to drive to a point near the Palace.
As we rumbled along innumerable difficulties suggested themselves as obstacles to my gaining admission to the Palace at all at such an hour; and the all but hopelessness of doing so without Prince Kalkov getting to hear of it was too patent to be denied.
The attempt had to be made, however; and as impudence and a show of authority go for much in Russia as elsewhere, I put as bold a face on things as possible. When I left the carriage I wrapped my military cloak about me, and strutting with as much of an officer’s swagger as I could assume, I marched past the first sentry without a question.
I returned his salute in an off-hand way and walked on to the great building. Just as I thought my bluff would succeed, however, I was stopped by an official.
“Your pardon, monsieur,” he said, “but no one is permitted to enter.”
“I suppose I may go to my own rooms,” I replied in French, with a smile.
“Of course, but this is the Palace, monsieur.”
“And my rooms are in it. I am a guest of His Majesty.”
“A thousand pardons for this interruption, but we have very strict orders, and have had no notification of your visit. Will you be so good as to come to my bureau?”