“Not at all. Tell him, Excellency, that I am come to explain the mystery of the eider downs.”
“Ah, ah, the eider downs! You know something?”
“I know all.”
The Grand Marshal saw that the young man did not pretend. He asked him to wait a few minutes, and vanished into the park.
A quarter of an hour later, Joseph Rouletabille, of the journal “L’Epoque,” was admitted into the cabinet that he knew well from the first interview he had had there with His Majesty. The simple work-room of a country-house: a few pictures on the walls, portraits of the Tsarina and the imperial children on the table; Oriental cigarettes in the tiny gold cups. Rouletabille was far from feeling any assurance, for the Grand-Marshal had said to him:
“Be cautious. The Emperor is in a terrible humor about you.”
A door opened and closed. The Tsar made a sign to the Marshal, who disappeared. Rouletabille bowed low, then watched the Emperor closely.
Quite apparently His Majesty was displeased. The face of the Tsar, ordinarily so calm, so pleasant, and smiling, was severe, and his eyes had an angry light. He seated himself and lighted a cigarette.
“Monsieur,” he commenced, “I am not otherwise sorry to see you before your departure in order to say to you myself that I am not at all pleased with you. If you were one of my subjects I would have already started you on the road to the Ural Mountains.”
“I remove myself farther, Sire.”