And he, ordinarily so detailed, so particular in his affairs, threw things every which way, linen, garments, with kicks and shoves. It was a relief after the emotions he had gone through. “What a country!” he never ceased to ejaculate. “What a country!”
Then the carriage was ready, with two little Finnish horses, whose gait he knew well, an evil-looking driver, who none the less would get him there; the trunk; roubles to the domestics. “Spacibo, barine. Spacibo.” (Thank you, monsieur. Thank you.)
The interpreter asked what address he should give the driver.
“The home of the Tsar.”
The interpreter hesitated, believing it to be an unbecoming pleasantry, then waved vaguely to the driver, and the horses started.
“What a curious trot! We have no idea of that in France,” thought Rouletabille. “France! France! Paris! Is it possible that soon I shall be back! And that dear Lady in Black! Ah, at the first opportunity I must send her a dispatch of my return—before she receives those ikons, and the letters announcing my death. Scan! Scan! Scan! (Hurry!)”
The isvotchick pounded his horses, crowding past the dvornicks who watched at the corners of the houses during the St. Petersburg night. “Dirigi! dirigi! dirigi! (Look out!)”
The country, somber in the somber night. The vast open country. What monotonous desolation! Rapidly, through the vast silent spaces, the little car glided over the lonely route into the black arms of the pines.
Rouletabille, holding on to his seat, looked about him.
“God! this is as sad as a funeral display.”